Violet Darger (Book 6): Night On Fire by Vargus L.T. & McBain Tim

Author:Vargus, L.T. & McBain, Tim [Vargus, L.T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime | Murder | Mystery | Thriller | Suspense
Publisher: Smarmy Press
Published: 2019-12-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

Jim cuts across a landscaped yard in front of a real estate office — raised beds of tall exotic grass and a pair of magnolia trees manicured like fussy facial hair. His feet slip a little in the wood chips still moist from the sprinkler, and he kicks up little clusters of the wet mulch, but he doesn’t slow.

He hustles. Focused. His body gone taut with anticipation. That glowing energy still pulsating inside.

The shortcut takes him to the next block where the foot traffic dies back considerably. This particular block won’t really come to life until after dark. He knows this from watching, sitting off to the side in his SUV, letting the prey come to him. The lack of pedestrians is part of the plan.

He pulls the baseball cap down so it covers his brow. He knows from practicing in the mirror that this greatly changes his appearance, the angles of his cheekbones and jaw somehow appearing quite a bit more chiseled and angular with his big forehead covered up. He’d read quite a bit about manipulating these kinds of things in blog posts by various con men trying to sell losers the secret to getting girls. They all preach the same bullshit, too. Just act “cocky and funny,” they say, and these girls will be falling all over each other to get to you.

Yeah? Not so much in his experience, but that’s OK. Better to give them fire. All of them.

Tonight his target will go another direction, though, won’t it? He snickers a little just thinking about it, a wicked chill reaching up to touch his shoulder blades, make him squirm a little.

The destination takes shape before him. A corner building. Brick facade on the front.

Now he picks up speed. Almost jogging. Sliding the little bottle out of the cargo pocket in his pants.

He stands in the shadow of the open doorway. Steps inside. A wood-paneled foyer comes to view as his eyes adjust, a flight of wooden steps leading up to the main floor of the bar. Chipped black paint covers both the wall and floors.

Yes.

This small passage serves as the bottleneck of this business operation, the one little chute where everyone must go in and out. It’s a perfect target.

Despite the lack of foot traffic up and down the street, the bar itself sounds packed. Voices and music competing with each other inside, glasses clinking and thumping down on bars and tables. Happy hour on Tuesday afternoon always draws the regulars in a few hours early.

He licks his lips. Tastes the salt of his sweat once more.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He dumps the gasoline over the steps. Slooshes it all out of the wide mouth bottle in one motion. The liquid almost slapping the wood more than splashing.

And no longer can he hear the voices nor the driving bass of the music through the door beyond. These sounds fade. Filter out of his perception. In their place, he hears only the thud of his own heart, the swishing patter of the blood roaring in his ears.

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