American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) Read Free

3
     
    “Hello Dylan,” the man on the ground said, wincing. “I thought you’d never get to me.”
    “How do you know my name?” Dylan asked, confused.
    “You introduced yourself to the Bizzie.” The man’s British accent was now pronounced.
    Dylan inspected him where he on the ground. He was wearing a suit and a tie that had been loosened. His right hip was dark and glistened with moisture. The man looked uncomfortable, but gave no indications of impending death.
    “If you’re thinking of running, don’t. Killing you doesn’t help me, but it doesn’t hurt as much as letting you go off.”
    Dylan had been seconds away from a mad dash for cover. He still thought he could make it—though he had never raced a bullet before.
    “Maybe I could call an ambulance and get someone to look at that hip,” Dylan replied coolly.
    “No. You’re going to help me into the back seat or I’m going to put a gaping hole in your chest,” the man answered.
    Running would result in a painful, and possibly fatal, gunshot wound. What would happen if he stood still?
    The man cocked his gun and steadied his aim. “Tick tock.”
    Dylan licked his dry lips. There had been times, during detox, when he had prayed for death. There were other times, while fighting to stay sober, when death had felt like the easiest way out. Lately it felt like he had been just sitting around waiting to grow old and die. Today he suddenly wanted to live forever.
    “Okay. Here I come.” Dylan stepped forward with his hands in the air.
    The man on the ground tracked him carefully with the barrel of the gun. This was not some petty criminal using a gun to be scary. Someone had trained this man to remain calm and focused even through what must have been excruciating pain.
    Instinctively Dylan stepped to get behind the man for the easiest lift.
    “Nuh-uh,” the cop-killer grunted, stopping him with a steely glance.  “From the front please.”
    As Dylan leaned in close to place his hands under the man’s armpits, the hard steel of the gun pressed into his chest.
    “Any funny business —” the man started
    “And I get a hole in my chest. I know,” Dylan said, finishing the thought.
    Dylan had been around some shady characters before. Once he was kicked off the football team, it had gotten more and more difficult to get the drugs his body had grown to need. When the easy money from his bank account ran out, so did the “respectable” drug dealers. While he swirled the toilet bowl of life, selling stolen goods and buying stolen drugs, each character he met was worse than the one before. Charm and wit had no impact on a thug looking to get paid, and those guys were nervous more than they were really tough.
    But this guy was tough and calm.  He had killed a cop and it was clear he was comfortable with killing again.
    Once both men reached a full standing position the one in charge spoke directly into Dylan’s ear: “I’m in back, you’re driving. Don’t test me.”
    Dylan’s mind raced as they awkwardly shuffled the few steps to the rear door. At some point the gunman would have to drop his guard; Dylan was healthy and quick, surely he could get away.
    “Listen. I have a record. As soon as the cops find out I was involved, they are going to like me for killing this guy. Even if I give you to them, it’ll take days before they ever decide to track you down,” Dylan said, trying every ounce of persuasion he had. Being let go seemed to be safer than making a run for it.
    “No dice. I like to do things the easy way. Right now, the easiest way out of here is you driving. Get behind the wheel and no funny business.” The cop killer’s voice had settled, and there was no longer an expression of pain on his face.
    Dylan helped the man into the back seat. The barrel of the gun never faltered from his chest. As he turned to lower himself into the driver’s seat, he imagined he could feel the aim of the gun on his back.
    “My dog, he’s still