Rise of The Black Hand: The Case Files of Thomas Morelli: Book 1

By CJ Fella

In this business it pays to be smooth, hard as nails and tough as they come. Unfortunately for me—I’m not. Luckily, I can wield sarcasm as well as any weapon, and I’m not afraid to use either of them. When that fails—and it usually does—there’s no substitute for a sucker-punch. So sit back and let me tell you how this nightmare came about and made me one of the most infamous agents to ever put on a badge.

But let me warn you right up front. I’m not suave enough to get a woman out of her clothes just by smiling at her. If that’s what you’re after, Ian’s Bond has got you covered. I’m not smooth enough to pull off most of these capers without having to fire a shot. There are guys out there good enough, like Spade and Marlowe, but that’s not me either. And I’m not one of those guys that’s so damn tough that even when he gets his ass kicked you just know—you know—he’s gonna be back to finish off the bastards that did it. If that’s what you're after, then nobody—but nobody—drops the hammer, like Hammer.

I’m the guy that has to get in there and get his hands dirty—filthy. The one that has to bust his ass and use everything he can to come out of it alive. It ain’t always pretty, but I get the job done. And don’t worry, I’m going to give you a little something in return, because I can promise you one thing—you’ll be laughing on the first page—in the first paragraph. If you’re not, then put it down and never pick it up again. Oh—and have a couple of aspirin handy, because my fights are so damn brutal that just reading about them is going to make your ribs hurt. You’ve been warned. Don’t come crying to me about it later. Now, where was I?

It was the year 2229, and the world was still recovering from the Planetary Civil War, which ended just a few years earlier. We’d made computers and androids so smart that it was time to ask ourselves the big questions—are they life forms? The answer was yes—but it didn’t come so easy—enter the war. But that’s another story. The war was over, and I was one guy that sure wasn’t going to miss it. The economy was booming around the galaxy and the future looked bright, at least for most of us. As a soldier returning to my hometown of Seattle, Washington, and with a shiny badge that said, Special Agent Thomas Morelli, I found myself running a small satellite office right in my own neighborhood with my lifelong friends, Eddie Shannon, and Champ, the most cantankerous, ornery android to ever roll off the assembly line. Our beat was on level one, hundreds of stories beneath the glittering lights of the skyscrapers that reach to the heavens.

On a day that started off like any other, I got my ass kicked by some local gangsters on my way to the office. But my day picked up as Eddie and I were hired by a neighborhood friend, Lisa Riker, to locate her father, Paul. He was a worker at one of the nearby dock warehouses, and he’d vanished a week earlier without a trace. An after-hours stroll by the warehouse landed us in a fire-fight as we tried to dig up Paul’s location. The only clue lead us to suspect the involvement of one of the most dangerous criminal organizations in history—The Black Hand. That’s right, the same gang that assassinated Archduke Ferdinand and started World War One. Now they were back, centuries later. But this time it was different--this was my town--and they just stuck their hand in the wrong cookie jar.

If you want to know more, you can either read my book, or come look me up in downtown Seattle. I know a great place where you can buy me a beer.–Thomas J. Morelli

• Language: English
• Publisher: CJ Fella
• Release date: Apr 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311362315

CJ Fella

C.J. is a lifetime resident of Oregon's Willamette Valley, where he attended college and graduate school, and currently works as a manager for his home state. Raised on classical literature, his interests turned to the radio serials of the early 1900's, and the pulp era. Inspired by Isaac Asimov, Mickey Spillane and Robert B. Parker, C.J. blended the science fiction and hard-boiled detective genres for his debut novel, Rise Of The Black Hand. When he's not working or writing, C.J. is likely to be reading, playing video games, or listening to classic old time radio serials.

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Rise of The Black Hand

Rise Of The Black Hand

The Case Files of Thomas Morelli: Book 1

C.J. Fella

Copyright 2014 C.J. Fella

Smashwords Edition

Acknowledgements:

No project of this magnitude can be achieved by a single individual, or at least not this individual. I could not write a single page without acknowledging the contributions of my friends and family. Without you, this project would have been impossible. Each of you, in your own way, gave me strength when my well had run dry. From Jimmy F., the real life Eddie Shannon, to my twin, your encouragement has helped me to cross the finish line, but I do not do so alone.

For Mr. Parrot, my seventh grade creative writing teacher, where I wrote that first short story about my hero, who found his way into this book decades later—thank you. You did what teachers are truly meant to do—inspire kids.

But most importantly I want to acknowledge the ultimate gift from my greatest fan.

Mom.

For teaching her son that he could change the world if he wanted it bad enough and went after it tenaciously. And who, even on her death bed, never let me forget it. You made me promise I’d finish this after you were gone. Even though you aren’t here to share the victory with me, I hope that somehow you know—I did finish. This is for you, mom. But instead of changing the world—I created one.

C.J. Fella

May 26th, 2012

CJFella.com

Dedication:

This book is dedicated—to you.

Customers are the life blood of any business. As artists, we often forget that. We like to call our customers fans. It sounds more glamorous, perhaps. Or maybe it makes us feel more important. But that relationship has come to be so one sided that it has lost its meaning. Whether it is a traditional business, a musician, actor or author—we need you. Your support allows us to pursue our dream of creation and entertainment. In return, if we have done our job well, we provide you with a level of enjoyment and fun that makes it all worthwhile for you. And without you, that dream withers and dies. And so as I push forward on this endeavor, I would like to take a moment to say that I can not do it alone. More specifically, I can not do it without you. For every man and woman who has taken time out of their busy schedules, away from their family, friends and a multitude of other entertainment options, and chosen to spend it within these pages—I thank you. I will not ever forget your support and encouragement.

Now then, let us go forward— together.

C.J. Fella

May 26th, 2012

CJFella.com

Chapter 1

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible, will make violent revolution inevitable. –John F. Kennedy

Seattle, Washington, 2229. Late August.

Some things never change.

Three of them surrounded me before I knew what was happening. Not even five in the morning, and I could tell this was going to be one of those days. None of them spoke before contestant number one let loose with a left hook to my ribs that left me smooching pavement. Just my luck, the biggest of the bunch was the one to slug me. I’d say he looked like a gorilla, but he was too hairy. He wasn’t without his charm; after all, he didn’t bother stomping on me after I hit the ground, which was a nice change of pace in my line of work. He was even nice enough to help me off the ground—unfortunately, only so he could knock me back down. A smarter guy would have taken the beating, but my ma said I always did like to do things the hard way.

As he yanked me off the pavement, I gave him an uppercut to the breadbasket that should have made his unborn children mess their pants. When he didn’t even flinch, I became more concerned and considered another avenue. Oh come on, boys, can’t we talk this out like civilized adults? I said, stalling for time. He introduced me to his left hand, knuckles first, and as I was getting re-acquainted with the sidewalk, my vast powers of deduction told me he didn’t want to chat. I was still seeing stars when he grabbed the back of my long coat and picked me up off the ground again with one hand and bounced me off the nearby dumpster. By this time the ground and I were old friends, and I was giving serious thought to hanging around down there, maybe building a summer house and planting a rose garden. While I mulled over design ideas, two of them picked me up and held my arms and the third guy went to work tapping out a charming tune on my mid-section. My day was already looking up, because the biggest guy wasn’t the one doing the slugging this time.

After a short break to sling a few stinging insults my way, they resumed their roughhousing. The goon’s fists were crashing into my ribs like a herd of ill-tempered elephants. If not for the other two hoods holding me, I would have tried to return a little of the affection. But don’t worry about me; this is how it goes around here. Organized crime is big, real big. It’s as much a part of the economy as legitimate business, and don’t listen to anyone who tries to tell you different. In this particular part of town, the mobs run the show, and I nosed around one of their operations too closely. They’re a bit sensitive about that kind of thing and don’t have an appreciation for my curious nature, which is why I got an early morning visit; they needed to send me a little message. It’s okay though, I’m not myself without a full serving of uppercuts to start the day. They wouldn’t hurt me too bad; after all I am an FBI agent. The punks are mean, but they’re also smart, and they don’t make a habit of killing federal agents; it draws too much attention. Still, they need to keep up appearances, so they had to slap me around a little bit.

While they’re delivering their message, I guess I’ll use this time to tell you a little bit about myself. My name is Thomas Morelli, but my friends call me Tommy, among other things. I was born right here in Seattle, Washington. My dad was an inter-galactic banker and provided a pretty good living for the family. He did a lot of traveling off planet, and helped set up the banking infrastructure in the outer colonies. He’s retired now and enjoying the quiet life with my mom right here in town. My brother became a micro-cellular surgeon; he was the smart one. It’s lucky he lives close by, because he’s patched me up more times than I can count, which, granted, isn’t high. When I was eighteen, I was off to college then enlisted in the marines, where I was attached to a number of elite infantry units as an intelligence officer. Just my luck, I was in service during the Planetary Civil War, but that’s another story that any news feed can tell you about. After four years of all the jolly fun provided by our fine military, I finally got out and came back home to attend graduate school. Not really my thing, but my dad insisted. And much more importantly—he paid. I found a position with the FBI after grad school and I’ve been running a satellite office on this side of the city, down on level 1. Not fifty or a hundred stories up with the rest of the neon lights and pretty buildings, but down here on the ground, where all the real action is. It has its perks; no boss breathing down my neck and I can pretty much do my own thing. I make a little extra scratch in my off hours as a private investigator. There you have it. I’m just your average, over educated, thirty one year old federal agent. Well, enough about me.

After the wiseguys had finished smacking me around, they left me in the alley. That’s what I get for actually staying at my house. If I’d staid at the office, like usual, I wouldn’t have been here for the visit. They sure were a thoughtful bunch; they didn’t even bother to take my weapon. Then again, they can’t use it. Modern issue weapons contain DNA lockouts so they only function for their owner, one of the nice perks of being a G-Man. Don’t get me wrong, part of me wanted to take it out and shoot them all in the back, but I didn’t need that kind of trouble right now, and I hated paperwork. What did bother me was the new guy, the one tossing all those punches into my guts. I didn’t recognize him, so they were probably using me as a little initiation for the new blood. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the intricacies of the arrangement around the neighborhood, and his beating was delivered with a little more enthusiasm than I was used to. Lucky for me a tavern stood right across the street from my office, which is where I found myself about two minutes later.

Hey, Tommy! the bartender shouted. His name was Mick. He was a good guy, built like a barrel and one hell of a barkeep. But then most Irish guys had a knack for such things. Stereotypical? Maybe, but all stereotypes, they say, are grounded in truth. Mick was as tall as he was big, with a head of red hair and thick mustaches to match. His arms were as big around as most men, probably one of the reasons there weren’t too many fights in Mick’s Place. Despite his outward appearance, he was a peaceful man and as kind as you’d find anywhere, especially on level 1. He treated each of his customers like family, and that kept the place pretty full most of the time.

Boy, Tommy, it’s only 5:00 am and you already look like you’ve been hit by a truck, he said.

Yeah, but I showed the fender a thing or two.

Lisa, get our boy a serving of eggs and steak for breakfast, and plenty of coffee.

I really liked Mick; he knew just what I wanted to eat every time I came in here. As I sat down at the counter, he slid me a double bourbon on ice. For the cut on your lip, he said with a wink and a slap on the shoulder. We don’t want that getting infected. I took a full swallow and then took my smokes out of my coat and laid them on the counter. I pulled one out of the pack and put it in my mouth. Mick was already there with a lit match, the perfect bartender. There’s nothing like a few swigs of bourbon and a smoke to start your day, especially after being on the wrong end of a zealous, bare-knuckle beating. Normally I don’t take to drinking so early in the morning, but I bend the rules when I get my ass kicked before sunrise.

I emptied my glass with another gulp and followed up with the coffee before finishing my smoke. I spun around slightly on my stool and looked around the place. Mick ran a cozy joint. Well lit, but not too bright. A fireplace on one of the walls was always burning, which was a nice touch. You don’t see too many old-fashioned fireplaces anymore; nowadays everything’s heated with the latest tech. The tavern was mostly empty this early, and still pretty quiet, which was fine with me. After a good thrashing, I like to relax a little. I sat down in front of the fireplace on one of the comfortable chairs and started reading a holo-news feed on my datapad.

The sun’s not even up and you’re already out on the prowl, eh? Lisa put my food down on the table next to my chair, then sat down across from me. I’d known Lisa Riker since I was three years old when our family moved to the neighborhood. I took a few moments to look her over, from head to toe. It was a nice trip. She was a nice enough girl, but probably not the type you’d take home to meet the parents. She had a body; boy did she have a body. She had long brown hair and a sultry look in her brown eyes. Definitely not the type to take home to Mom; those were my favorites. She started working here at Mick’s place during the war, which was just fine with me since she gave my eyes a little vacation every time I came in. Still, I had to be a nice boy, since I suspected she and my partner were an item. They just didn’t know it yet.

Yeah, Lisa, just on my way to the office, figured I’d come by for a little nibble—I paused as I looked at her curvaceous body—and some food. Her smile told me she got the message. Most women would blush; she didn’t. I liked her more every time I came in here.

You sure do seem to lose a lot of fights for a guy who was a soldier—and a federal agent, she teased.

Not you too. I shook my head. Do you realize how rare it is for a soldier to fight up close anymore? This isn’t the old days where you shot weapons with a range of a thousand yards or less.

Weapons fail, she said.

Yes they do, that’s why your typical soldier carries several. My rifle jams, I use a pistol. That jams and I use my knife. If none of those are enough then you have far larger problems than being a lousy fighter.

All right, I believe you, she said, throwing up her hands in mock surrender. We exchanged more small talk before she went back to work. After finishing my breakfast and thanking Mick for the bourbon, I started to cross the street to my office, when Lisa came out and stopped me.

Hey, Tommy, I didn’t want to say anything inside, but I have a favor to ask, if you have time.

Sure, come by the office and you can fill me in, I replied.

Thanks. Since I worked the night shift again, I will be getting off shortly. I’ll come by after I get a little sleep if that’s okay. She kissed me on the cheek. She was staring at my face now.

What? I know I’m no Don Juan, but—

She laughed. No, it’s not that. I was just looking at that nasty cut on your lip from your fight. It’s already closed up. I forget how fast you guys heal, she said with a smile and went back inside.

With that, I was crossing the street to my office. She was right. One of the greatest fringe benefits of my profession was the assistance of the latest tech to keep me alive when the shit hit the fan, which was often. The first thing I got when I joined federal service was nanite colony integration. They were essentially microscopic machines capable of repairing damage to my body right down to the cellular level, and they did it fast. In most cases as long as an injury didn’t kill me instantly, I’d be fit as a fiddle in a couple of days. The problem was I could barely go a full day without finding additional trouble; call it a character flaw. I wiped the back of my hand across my lip and sure enough, the bleeding had stopped completely. The skin still stung, but it had already healed more than a regular guy’s would have in two days.

After a small climb to the second floor, I found myself in the quiet of my office. It was a nice little place, three offices situated around a small living area. It had an old wood stove and a few couches. One of the offices was mine, off to the right. The other belonged to my partner, and the third was currently vacant, which gave us the run of the place. I filled up the stove and put on a pot of coffee before heading through the outer office door, stopping to take a look at myself in the mirror. The guy staring back at me was pretty average, by most standards. He had dark eyes and hair, clearly indicative of his Italian heritage. But it was the color of his goatee that got most people’s attention. It was red, blood red. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, but not particularly handsome either. His nose was a little too big, too. On top of that, he was all banged up and bruised, which didn’t help his looks any. He wore a suit and probably looked pretty good in it before getting the crap kicked out of him outside. But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy that dressed up because he was vain or arrogant. This was the kind of guy that dressed up because he was proud of what he was doing and the people he was doing it for. There was something else, though. It was the crooked smile he had on his face, and it said two things to me. One, this guy was comfortable in his skin. And two, he didn’t give a rat’s ass what I thought about him. It’s almost like he was daring me with that grin--daring me to take him at face value, to underestimate him. I turned away from the mirror and continued on. Alyssa Freeman, my assistant, wouldn’t be here for another hour at least. I noticed the office lights were on and was surprised to find my partner, Eddie Shannon, already at his desk.

Morning, boss, Eddie said with a smile. I wasn’t actually his boss; he was just a smart-ass like that. It didn’t take him long to see I had been in a scuffle. Off to an early start, I see. Who’d you piss off this time?

Some of the Dmitriev clan, I think. They met me outside today and slapped me around some.

Eddie was shaking his head and smiling. Don’t usually see the Russians out on the prowl that early; they must be up to something. He was probably right. Every nationality under the sun had their own slice of the pie and owned their own little piece of town. Chinese, Japanese, Russian, even the Italians were still in the game and the whole damn bunch was playing for keeps.

Such savage behavior, assaulting an officer of the law, said my lifelong friend, who happened to be an android, as he came into the room.

Good morning, Champ, I said.

You know, Thomas, I have observed you engage in fisticuffs rather frequently. Perhaps another tactic would be of benefit, considering your underwhelming talent in that area.

I’ll take that under advisement, my friend.

See to it you do, sir. I have not been keeping watch over you since you were six years old only to have you ‘put on ice,’ I believe is the term, by a pack of knuckle-dragging primates.

I chuckled at his typically colorful wording then turned to Eddie. By the way, I have a little side job for us. Can you meet me here tonight? I removed my hat and coat. I don’t have all the details yet, but I’ll have them by the time you get back.

Sure thing, Tommy. I’m gonna be down at the docks all day finishing up the investigation on that bust from last week, but I should be done with that by sundown, Eddie said. I’ll meet you back here after I grab a little dinner.

Eddie was a good guy and I’d known him since I was three or so. We were neighbors growing up and we decided to work together after serving in the war in the same unit. He was Scottish by blood, which accounted for the light brown hair and the ability to drink as much liquor as he could put his hands on. He was lean and fairly tall, and brimming with boyish charm, if you like that sort of thing. But when the chips were down, and around me they usually were, he was always there to lay his ass on the line. He saved my life more than once during and after the war. Since we’d grown up together and served in the war together, we made a pretty good team and worked well as a duo. All told, I was a pretty lucky guy to be working right in my own neighborhood and that made me willing to put in pretty long hours. With the added perk of being able to customize my office and not have a bunch of other people bumping into me all the time, it was a pretty sweet gig.

Thanks, Eddie. I’ll catch up on odds and ends around here and wait for the rest of the details on the job tonight.

Keep him out of trouble, Champ, Eddie said.

I will. Don’t get murdered, Edward, Champ replied casually.

Radio, I said. Half a second later music started playing. At times like this, I sure appreciated technology. My ribs were starting to sting, and my clothes were a mess after getting so chummy with the sidewalk outside, so I lay down on the couch and must have dozed off for a while, because the next thing I knew, Alyssa was waking me up.

Wake up, sleepy head. We’ve got a business to run. Looks like you’ve been out playing with your friends already, she said with a smile. I sure worked with a perceptive bunch .

That’s one way of putting it. I forced myself into a sitting position. Alyssa had already prepared a cup of coffee and set it on the table next to the couch. She was the best; she had even lit a smoke for me and cleaned out my ashtray. As she went back into the outer office, I took the time to look her over. Unlike Lisa, Alyssa was more timid and shy, but she was every bit as nice to look at. Blonde hair, long legs and an ample bosom made for a very nice combination. I’d thought more than once about having an encounter with her, of the carnal sort, but I was always getting beat up or shot at, which meant she spent most of her time patching me up. Aly moved to town while I was in the marines, so I didn’t meet her until she applied for a position with the FBI about the same time I did. When she heard I was opening a small office right in our own neighborhood, she requested the post as my assistant and has been with me ever since. She, Eddie and I had spent a lot of time cooped up in this small office together so we’d all gotten pretty close the last few years.

After a few more shots of coffee and another smoke, I was ready to get back to work. I had a pile of paperwork to catch up on. Somehow all the technical advancements in the world had never been enough to rid the world of paper, and I always had a stack of it on my desk mocking me. All part of the exciting life of a special agent. About five o’clock, Alyssa went home for the night. I’d had my face buried in papers all day and was happy to see Lisa finally arrive. We sat down by the stove in the living area.

I need you to find someone, she said, obviously uneasy.

Sure. Who am I looking for?

My dad, she said.

I laughed, at least until I realized she wasn’t joking. Paul’s missing?

Yes, for almost a week now.

Jesus, Lisa; why didn’t you say something sooner?

I would have, believe me, but I didn’t know until today. I’ve been working the night shift for the last couple of weeks. I just assumed my dad had been coming home and leaving for work before I got up. Mom didn’t want to worry me, but she finally said something yesterday.

Tell me what you know, anything that can help. I grabbed a notepad and pen.

I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell. He left for work last week and everything seemed fine, according to Mom. He hasn’t been home since. No phone calls, no emails—nothing. She shrugged. I was going to call the police, but— She shook her head, letting the thought die.

I know. They wouldn’t help without evidence of foul play. From what you told me, there isn’t any. I rubbed absentmindedly at my goatee. It wasn’t like Paul to run off for any reason. I’d known him my entire life, and he was a family man through and through. Paul managed a warehouse here in town down at the pier, and he’d been working there for twenty years now. Sure, he’d stayed out drinking a few times with his buddies, but he always called home and let his family know he was safe. From the little bit I’d heard so far, I was plenty worried, but I certainly didn’t want to alarm Lisa any more than necessary.

We can’t pay you much, Lisa said apologetically, interrupting my reflection. Poor kid probably felt bad since she couldn’t afford the kind of cabbage I was used to.

Don’t worry about it, I said to her as I stood up. Eddie and I will stop by the warehouse and his usual hangout spots tonight and see what we can turn up. Come on, I’ll walk you home. I stepped into my office to grab my coat and hat, and then began the short walk to Lisa’s house. She lived with her parents close by, and I needed to stretch my legs anyway.

On my way back to the office, I thought about Lisa’s dad and what could have happened. The first possibility was that he’d split or run off with some other woman. But that was the advantage of working in your own neighborhood; you knew the people. Paul wouldn’t do that, so I discounted the possibility until I had reason to believe otherwise. As far as the criminal outfits were concerned, nobody had a lock on this part of town, so there wasn’t an obvious place to start. This area was still up for grabs, which meant all the organizations were trying to get an upper hand and claim the territory. The newcomers always had to be willing to be bolder and take big chances to get a piece of the action. That usually meant trouble for guys like me, who were far too stupid to mind their own business. Maybe Paul had seen or heard something at the warehouse that spooked him, or maybe someone grabbed him. The question was why. The warehouse gave us a place to start.

I found Eddie back at the office and he was ready to go. We wandered downstairs and hopped in the car. The grav engine fired up instantly, humming gently as dozens of lights, gauges and displays sprang to life. We drove to the warehouse but parked a few blocks away; no sense in attracting any extra attention. We were across the street for about an hour, maybe two, when a covered truck arrived and backed up to one of the loading docks. The warehouse was quieter than it should have been. There was usually a night crew working, but these new players must have convinced them to make themselves scarce. Two guys were in the cab; they got out and started talking to one of three men who had emerged from the structure. All three men were carrying shotguns, and apparently not too shy about it. At least the weapons were old tech, not that the fact would help me much if I took a dose of buckshot in the chest.

Eddie, we need to tail that truck, I instructed. When they take off, don’t lose sight of them for a second. I’ll go inside and find out what’s going on. I’m even going to try and do it without getting killed. You know, just to mix things up.

Eddie shook his head and smiled as I moved across the street.

Right off the bat, I had a knot in my stomach. I didn’t like the idea of taking on three shotgun-toting hoods alone, but it had to be done, and unfortunately the badge I was carrying meant it was my job to do it. Shotguns aren’t cutting edge tech, but they are effective enough to separate a man’s head from his body, or punch a hole all the way through him. I checked my duty pistol, a standard issue Viper, a variable payload sidearm that had gotten me out of many scrapes. The indicator lights told me each of its half dozen varieties of ammo were full and ready for action.

I slid across the street and took cover behind a dumpster next to the warehouse door. I couldn’t hear anyone talking inside, but with a little luck I could slip in when the truck left. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and all five men came out. The morons were kind enough to leave the door open for me, so I slipped right in behind them as they gathered at the front of the truck. Once inside, I visually scanned the area. Nobody around. I confirmed it with a quick thermal scan, another nice modification to my organic optics. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have time to look over anything until I handled the three chumps when they came back in. I took cover behind a pile of boxes and waited. One of the three guys came in a few minutes later, and it wasn’t hard to tell where he was headed. He was dancing around so bad I could tell he was about to piss his pants. I needed one of these guys alive, and this was my pigeon.

He walked quickly to the bathroom and I was waiting for him when he came out. His shotgun was still slung over his shoulder, and he never even saw the blow coming. I laid the cold steel of my pistol right upside his head. It was a satisfying feeling; the guy went down hard and fast. Luckily, I didn’t crack his worthless skull open, or he wouldn’t be able to answer any questions. After his face-plant, I cuffed him and sat him up. I slapped him a few times to wake him up, then gave him a few more for fun. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was his own shotgun, a rather nice double-barreled job, poked into his forehead.

What’s in the truck? I didn’t waste any time with small talk. I gave the shotgun a nudge to add emphasis. His eyes were glued to it. It’s a good thing this guy had just relieved himself, or he would have right then. He looked toward the door but didn’t say a thing. Don’t do anything stupid. You yell out to your friends and the first thing I’ll do is open your skull up with a full serving of buckshot.

Guns—I think just guns—a sample to test the merchandise, the scumbag said nervously. He was barely able to contain his anxiety, squirming around and eyeing the shotgun tucked ever so firmly into his forehead.

Who’s paying the bill? Who’s supplying? I asked impatiently. The guy said he didn’t know, and I believed him. If he knew anything, he’d be giving it up fast right now. The truck started out front, and I hoped Eddie would have more luck getting information than I had.

A minute or two later the other two thugs still hadn’t come back in. They must have known something was wrong—nobody takes this long to piss. The door burst open as I dove for cover behind a box to my right. A shotgun blast sent chunks of wood and cardboard flying over my head. I rolled to the far side of the crates and managed to take a shot at one of the men as he ran for cover. One barrel of the shotgun belched fire and sent a load of shot into his side. It peeled his ribs open like a Christmas present, and he collapsed lifelessly to the ground in an instant.

I moved again as a shotgun blast from his friend slammed into the crate where I had been standing. I made my way through the maze of boxes and crates, trying to get position on the son of a bitch. With any luck, he was an untrained rough like the one I’d thumped with my pistol. I didn’t hear him moving around, which meant he was probably dug in and about to shit his pants. Another shot fired; he didn’t know where I was and was taking wild shots trying to get lucky. My