High Desert Vengeance (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 5) by Peter Nealen

Author:Peter Nealen [Nealen, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-08-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

“There’s that little shit,” Gomez said.

Gomez’ choice of words aside, Antonio Gutierrez wasn’t a particularly small man. He looked like he was in his early twenties, and wasn’t so much heavyset as he was fat. He walked like he thought he was tough, though, and he was well-dressed, at least so far as gangbanger chic went.

Gomez and Flanagan were waiting in Flanagan’s truck, outside the local Save Mart in Las Cruces. The gray, blocky building wasn’t especially impressive, and Gutierrez didn’t seem too interested in it, anyway. He was meeting the three young men and the girl in the crop-top and fur-lined jacket in the old but garishly decorated Buick in the parking lot.

“I thought the drug-dealer-mobile had gone out of style,” Flanagan muttered.

“Depends on where you are, and how safe they feel,” Gomez replied. He was glowering at his cousin, even though they were across the street. “Apparently, these Espino-Gallo assholes feel plenty safe.”

“Apparently.” Flanagan left it at that. Gomez was clearly on a rage bender; he’d been a man of very few words before; he probably had gotten through his first mission with the Blackhearts, in Burma, without speaking more than a couple dozen words. His current verbosity was odd, and a little concerning.

Gutierrez was leaning against the side of the sedan, talking to the young men sitting in the front seat. He reached inside, took something from the guy in the passenger seat, and stuffed it in his pocket.

“That look like cash to you?” Flanagan asked.

Gomez was squinting toward the car. “Maybe,” he murmured.

There was another exchange of words, and then Gutierrez straightened and swaggered—or tried to; he wasn’t built for a proper swagger—toward his own car, a bright orange Civic Type R, with what looked like an after-market spoiler on the back. Gutierrez was clearly enjoying what he considered the high life.

Flanagan watched him lever his bulk into the small car, reflecting on the fact that he wouldn’t be caught dead in a little rice burner like that.

Despite the fact that that had looked very much like a semi-operational meet, with instructions given and money passed, Gutierrez apparently couldn’t help himself, and burned rubber on the way out of the parking lot, his engine screaming and the souped-up “fart can” of a muffler amplifying the exhaust rather than muffling it. He revved the engine again as soon as he was on the road, accelerating hard away from the parking lot.

“Jackass,” Flanagan muttered, as he put his own truck in gear and started to follow. There wasn’t a lot of traffic to hide in at that time of the morning, but he could afford to stay well back. That obnoxiously colored and noisy car wasn’t going to be easy to lose.

Gomez was checking his CZ P-01, drawing the slide back just far enough to see brass in the ejection port. Flanagan glanced over at him. “We need what’s in his head, and I don’t mean spattered all over the driveway,” he said.

“I know,” Gomez said, slipping the pistol back into its holster.

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