The Killer Trap by K. R. Hill

Author:K. R. Hill [Hill, K. R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-11-23T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Connor rushed to the office door. “No,” he said. “You can’t come. This guy spooks too easy. If he sees you tagging along, I don’t know what he’ll do. I’m just going to drive down and pick up the gear and head right back. I need your word you’re not gunna try to follow me or do anything crazy.”

“Don’t worry about it. But if you need help, text me and I’ll come running.”

Bartholomew and Connor bumped fists and Connor hurried along the sidewalk, passed the tables in front of the café, stepped over the steel cable of the parking lot, and climbed into the Mustang.

As he was backing out, he heard his phone signal that a text had arrived. Are you coming up from Long Beach? it read.

He typed that he was and got a quick response saying that the sender would see him soon.

Connor went into that hypnotic state that he always visited when driving and didn’t refocus until he turned off the freeway and dropped down into LA. He laughed because they called this the arts district now. He remembered how the area used to smell of rotten meat and diesel fumes. That was back when the eighteen-wheelers worked the loading docks. In that era many of the truck drivers sweetened their loads with hidden contraband. Good old free enterprise it was called. Back then, his old man used to say, a driver could find cases of stolen tools, cartons of cigarettes, or high-fidelity audio equipment being sold by shady characters in the back alleys.

It was getting dark as he drove around searching for a parking space. Then he saw a woman leaning through the door of an SUV as she strapped in a child. He stopped and turned on his blinker, waiting for her to pull out. Once the SUV drove off, he backed into the spot, locked his doors, and shoved a few coins into the meter. Merchants were rolling down metal doors and snapping padlocks into place, securing their businesses as he passed.

A cool breeze was coming off the ocean, sending a few leaves and bits of paper along the sidewalk. Something about rustling leaves: the feeling he got looking at the buildings around him made him remember walking with his dad, big cop and little cop, just cruising along, keeping the city safe.

He heard a rumble and a car screeched to a halt beside him.

It was a ‘67 Malibu, jacked up in the rear, spots of gray primer here and there, one door a different color. Behind the wheel sat a large black man.

Ted shoved the passenger door open and shouted, “Get your ass in here. These streets are hotter than Bogotá.”

Connor jumped in and hadn’t closed his door before the car burned rubber and took off up the road. “Dude, let me get in before you take off.”

“Fuckers tried to burn my crib. They’re still out here prowling around trying to find my ass.” Ted looked in the rearview mirror, turned right

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