Six Cut Kill Read online

  “In and out just like that?”

  “Cat ain’t wearin’ no regulation shit either. Just some beat to shit BDU’s and a couple of knives, man. That’s it. No M-16, no pack, no helmet, no MRE’s, no canteen, nothin’. The gunny picks up the string of ears and tosses ‘em somewhere, sits back down, and lights a cigarette. ‘Second time this month,’ he says, and just stares out past the wire. I boogied over to my helo, man, and kicked back between the skids. Flew out the next morning. Early. Most riki-tik.”

  “Who are these guys?”

  “Maybe they started out as a Seal, or a Ranger, or a Green Beret or somethin’. Maybe Delta Force. Maybe just a line troop that found his true mission in life. I knew this one dude, man, that did his tour and his time, then wouldn’t leave. They said go home an’ he went to Cambodia. In the weeds. Was there for a couple a years fightin’ his own war, livin’ like the wild man, a Borneo, ya know. Most serious fucker I ever met, man, an’ he was a freshman compared to these dudes. These fuckers are way past anything in regular Special Forces. Badass squared. Fucker could freak out Seal team six.”

  “These guys just become killers?”

  “Assassins. Command ain’t stupid, Crockett. They use these guys. Give ‘em a general op an’ let ‘em freelance, or give ‘em a specific target an’ wait. There ain’t many of these cats out there. Limited resource, ya dig?”

  “What happens when they come back to the world?”

  “Two or three outa five don’t make it back. One outa five probably winds up in prison ‘cause they can’t adapt. One of ‘em gets his shit together enough to be a cop or a security expert. Maybe a ranger in Yellowstone or someplace away from the crowds, ya know. Or they do what they did for money. Mercenary or some kinda shit like that.”

  “And you think this is one of those guys.”

  “What you see on this chick, man, is the six cut kill. Used from the front when ya wanna see your target die, dude. Cut each to the right and left sides of the neck just below the jaw. Goin’ for the jugular and common carotid. Victim can’t shout or scream. Next two cuts are on the inner thighs on both legs. Femoral arteries, dude. Bleed out fast. Fifth cut is in the chest from the base a the throat down through the sternum. That’s an assisted cut. The offhand pushes against the back of the knife blade to help penetration, man. Sixth cut is a deep slash across the low belly to spill the intestines and stuff. All done very fast. No sound, no recovery, maximum damage and heavy psychological shit to whoever that finds the body. The fuckin’ ghost is there and gone in just seconds, man.”

  “Sick sonofabitch,” Crockett said.

  “Trained sonofabitch, Crockett, This shit is taught to some elite motherfuckers, man. The best of the best. Cats that don’t ever get no credit like SEALs and Greenies do. Once in a great while, one a them assholes goes native and starts his own little ear collection or somethin’. Can’t stop ‘em unless ya wanna kill ‘em. You try to kill one of ‘em an’ don’t get it done, ya might piss him off. Don’t want that, either. Somebody might find you the next morning with your own dick down your throat. Nervous in the service, man.”

  “How do you stop somebody like that?”

  “Ya don’t, Crockett. One a these cats coulda come into Ivy’s house alone the night all them fuckers showed up and Ruby got killed. He coulda wasted Carson and been gone without the rest of us even knowin’ he’d been there.”

  “We dusted five mercenaries that night, Stitch.”

  “Yeah. We might not even a slowed this guy down. It’s risky business, though. Nobody lives forever, man. Sooner or later the odds catch up to the dude, and the ghost gets dusted. At least that’s what everybody hopes happens. Not this time, I guess.”

  “This is some scary shit, Stitch.”

  “Nightmare, man.”

  “Why here? Why this girl?”

  “I dunno why here, man,” Stitch said. “Why the girl is easy. Because he likes it, or because he thought she was on the wrong side. Maybe both. Maybe somethin’ else entirely.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We can, like, eat some salmon, double the sentries, and give the cats on the M-60’s some speed, man. Guys like this around, the night lasts a long fuckin’ time, ya know?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Stitch left after consuming enough salmon to sustain a grizzly for two weeks, Satin turned in early, Dundee and Nudge crashed on the couch, and Crockett was left to his own devices. He returned to the box and went through the contents, except for the pictures, another time or two before he fell asleep in the recliner. He awoke around five, made fresh coffee, found his crutches, took off his leg to give the stump a break, poured coffee into a spill-proof cup, and clunked his way out to the deck, Dundee wiggling by his side. When he eased onto the swing, the eastern sky was just starting to show a little light. He shivered a bit in the early damp and watched a deer walk to the edge of the water, catch his scent, and bounce away into the gloom. He took a sip of the Blue Mountain and felt a little hopeless.

  This case might be more than he could handle. It was a dead-end. The forensics were thin, there was no evident motive, and none of the contacts questioned had any insights or usable information. Hell, there was no Intel at all. True, Clete had yet to get the background he needed, but the cops sure had nothing. Just a Carol Ann corpse in an underground garage, butchered with a level of efficiency they didn’t understand or appreciate. Because of the number of cuts, they thought there might have even been two attackers. Stitch knew immediately what had gone down, but that information only ruled some things out. According to him, whoever did the killing was smoke in the wind. The man who wasn’t there. The man who wasn’t anywhere.

  Crockett rolled it around until the tops of the trees began to glow with the sunrise, then went back inside and fed the cat and dog. A shower got his blood moving a little after the short night. He moisturized his stump, put on a fresh sock and his leg, and got dressed. The flavor of biscuits and gravy was niggling in the back of his throat. He installed his official county badge and commission case in his shirt pocket, ignored the Beretta .45, slipped his Smith 686 revolver onto his belt, grabbed his cop shop ball cap, and limped out to the truck. The big hemi rumbled into life, and he let it idle while he lit his first Sherman of the day, eased his holster forward a bit for comfort, and put on his shades. Checking to be sure neither Nudge or Dundee were near the truck, he slipped the transmission into drive and headed for Wagers Café in Hartrick, breakfast on his mind.

  The joint was about half full when he arrived. There was a light fog of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, its acrid scent sweetened with the aroma of bacon and coffee. Several of the patrons greeted him or nodded in his direction. The mayor was there, with a couple of the city fathers, and ignored him completely because of prior conflicts. He walked to his customary back booth and sat just as the waitress arrived.

  “Mornin’, Crockett,” she said, pouring the obligatory cup of awful coffee.

  “Ida, you blue-eyed devil,” Crockett replied, “I got a full tank of gas and a twenty dollar bill.”

  “You hittin’ on me?”

  “You wanna run off?”

  “And leave all this?”

  Crockett grinned. “Guess I’m outclassed, huh?”

  “You come in just to take a run at me, or you want breakfast?”

  “If I can’t have you, I guess some B and G will do.”

  “Satin know you behave like this?”

  “She used to sling hash here. What do you think?”

  Ida patted him on the shoulder. “I think you got the best end of the deal,” she said, and headed back to turn in his order.

  Crockett poured in as much cream as the cup would allow and took a sip. He grimaced, wondering how coffee that weak could still taste that bad.

  Just as the biscuits and gravy arrived, Hart County High Sheriff and Hartrick police chief, Dale Smoot, came through the door. His eyebrows lifted when he saw Crockett, and the big man ambled toward the back bo
oth.

  “How ya doin’, Dale?” Crockett asked as Smoot sat opposite him.

  “Gettin’ close to retirement. Ain’t seen you in a few days. You still work for me?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Crockett said.

  “It’s Friday. You gonna grace the county with your presence tonight?”

  “Thought I would. Strike a little fear into the hearts of bad guys.”

  Ida arrived. The chief ordered four over easy, double bacon, and hash browns with gravy. When she left, he turned back to Crockett.

  “Sold that place,” he said.

  “What place?”

  “That club that was sellin’ all those drugs you and the state boys closed up last year.”

  “Buckles and Bows?”

  “Yep. Fella named Bryant bought the whole damn thing.”

  “Must have a lot of money.”

  “Looks that way. He’s from Virginia or someplace. From what I hear, made a shitload in the coal business, sold out his interest in a bunch a mines, beat the rap on a bunch a lawsuits, and left the area. Bought the Barham place out by Stonebrook Estates, over south of Clayville. County gave him a helluva break on permits, taxes, and stuff.”

  “Jesus. That’s rich bitch territory. That house and acres musta cost him four or five million bucks.”

  “Around ten is what I hear. Close to five sections. The club damn sure wasn’t cheap, either.”

  “What’s he gonna do with it?”

  “The club?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He says, ‘cause the county has been so nice to him, he’s gonna open up a youth center.”

  “A youth center?”

  “Yep. Turn the restaurant into a pizza parlor, turn the bar and dance area into a miniature golf course and video game place, convert the stage to a upper level lounge for mom and dad so they can keep an eye on the little kidneys, use the back half that big parking lot for a paved road-racing style track for electric go carts, and a big concrete pad with built-in spray fountain heads so the little kids can run around in hot weather and cool off.”

  “No shit.”

  “Nope. Plus a pond with picnic tables and stuff out behind the place so mom and the kids can go commune with nature while they eat Fritos and baloney sandwiches.”

  “That’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard of. Can he make a go of it, ya think?”

  “Nothin’ like it in this area,” Smoot said. “Had quite a bit of business at the nightclub. Folks’ll drive fifteen or twenty miles to get little Suzy and Johnny off their backs for a couple of hours, feed their faces, and get ‘em tired enough they’ll pass out on the way home.”

  “Might be a good business.”

  “His wife is the one that’s puttin’ the place in. No booze allowed, either.”

  “What about mom and dad? They might like a cocktail while they watch little Missy run around in the fountain on an August afternoon.”

  “Didn’t even apply for a liquor license. Said this place was gonna be for kids. I heard she’s even thinkin’ about a pick-up and delivery service for daycare centers and such with special rates for groups that are chaperoned. For the rest of the kids, hire students that need part-time work to control the herd. Lots of cameras and security.”

  “How’d you find out so much?”

  “I,” Smoot said, “unlike some of our more disinterested public servants, actually attended the county council meeting last February when the Bryant woman addressed that august group.”

  Crockett grinned. “Civic minded,” he said. “I like that in a sheriff.”

  “And,” Smoot went on, “I googled her husband.”

  “Good idea.”

  Smoot nodded. “He seems more or less clean. You suspicious about something?”

  “Not me.”

  “Bullshit. You got that look.”

  Crockett smiled. “Not suspicious,” he said. “Curious.”

  “Oh, hell,” Smoot grumbled. “I’ve seen you get curious before. Makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.”

  “Take it easy, Dale. I’m not gonna go poke somebody with a stick or anything.”

  “Change of subject,” Smoot said. “What brings you to town so early in the day other than the fine coffee in this establishment?”

  “Well…” Crockett said.

  Smoot shook his head as Crockett chased the last bit of gravy around his plate. “Damn,” he said. “I heard about the killing and all, but I had no idea it was as serious as you say it is. How in the hell are you gonna get a handle on something like that?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve got Cletus looking into some things, but it may be a lost cause.”

  “Sounds to me like the worst thing that could happen would be for you to actually locate this guy. Kinda like chasing a wounded lion into the weeds. Ya need to locate him, but you really don’t want to. If you manage to find him, he’s also found you. Very dangerous.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  Crockett smiled. “Follow me around with a box of Kleenex. Every time I think about this mess, I wanna cry.”

  “Don’t make a scene,” Smoot replied, getting to his feet. “Just know that you have the full resources of Hart County at your beck and call. If that isn’t enough, we’ll get you a water pistol.”

  “Thanks, Dale. I’ll be in around four and hang out until midnight or so. Officer Friendly Goodguy, at your service.”

  Smoot grunted and turned away. Crockett watched him leave.

  When he got back to the house, Satin was doing dishes. “Where you been?” she asked.

  “Breakfast. I asked Ida to run off with me.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “Hard to understand, laughing as hard as she was.”

  Satin smiled. “Tell Dale about the murder?”

  “Yep.”

  “He have any ideas?”

  “Nope.”

  “You have any ideas?”

  “Nope.”

  “You gonna obsess about this?”

  “I don’t think so. If I can find anything to pick at, I will; but if I got nothing, nothing is what I got. No point in beating a dead horse.”

  “Maybe Clete’ll come up with something.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. The girl is dead. Nothing I can do to change that. We got any deli ham left?”

  “A little. You want a sandwich?”

  “No. Thought I’d limber up the ultra-light and see if some of those bluegill might care for a little pork.”

  “You’re going fishing?”

  “Sorta. I’ll file the barb off a couple of small hooks, use a bobber, and see how big the little guys are getting. Strictly catch and release.”

  “Your first fishing trip on the lake. This is an occasion. Can I come, too?”

  “I don’t know. Have you finished the dishes?”

  “Almost. Gimme ten minutes.”

  “You gonna fish?”

  “Yuk! Not me. I’ll watch or read a book.”

  During the next two hours over thirty hybrid bluegills were caught and released, some bigger than Crockett’s hand. Satin caught twenty-one of them.

  When Crockett came downstairs in his semi-official, almost regulation cop suit, Satin was cleaning the kitchen counters.

  “It’s only a little after two. You leaving?” she asked.

  “Yeah. If it stays quiet, I’ll be home between ten and midnight. If not, maybe by Thursday. You know how things can get.”

  “How long ‘til we can keep fish outa the lake?”

  “What is it with you and fish now?” Crockett asked. “First, you didn’t want anything to do with fish, then you started feeding the herd by the dock, and this afternoon you actually not only went fishing with me, you caught a bunch of the little guys yourself. Now you’re asking when we can keep some of them.”

  “A lot of those bluegills were nice sized. You fillet ‘em, I’ll cut ‘em into one inch squares, dip the squares in Sprite, ro
ll ‘em in tempura batter with a little salt and pepper, and deep fry those puppies. Best fish you ever ate, bar none. Bluegill is terrific when you fix it like that.”

  “Really.”

  “God, yes. That fish, some homemade chips, coleslaw, and Guinness, and you’ll be begging for more.”

  “You like it when I beg, don’t you?”

  “It’s almost as exciting as bluegill.”

  “I’ve never eaten bluegill. I just put ‘em in to give the bass a food source.”

  “You try ‘em the way I fix ‘em and they’ll be a food source for you, too.”

  “Okay. This fall. We’ll have a bluegill fry. Have Stitch drop by, get Danni over from Sikeston, maybe Dale and a lady of his choice. Hell, we’ll even get some of the cops to come out. Make it a celebration.”

  “We can call it a lake christening,” Satin said.

  “Pick up a few extra chairs and a folding table.”

  “Get some a those tiki torch things for between the deck and the lake.”

  Crockett peered at her for a moment. “We getting carried away?”

  “Little bit,” Satin said. “Stitch and Danni?”

  “Stitch and Danni,” Crockett agreed.

  “God, that was close. We almost had a party.”

  “Near miss,” Crockett said. “I’m a little queasy. Must be the adrenaline.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Crockett bypassed his usual appearance at the cop shop and headed for the Clayville area. Twenty minutes later, he sat on a gravel road beside two stone columns flanking an asphalt drive that wound its way a quarter of a mile or so across some flat pasture and up a distant slope to a large stone house perched majestically on a hilltop. White board-style fencing stretched away along the gravel road into the distance on both sides of the columns and flanked the drive as it crossed the flat and climbed the hill. A few horses graced the pasture on the right side of the drive, saddlebreds by the look of them. Society horses for society people. To the left of the house and a bit behind it, Crockett could just see the peak of what was probably a barn roof. Jesus. The asphalt and fencing for the driveway cost twice as much as his house. As he sat looking at the property, a black Land Rover appeared at the top of the drive and began rolling his way. Crockett smiled and waited.