Page 8 of Reno

“Sure-fucking-thing, Boss.” He opened the door of the truck, leaned inside, and glanced around. “Truck’s clear.”

I stood with my weapon trained on the men. Crip checked their pulse and then looked at me like I’d pissed on his petunias. “As you might imagine, they’re both deader’n hell,” he snarled. “What in the fuck are we going to do now?”

Crip had killed more gangbangers than the Border Patrol and DEA combined. “Act like you’ve never done something like this.”

“I’ve never killed someone after dinner on a fucking Tuesday.”

I shoved my pistol into my waistband and shot him a glare. “What the fuck’s the day of the week got to do with anything?”

“There’s nothing stressful about a Tuesday,” he replied dryly. “It ought to be the least violent day of the week.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Do I look stressed out?”

“Not particularly, no.”

I nodded toward the two dead men. “Do either of those two looked stressed out?”

“I think they’re far beyond being stressed out.”

“Tuesday or not, that tattooed fucker was gonna shoot me. I shot him first. You’d have done the same thing.”

He looked the bodies over and then forced out a long sigh. “We could claim they were trying to rob you, and that it was self-defense.” He nodded toward the men behind us. “We’ve got seven witnesses.”

“Fuck that,” I spat. “I’m not talking to the cops about shooting these two dip-shits. They’ll find a way to turn it around, they always do.”

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

“We’re gonna load em up and haul ‘em to your shop. You can burn ‘em in the big fucking oven of yours.” I peered over the top of the truck, toward the freeway. “We need to get these fuckers in the back of that truck before some drunk pulls in here hoping to get a late-night enchilada dinner.”

“Peeb! Cholo! P-Nut!” Crip shouted. “Let’s get these two fuckers loaded in the back of this truck.”

I looked the truck over. It was a decade-old black Ford four-wheel-drive. There was no lift kit, flashy chrome, or other accessories to draw attention to its existence. The bed was covered with a fiberglass cover painted to match the truck. My guess was that they used it to haul illegals over the border, or to haul dope.

While Pee Bee and Crip carried the first body to the back of the truck, I got the keys from the ignition and unlocked the bed cover. Upon opening it, I stared at the contents in disbelief.

“Fuuuuck,” I said under my breath.

Holding the dead man’s wrists in each hand, Crip paused. Pee Bee kept going and almost tipped him over.

Crip gave Pee Bee a shitty look.

“Shoulda said somethin’,” Pee Bee complained. “Instead of just stopping. This little fucker’s heavier than he looks.”

“I’ll make an announcement next time,” Crip said in a snide tone. He shifted attention to me. “What’s back there?”

I stared at what appeared to be at least fifty kilos of cocaine. I wasn’t in the drug business, but I guessed the value on the wholesale market was $1,000,000 or more. Whoever was on the receiving end of the transaction was going to be pissed off, that much I was sure of.

On top of the cocaine, a black canvas bag sat.

“I’m guessing someone is going to be madder’n a wet cat,” I said. “There’s a million bucks’ worth of dope and a duffel bag back here.”

Crip released the dead man’s wrists, dropping him to the asphalt with a thud! “Fucking great.”

While Crip peered over my shoulder, I poked my knife into one of the cellophane-wrapped packages. I dug the tip of my finger into the densely packed powder and then poked it into my mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Crip asked.

I winced at the taste. “That’s what they do on TV.”