Page 78 of Sting
“No. I asked several times which of them was hurt. Got no answer. I guess the son of a bitch meant it when he said he wouldn’t talk to anybody except you.”
Joe considered the hulking building and dragged his hand down his face. “Okay. Showtime. Pass me that slicker, please.”
Morrow took it from the backseat and handed it up to him.
“If you think I’m letting you go in there by yourself, think again,” Hick said.
“That’s what the man wants.”
“Screw what he wants. You investigate stock fraud and other scams. This is a job for the cowboys.”
“Which he swore to shoot one by one if they stormed the place,” Morrow said.
“Till they kill him,” Hick argued.
“Or he kills her.”
Joe’s words fell like bricks and crushed Hick’s argument. He said shit under his breath and turned to address Morrow. “You’re sure there’s no other way in or out?”
“Not unless there’s a tunnel underneath, and, you know, dig a hole in Louisiana, it fills up with water, so I don’t think a tunnel is likely. Risk is too high to try going in through the roof in this weather. No other doors, and I’ve had men examining the exterior walls plank by plank looking for a concealed one. None of the lumber is rotten enough for us to bust through without giving him plenty of advance warning.”
The deputy hitched his chin toward the front of the building. “That door is the only access. It’s stood ajar like that since I backed out of it. I thought he might poke his head around, take a look-see. But if he’s come near that opening, we missed it. No motion inside at all.”
Hick exhaled in frustration and looked at Joe. Joe gave him a vapid smile. “I’m wearing a vest.”
“He’s a head-shot guy.”
Neither of the other two said anything to contradict or qualify that, and Joe sort of wished that one of them had. “Well, we gotta get her out of there.” Without further ado, he checked his pistol, tucked it into the holster at the small of his back, then pulled on his slicker.
Once he and Hick had protected themselves as well as they could from the downpour, the three got out and approached the building, using the parked vehicles as cover. Morrow’s squad car being the closest to the door, they crouched behind it.
Hick chambered a bullet in his pistol. “Just so you know. He kills you, I’m sending him to hell.”
In all seriousness, Joe said, “I would appreciate that. Thanks.”
“Then I’m making a move on Marsha.”
Joe looked at him with disdain. “That certainly gives me the will to live.”
“But your crap wardrobe goes straight to Goodwill.”
Morrow had retrieved a bullhorn from his car. He duckwalked over to where they were hunkered and passed it to Joe. “Press that button and talk into it.”
Joe took the bullhorn from the deputy and looked at Hick. “You have a patron saint you pray to on a regular basis?”
“Several.”
“Now would be a good time.”
“Plus, my aunt on my mama’s side dabbles in voodoo.”
Grimly Joe said, “Even better.”
Shaw had been aware of the assemblage beyond the door, but neither he nor Jordie had remarked on the arrivals of other vehicles, the new sets of voices, the lights periodically slicing across the entrance and penetrating the holes and cracks in the walls.
He’d heard the men scuttling along the exterior, looking for a way in, or a possible escape route for him. They were wasting their time. There wasn’t one.
It was coming up on two hours since the deputy had arrived, and time had become an important factor. Shaw was fully aware that his body was being poisoned by bacteria. Several times Jordie had pleaded with him not to wait for the FBI agent to arrive, but rather to surrender himself to the officers already there, to let paramedics take emergency measures before transporting him to the nearest hospital.
