Read Online The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel by Claude Bouchard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Claude Bouchard
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a
back room at Ti -Paul’s , a tavern-like affair with loose
ties to Birks’ crew in the nearby Montreal North district. Any guns required in
case of any sudden trouble would likely already be on location.
Time
of year was on my side since the sun had set somewhere around a quarter after
eight so it had been plenty dark at eight-forty when I had gained access to Birks’
car parked on the quiet, residential street. His ride was a 1993 Chrysler
Concorde, which suited me fine with its large, roomy interior, particularly in
the back where I was spending a bit of time waiting for him.
Luckily
for me, he was rather punctual and at a couple of minutes past nine, Birks
showed up, unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat, completely
oblivious of my presence in the car. I used the instant when he pulled the door
shut to sit upright, not worried that he’d see me because I had displaced the
rear view mirror to reflect the ceiling.
“Thanks
for your timeliness,” I said as he inserted the key in the ignition, pressing
the muzzle of my revolver to the side of his neck. It was a Crosman CO2 .177 calibre pellet gun but he didn’t know that. Anyhow, it would hurt,
maybe even kill him if I had to shoot. “Raise your hands up where I can see
them.”
He
stiffened and his eyes went to the rear view mirror by reflex which gave him,
you guessed it, an eyeful of ceiling and maybe the dome light.
“What’s
this about?” he asked, his tone surprisingly calm as he obeyed my command. In
his defense, he did have a rather risky lifestyle.
“There
will be plenty of time for explanations later,” I replied. “Right now, I want
to get things set up to make sure nobody gets hurt, okay?”
He
shrugged as he answered, “You’re the boss. What’s next?”
“Get
over the console to the passenger seat, slowly, and keep your hands up.”
“How
am I gonna do that?” he complained.
“Very
carefully,” I replied. “Your life depends on it.”
He
made his way over the console well enough and was soon on the passenger side.
The gun’s muzzle maintained contact throughout his journey.
“Hands
back behind the headrest, fingers intertwined,” I ordered, “And lean your head
forward.”
I
had to put the gun down because I needed both hands but I was confident he’d
regret it if he tried anything stupid. As it was, he didn’t. With my friendly
roll of duct tape, I did a good if unstylish job of binding his hands together
from the wrists to his intertwined fingers. Next, I secured his whole hand
assembly to the back of the headrest with several more feet of tape wrapped
around over and under from front to back. Finally, after having him lean his
head back again, I did a couple more rounds of tape around his head and the
headrest. I wanted to make sure his movement was restricted.
“This
isn’t very comfortable,” he commented when I was done.
“Sorry,”
I replied. “It’s just a necessary precaution to avoid a car crash once we get
moving.”
“Where
are we going?” he asked, for the first time, a trace of fear in his tone.
“It’s
a surprise,” I answered before affixing a strip of tape across his mouth. “Now,
I’m going to get out, go on your side and open your door to secure your feet.
Be stupid and you’ll be dead.”
I
holstered the gun, got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side
while casually looking around for any potential witnesses. The street and
sidewalks remained deserted, one of the benefits of quiet residential
neighbourhoods.
Opening
the passenger door, I said, “Bend your knees and put your feet a foot apart.”
He
stared at me but did what he was told and I got busy making duct tape shackles
which is easier than one might think. I started by wrapping the tape around his
right ankle two or three times then unrolled enough to get to his left ankle,
wrapping it a few times as well before starting to alternate from one ankle to
the other in a figure eight pattern.
back room at Ti -Paul’s , a tavern-like affair with loose
ties to Birks’ crew in the nearby Montreal North district. Any guns required in
case of any sudden trouble would likely already be on location.
Time
of year was on my side since the sun had set somewhere around a quarter after
eight so it had been plenty dark at eight-forty when I had gained access to Birks’
car parked on the quiet, residential street. His ride was a 1993 Chrysler
Concorde, which suited me fine with its large, roomy interior, particularly in
the back where I was spending a bit of time waiting for him.
Luckily
for me, he was rather punctual and at a couple of minutes past nine, Birks
showed up, unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat, completely
oblivious of my presence in the car. I used the instant when he pulled the door
shut to sit upright, not worried that he’d see me because I had displaced the
rear view mirror to reflect the ceiling.
“Thanks
for your timeliness,” I said as he inserted the key in the ignition, pressing
the muzzle of my revolver to the side of his neck. It was a Crosman CO2 .177 calibre pellet gun but he didn’t know that. Anyhow, it would hurt,
maybe even kill him if I had to shoot. “Raise your hands up where I can see
them.”
He
stiffened and his eyes went to the rear view mirror by reflex which gave him,
you guessed it, an eyeful of ceiling and maybe the dome light.
“What’s
this about?” he asked, his tone surprisingly calm as he obeyed my command. In
his defense, he did have a rather risky lifestyle.
“There
will be plenty of time for explanations later,” I replied. “Right now, I want
to get things set up to make sure nobody gets hurt, okay?”
He
shrugged as he answered, “You’re the boss. What’s next?”
“Get
over the console to the passenger seat, slowly, and keep your hands up.”
“How
am I gonna do that?” he complained.
“Very
carefully,” I replied. “Your life depends on it.”
He
made his way over the console well enough and was soon on the passenger side.
The gun’s muzzle maintained contact throughout his journey.
“Hands
back behind the headrest, fingers intertwined,” I ordered, “And lean your head
forward.”
I
had to put the gun down because I needed both hands but I was confident he’d
regret it if he tried anything stupid. As it was, he didn’t. With my friendly
roll of duct tape, I did a good if unstylish job of binding his hands together
from the wrists to his intertwined fingers. Next, I secured his whole hand
assembly to the back of the headrest with several more feet of tape wrapped
around over and under from front to back. Finally, after having him lean his
head back again, I did a couple more rounds of tape around his head and the
headrest. I wanted to make sure his movement was restricted.
“This
isn’t very comfortable,” he commented when I was done.
“Sorry,”
I replied. “It’s just a necessary precaution to avoid a car crash once we get
moving.”
“Where
are we going?” he asked, for the first time, a trace of fear in his tone.
“It’s
a surprise,” I answered before affixing a strip of tape across his mouth. “Now,
I’m going to get out, go on your side and open your door to secure your feet.
Be stupid and you’ll be dead.”
I
holstered the gun, got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side
while casually looking around for any potential witnesses. The street and
sidewalks remained deserted, one of the benefits of quiet residential
neighbourhoods.
Opening
the passenger door, I said, “Bend your knees and put your feet a foot apart.”
He
stared at me but did what he was told and I got busy making duct tape shackles
which is easier than one might think. I started by wrapping the tape around his
right ankle two or three times then unrolled enough to get to his left ankle,
wrapping it a few times as well before starting to alternate from one ankle to
the other in a figure eight pattern.
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