Page 7 of Reno

“Whatever I want?” He grinned and turned toward the door. “I’ll hold you to that.”

2

Reno

I shoved my phone into my front pocket and meandered toward my motorcycle. The man with the tattoos was leaning against his truck.

I set my helmet on my seat and opened my saddlebag. Most men carried foul weather gear, an extra helmet, a change of clothes, and tools on their motorcycles. I was a Special Forces Staff Sergeant who specialized in knowing how to blow things up. My saddlebags were filled with weapons, explosives, and a raggedy leather jacket I’d had since I was in high school.

I removed my pistol from the holster.

The restaurant was located two miles from the highway in an area that was primarily industrial. There were no homes or traffic in sight. Even so, shooting a gun in the parking lot at midnight would raise the eyebrows of anyone within earshot of the sound. A silenced pistol would make the same amount of noise as a man opening a can of beer.

With my hands hidden inside the saddlebag, I screwed a silencer to the end of the pistol’s barrel. Once it was fitted, I made eye contact with Crip and raised my brows.

While inside the restaurant, I’d sent a group text, explaining the issue we were facing. Considering Crip’s status as a combat-experienced former Navy SEAL, I expected him to assist me in encouraging the men in question to leave the premises.

“Pee Bee!” Crip hollered, pointing toward Pee Bee’s motorcycle. “There’s a snake under your fucking bike!”

“Ho-lee-fucking shit!” Pee Bee bellowed. “A snake?”

Pee Bee sounded like he was auditioning for a Hollywood B-rate movie. It wasn’t the help I’d hoped for, but it was going to have to do. I glanced toward the truck. The tattooed man and his comparably dressed sidekick were looking at Pee Bee’s bike, hoping to catch a glimpse of the non-existent snake.

I pulled the pistol from the saddlebag and pointed it at the chest of the man with the tattoos. “Tu pistola en el suelo,” I demanded, walking in his direction as I spoke. “Solo dos dedos. No tu manos.”

Put your pistol on the ground. Use two fingers, not your hand.

When a man exposes himself to the possibility of dying on a regular basis, he becomes immune to the human nature to flee. I’d faced death so many times that doing so was as natural as walking into a bar.

I aimed the barrel of the pistol at the tattooed man’s chest and walked in his direction.

With a “fuck you” look plastered on his face, he glared at me through thinning eyes. Obviously, it wasn’t the first time someone pointed a gun at him.

I had news for him. If I shot him where he stood, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d killed a man.

I gestured toward the outline of his pistol with the barrel of mine. “Tu pistola, pendejo,” I said through my teeth. “Solo dos dedos, or te matare.”

Put your pistol on the ground, asshole, or I’ll kill you.

His eyes thinned.

I stopped fifteen feet shy of the two men. As my eyes darted back and forth between them, the tattooed shithead did what I hoped he wouldn’t.

He reached for his gun with every intention of using it.

I fired two shots into his chest. Then, without further thought, I shot the man at his side.

Their bodies fell where they stood. With my eyes fixed on their blood-soaked shirts, I cleared my throat. “Can a motherfucker get some help over here?”

“God damn it, Reno,” Baker complained from behind me. “Was that fucking necessary?”

“He grabbed the motherfucker with his hand, like he was going to use it.” I alternated my aim from one man to the other. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Baker complained. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

I didn’t have to turn around to know that he was rubbing his temples with the heels of his palms. Everything that didn’t fit into his perfect little world gave him a migraine headache. Killing people in the parking lot of what was discussed as being our “new Mexican restaurant” wasn’t part of his life’s master plan, I was sure.

“Hey, Crip,” I shouted. “Secure their weapons and make sure there isn’t anyone else in that truck, would ya?”