Dusty and Bent by Barker Trey R

Author:Barker, Trey R.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books
Published: 2022-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

No secretary so Mitchell bulled the door.

“What the—” Sam paused for a split second, then rushed in after Mitchell.

“Alex Davis? Freeze! FBI.” Mitchell had his gun out and was across the expanse of crappy beige carpeting in a flash.

At the desk, a guy who somehow matched the industrial carpeting and the dingy walls, yanked open a desk drawer and shoved his hand deep inside it.

Mitchell jumped on the desk, a modern-day Dillinger leaping onto bank teller counters, and shoved his gun into the guy’s face. “Bad choice, Hoss.”

Alex Davis was frozen, his eyes on Mitchell.

“Don’t make me kill you.”

Sam’s throat was dry as desert sand. Rachel entered the room, visibly trying to control her breath. Davis stared, silent and sweating, his hand still in the drawer.

How close are your fingers, Sam wondered. Are you touching steel already? Which was just another way of asking: Are we dead yet?

“Easy, pal.” Mitchell’s voice was calm. Almost soothing. But that edge of ‘don’t fuck with me’ was clear as expensive crystal, wasn’t it? “This doesn’t have to go bad.”

Davis swallowed. His eyes managed to both stay on Mitchell even while they cast a quick glance at the room—at Sam and Rachel—and at his right hand deep in that drawer.

“You wanna be killed by the FBI?”

Davis’ sneer was thick as the scent of shit. “You ain’t no FBI. FBI got better suits.”

Mitchell said, “Odd choice of last words. Funny, though.”

Davis licked his lips. “Easy, easy, Feeb, we’re good. Don’t do nothing crazy.”

“You hear that, Agent?” Mitchell laughed and looked toward Sam. “He called us Feebs.”

And Davis took that moment.

His entire arm went into the drawer. His face twisted into a grimace. Then his arm blasted out of the drawer.

Chrome. Sam had expected blued steel, but the gun was chrome.

And fucking huge.

Somewhere behind him, Rachel gasped.

Mitchell jumped and came down full-body, heavy as a ton of anger, on top of Davis, who yelped as they crashed against the wall. The man’s head slammed hard and cracked the drywall. The chair shot out from under them and they banged to the floor.

Mitchell cracked his gun against Davis’ gun hand and Davis howled. His gun plopped to the carpet and got kicked out of the scrum. Rachel grabbed it up and put a few feet between herself and Davis.

Before Sam could jump in or even say anything, Mitchell hauled Davis to his feet, and sat him hard on the dilapidated couch in the office. “Do that again and I’ll kill you here and now. It won’t hurt my sleep at all.”

“Fuck you.” Davis curled slightly toward his right arm, cupping his wrist as gently as he could. “You ain’t no FBI. FBI ain’t gonna come busting balls through that door.”

“Well, sir,” Rachel said. “You didn’t have a secretary.”

“Could’a knocked.”

“For a suspect?” Mitchell shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

That word—suspect—froze the room. Damnit, Mitchell, Sam thought. What in hell are you doing? While Sam hadn’t written a script, they had talked about what to say and how to approach and their body language and none of what Mitchell was doing fit that conversation.

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