Page 13 of Witness 8

‘We don’t serve water,’ said the bartender.

Bloch sensed movement behind them. Then she heard the scraping of metal chairs on a wooden floor. Behind the multitude of bottles on the shelf of the bar, there was a mirror.

Two men, much bigger than the bartender, who was going on for six foot three, got up off their seats. One of them, the biggest one, made his way into the gloomy section of the bar. The other, the one wearing a Stetson, folded his arms and watched Lake.

Lake pointed to a sink behind the bar, said, ‘You’ve got a faucet. I’d really like a glass of water, please.’

The bartender stood back, grabbed his crotch with one hand. ‘I’ve got this, but I ain’t letting you drink from that either.’

The redneck guard behind Bloch laughed.

‘I don’t like you,’ said Lake.

The bartender took a step forward, reached under the bar and came up with a pump-action shotgun in his hands. He held it across his chest, said, ‘I don’t like you either. And now it’s time for you to leave.’

The redneck in the mirror didn’t even have time to unfold his arms. With one swift movement, Lake reached across the bar, took hold of the barrel of the shotgun in one hand, twisted it and flipped it one eighty out of the bartender’s arms and into Lake’s. It was all about leverage and speed. Lake pumped five shells onto the floor then set the gun on the ground.

‘I think we’re going to stay a while. Is that Mr. Grady over there?’ He pointed to the man sitting alone in a booth.

The bartender said nothing. His mouth was still hanging open.

‘I thought so,’ said Lake.

Bloch followed him to the man at the booth. He fitted the description of Grady Banks, owner of this fine establishment. He wore a leather waistcoat over a black T-shirt. Small, greasy hands lay flat on the table beside a shot of whiskey. It was the tattoo of a swastika on his throat that gave him away. Although,in a place like this, Bloch guessed there could be more than one guy with Nazi tattoos.

Another security guard – one who looked like a heavyweight wrestler – sat alone at a small table pushed against the back wall. He was ten feet from Grady. A large, rusted and bullet-ridden interstate sign had been affixed to the wall behind him. It was the kind of thing that passed for interior decoration in this place.

Bloch saw Lake notice the big man seated at the sign. Way too far from his boss to be any kind of effective security.

They exchanged a knowing glance.

‘Mr. Banks, my name is Gabriel Lake. I’d like to talk with you.’

Grady didn’t move. He looked calm and confident. His reply was laconic, even disinterested.

‘You look like cops. Or you used to be cops. We don’t like cops around here. What do you want?’ he asked.

‘You know what we want,’ said Lake. ‘There’s a white panel van parked behind this building. Just like the one used to snatch Dyani Sandoval. This room is one hundred feet long, but the building on this side is a hundred and thirty feet long. Your man over there isn’t doing too good a job protecting you from all the way at the back of the room. Bloch here could do some real damage before that guy got his ass off the seat. So he’s not protecting you. He’s protecting the door hidden behind that old road sign. We’ll leave once you give us Dyani. You didn’t expect a ton of media attention when you snatched a Native American girl so I figured whoever has her will keep her hidden until the press storm dies down and her face disappears from the TV screens. Then you’d move her on to a buyer. That’s not going to happen now. You’re going to let her go.’

‘Get the fuck out of here before—’ Grady began, but Bloch didn’t hear the rest. Her phone had buzzed in her pocket. She took it out, read the text message.

‘Lake,’ she said, ‘got a text from Eddie. He needs us. We need to cut this short. Let me try some of thatdiplomacy.’

Bloch moved past Lake, and as she sat down in the booth across the table from Grady, a faint sound was heard in the room. A distinctive one. The noise that’s made when steel brushes quickly against leather.

Underneath the table, Bloch pushed the barrel of her handgun into Grady’s knee. His expression changed suddenly.

‘You know what happens when you get shot in the knee with a small caliber weapon?’ she asked.

Grady didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on Bloch. After another moment, he shook his head.

‘After a knee replacement and a year of physiotherapy, you might walk again without a limp. But the real worry is infection. Small fibers from your pants get lodged in the wound. If the surgeon doesn’t remove all those little pieces, they fester, and cause infection. That brings the risk of amputation.’

Grady’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down inside his scrawny throat.

‘I have good news and bad news,’ continued Bloch. ‘Good news is you don’t have to worry about infection. Bad news is I’m holding a Magnum 500 loaded with a four-hundred-and-forty-grain semi-rimmed cartridge that will take your leg clean off at the knee, instantly. Unless you or one of your pals here knows how to clamp the femoral artery that sits behind your kneecap, you’ll bleed out in around ninety seconds.’

A thin bead of sweat rolled down Grady’s cheek.