Read Online Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) by J.A. Konrath - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J.A. Konrath
Tags: General Fiction
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necktie.
Bo-ring.
Lucy quickly left the playroom, finding a cheap dinette chair in the kitchen area, and sat there with the box in her lap as K went to fetch a clean-up crew and another victim. She yawned. What started off as a potential rekindling of the killing spirit had once again devolved into something rote. Rather than celebrate a fellow human being’s suffering, Lucy felt like they were just going through the motions.
It was sad, really.
Some men came and took out the body in a plastic bag. Then a smiling Mestizo woman who had more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei padded into the playroom with a mop and bucket. Lucy wondered what she could be so happy about, cleaning up blood and poo for a living, and then began to envy the cleaning woman for her baseless happiness. The envy became so strong that when the cleaning woman came out of the playroom with the smile still on her face, Lucy unholstered the Springfield XD she carried on her belt and shot her twice in the chest.
“Why did you do that?” K asked, hobbling up behind her.
“She was pissing me off.”
“How?”
“She looked happy.”
They both stared at the woman, who’d collapsed on the floor but somehow managed to not spill her dirty bucket.
“She was good,” K said. “A miracle worker with clothing stains.”
Lucy frowned. “Aw, shit. She was the one who did the laundry?”
“Yeah.”
“She used just the right amount of starch when she ironed.”
“Yeah.”
Lucy was angry at herself. Then she noticed the woman’s chest was moving. “Hey. She’s still alive.”
“I’ll get the men.” K trudged off again.
The men came, put the woman on a blanket, and picked her up. Lucy almost told her sorry, but wasn’t sure how to say it in Spanish. Besides, apologizing wasn’t one of her strengths. Somehow, she always came off sounding sarcastic. Instead, Lucy sort of gave the cleaning woman the universal
oops
shrug as she went past.
The woman was trembling, and seemed to be trying really hard not to cry.
Awkward.
A few minutes later another group of men came (or maybe it was the same group of men, Lucy wasn’t really good with faces), lugging along a man in iron shackles. The prisoner was in his twenties, one eye swollen shut from a recent beating. K and the guards exchanged some rapid-fire español.
“His name is Juan,” K told Lucy. “He was caught selling Tussin to school children.”
“So kids aren’t allowed to get high in Mexico?” Lucy asked.
“They drink too much and OD. Bad for business.”
“It was only two kids who died,” Juan said, his English pretty good. “Mexico has plenty more.”
“You broke the rules,” K told him. “Emilio doesn’t allow sales to kids.”
Juan spat on K’s feet. “Hijo de puta. You kill kids in your crazy arena games. I saw you make two ten-year olds fight to the death with machetes.”
“True,” K said. “But they weren’t taking drugs.”
Juan’s look remained defiant. “I lost three thousand pesos on that match. I was only trying to make my money back.”
K unsheathed his Spyderco Harpy knife.
“Another Columbian necktie?” Lucy groaned. “Really?”
K glanced at her. “No. I have something else in mind for this one.”
The menacing way K said it gave Lucy goose bumps on her scar-free patches of skin.
“Emilio wants you in the games,” K told Juan. “My protégé here wants to cut you into little bits and make you eat yourself.”
“Protégé?” Lucy repeated. “K, that’s sweet.”
“But it is your lucky day, Juan. I’m going to give you a chance to walk out of here. But you have to do something for me. Interested?”
“What do I have to do?” Juan asked.
K motioned for Lucy to hold up the Amazon box. When she did, he sliced open the cardboard with his Harpy. Slowly and seductively, as if undressing a lover. Then he reached inside and gingerly took out—
An electric hot plate.
“What are you going to do to him?” Lucy asked. “Cook him a can of
Bo-ring.
Lucy quickly left the playroom, finding a cheap dinette chair in the kitchen area, and sat there with the box in her lap as K went to fetch a clean-up crew and another victim. She yawned. What started off as a potential rekindling of the killing spirit had once again devolved into something rote. Rather than celebrate a fellow human being’s suffering, Lucy felt like they were just going through the motions.
It was sad, really.
Some men came and took out the body in a plastic bag. Then a smiling Mestizo woman who had more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei padded into the playroom with a mop and bucket. Lucy wondered what she could be so happy about, cleaning up blood and poo for a living, and then began to envy the cleaning woman for her baseless happiness. The envy became so strong that when the cleaning woman came out of the playroom with the smile still on her face, Lucy unholstered the Springfield XD she carried on her belt and shot her twice in the chest.
“Why did you do that?” K asked, hobbling up behind her.
“She was pissing me off.”
“How?”
“She looked happy.”
They both stared at the woman, who’d collapsed on the floor but somehow managed to not spill her dirty bucket.
“She was good,” K said. “A miracle worker with clothing stains.”
Lucy frowned. “Aw, shit. She was the one who did the laundry?”
“Yeah.”
“She used just the right amount of starch when she ironed.”
“Yeah.”
Lucy was angry at herself. Then she noticed the woman’s chest was moving. “Hey. She’s still alive.”
“I’ll get the men.” K trudged off again.
The men came, put the woman on a blanket, and picked her up. Lucy almost told her sorry, but wasn’t sure how to say it in Spanish. Besides, apologizing wasn’t one of her strengths. Somehow, she always came off sounding sarcastic. Instead, Lucy sort of gave the cleaning woman the universal
oops
shrug as she went past.
The woman was trembling, and seemed to be trying really hard not to cry.
Awkward.
A few minutes later another group of men came (or maybe it was the same group of men, Lucy wasn’t really good with faces), lugging along a man in iron shackles. The prisoner was in his twenties, one eye swollen shut from a recent beating. K and the guards exchanged some rapid-fire español.
“His name is Juan,” K told Lucy. “He was caught selling Tussin to school children.”
“So kids aren’t allowed to get high in Mexico?” Lucy asked.
“They drink too much and OD. Bad for business.”
“It was only two kids who died,” Juan said, his English pretty good. “Mexico has plenty more.”
“You broke the rules,” K told him. “Emilio doesn’t allow sales to kids.”
Juan spat on K’s feet. “Hijo de puta. You kill kids in your crazy arena games. I saw you make two ten-year olds fight to the death with machetes.”
“True,” K said. “But they weren’t taking drugs.”
Juan’s look remained defiant. “I lost three thousand pesos on that match. I was only trying to make my money back.”
K unsheathed his Spyderco Harpy knife.
“Another Columbian necktie?” Lucy groaned. “Really?”
K glanced at her. “No. I have something else in mind for this one.”
The menacing way K said it gave Lucy goose bumps on her scar-free patches of skin.
“Emilio wants you in the games,” K told Juan. “My protégé here wants to cut you into little bits and make you eat yourself.”
“Protégé?” Lucy repeated. “K, that’s sweet.”
“But it is your lucky day, Juan. I’m going to give you a chance to walk out of here. But you have to do something for me. Interested?”
“What do I have to do?” Juan asked.
K motioned for Lucy to hold up the Amazon box. When she did, he sliced open the cardboard with his Harpy. Slowly and seductively, as if undressing a lover. Then he reached inside and gingerly took out—
An electric hot plate.
“What are you going to do to him?” Lucy asked. “Cook him a can of
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