Chimichangas and a Couple of Glocks by David H. Hendrickson

Author:David H. Hendrickson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

Peter picked up his venti caramel macchiato with two extra shots of espresso and collapsed into a chair at a two-person table in the rear of the L-shaped Starbucks. The front tables along the floor-to-ceiling windows were mostly filled with customers noisily chatting and tapping away on laptops. Here in the rear, he was as far away from them as possible, his back turned to them, and he was shielded from the bright sunlight streaming in.

He set the drink down on the circular light-brown tabletop, took off the cup’s cover to let the steaming-hot liquid cool, and rubbed his eyes. On another day, he’d enjoy the smell of the steamed milk and espresso along with the vanilla syrup.

Not today.

At the Motel 6, he’d taken a long, hot shower, and changed into the clean clothes he’d packed for the fictitious UC football team road trip: jeans and a long-sleeved, pullover Bears T-shirt of navy blue and burnt orange. But he still felt like shit. He still couldn’t believe what his eyes had told him. What his lying eyes had told him.

Now, he needed to think. Even if his brain wasn’t cooperating. What the fuck had actually happened? And what the hell was he going to do about it?

He blew on the drink and ventured a sip, getting more caramel drizzle than coffee. It was still too hot, but he needed the caffeine so he took another small sip. Did it really matter at this point if he burned his mouth to a fucking crisp?

“Hey, buddy, how’s it hanging?”

The blond, bearded lumberjack from last night slapped Peter on the back and sat down, dropping two large manila envelopes on the table. They landed heavily with an ominous, loud thwack. The huge lumberjack again wore a checked flannel shirt, its golden yellow matching his hair and beard.

“Who the fuck are you?” Peter asked. “What are you doing here?”

The lumberjack leaned close, his thick forearms on the table, and grinned. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare.”

A few pieces to the sickening puzzle clicked into place, but not all of them. The lumberjack, who had to be at least six-four, and two-hundred-forty, rock-hard pounds, had been at Flirts & Skirts, trying to home in on Alicia. So how did he fit in?

Peter put the cover back onto the cup and sipped the still-too-hot macchiato, burning his mouth but not showing it, projecting only nonchalance. He had to stay cool. Never let the other asshole even think he’s getting the upper hand. Even if you’ve got the equivalent of seven-deuce off-suit, act like you’ve got aces. But his heart raced.

Peter took another sip. His eyes bored in on the blond lumberjack’s cold blue eyes. Again, Peter asked, “Who the fuck are you?”

“You can call me Sven,” the lumberjack said. “That’s not my real name. Any more than Alicia is my partner’s real name. But close enough.”

Partner? The word punched Peter in the gut. Things were as bad as he’d feared. Worse. He sank back in his seat, suddenly nauseous.

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