The Murder Option 2 (The Murder Collection) by Richter Watkins

Author:Richter Watkins
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: The Murder Option 2
Publisher: Pryde Multimedia, LLC
Published: 2013-09-17T06:00:00+00:00

4

They made a stop for gas, coffee, and sub sandwiches before jumping on the freeway. Headed toward Vegas up the 163 to I-15, they made a pit stop in Barstow, then didn’t stop again except to switch drivers at a rest stop just outside of Baker. It was fully dark now.

They talked about bad people. About a world gone to hell. Terrorists, inner city blacks, the Chinese taking over the world and that kind of thing. Heavy traffic slowed them a bit going past the Vegas Strip, but then it was smooth sailing.

In Mesquite, an hour’s drive north of Vegas and the last gambling town before heading into Utah, they found a good spot at the CasaBlanca Hotel parking lot. They ate a late dinner, used the restrooms, had a few drinks at the bar, dropped some cash at the blackjack table, then went back to the camper, where they crashed for a few hours, Evan using his bed in the back, Corbin up in the top bunk over the cab.

It was uncomfortable, but he was high enough on the drinking and the joy of the hunt that it didn’t matter. He put in his earplugs to block out Evan, who not only snored, he snorted his snores.

But taking a piss in the middle of the night was a problem. Finally, in pain, Corbin surrendered and climbed down, went outside, and pissed against a palm tree, keeping an eye out for security. Corbin figured, among all his other physical breakdowns, he surely had prostate cancer. He also thought his liver was going fast, and he had on-again, off-again pain that might be a kidney stone or worse. He just needed to last long enough.

All in all, Corbin was glad to see morning. They rebooted on heavy doses of caffeine and a shot of Irish Whiskey, a combo that Evan said he couldn’t even imagine starting the day without. “This whore in Reno turned me onto Irish Whiskey. We were together about two weeks. About twenty-five years ago, I think. The glory days. Gamble all night, wake up drunk, get a dose of Irish Whiskey in my coffee, a blow job, and start all over again. But ‘yute,’ as Vinnie put it in that great movie My Cousin Vinnie, goes away, and you’re left with the whiskey, the coffee, and a limp dick.”

Corbin laughed. “You never think the stuff you’re doing at thirty will come back to bite you in the ass, but it does, and with a vengeance.”

They left Nevada, crossed the corner of Arizona, then drove on into Utah through St. George and Cedar City before picking up I-70 and heading east toward Colorado. When they began to climb into the Rockies, they used the truck lanes whenever they could. At rest stops, Evan set up little practice interviews, getting Corbin comfortable with explaining himself.

“Rambling is only good if it’s actually very calculated,” Evan said. “Good interviews are well rehearsed. When done right, it’s a win-win. A very smart

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