The First Cut Read Free Page A

through the broken gate and into the darkened complex of buildings, I thought about what the man had said: “Why don’t you hop back in your car?” How could he tell that I wasn’t in the car unless they were watching me? And if they were watching me, then this has been no idle attempt to reach me. I was being set up.
    I thought about going back to Tracy’s, or just driving away somewhere, but I was already here and so were they, I was sure. I might as well see where this went. I dimmed the lights and pulled around to the front of one of the buildings so my car would be cloaked in shadows, popped out the bulb in the overhead light and quietly opened the door. I slipped out, left the door open and made my way around behind the building.
    Walking around the outside of the buildings, I was careful to stay in the shadows. I was coming around the corner of the main part of the complex at the back of the property when I saw them. Two young goons, each with a pistol held to the side of his leg, watching around the corner back toward the street. They always sent new guys to do the dirty work, convincing them they had to make their bones before they could really start earning. I heard the crackle of what sounded like a walkie talkie.
    “You see him yet?” I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the guy from the phone.
    “Nope. But we’ll whack him when we do.”
    Great. A couple of kids brought up on “The Sopranos” and “Goodfellas.” Maybe I had a chance.
    “So, what’d this mook do?” said the one whose voice I didn’t recognize.
    “He stood up tall is what he did. But now he’s asking questions, and questions mean trouble. Coulda been a hero, now he’s a loose end. Let that be a lesson.”
    I slipped back around the corner of the building and weighed my options. I’d somehow driven into the plant without them seeing me, but knew I wouldn’t be so lucky if I tried to leave. There was a 10-foot chainlink fence around the perimeter of the property, and I’d make enough noise to draw their fire long before I dragged my 45-year-old ass over the top. I could wait them out, but they’d eventually see the car and bring enough guys to flush me out.
    Sticking a hand in each of my pockets, I took inventory: I had my cell phone – which I took a moment to set to vibrate – a handful of ketchup packets from the burger joint and Owen’s plastic arrow. Back in the car was the 40 of beer and nothing else. Not exactly the tools you’d pick to help get out of a jam. I hadn’t been out long enough to pick up a piece, and I’d bought the car used the week before and knew there wasn’t even a tire iron in the trunk.
    I slipped back to the car, made sure no one was watching and leaned in to pull the beer bottle from the passenger seat. I crawled back into the shadows and tried to think of a plan. I remembered something the guy on the phone had said: Other people were after the money, too. That was hard to believe eight years after the fact, but as long as they believed it, I could use it to my advantage.
    I poured out half of the beer from the bottle a few feet from the open driver’s side door of my car, then pulled out my phone and dialed 911. I told the operator there had been a shooting at the plant, then hung up and headed back toward the men.
    Four buildings made up the plant, with steel catwalks between them. There were no lights, but a three-quarter moon cast a little light and even more shadows, which I knew would help. The buildings were set up in a quad, with the goons standing behind the two buildings at the back, watching the road that came down in between them. I stepped lightly over to the point in the middle of all four buildings, just 30 yards or so away from them. I knew I had only one chance to make this work.
    Still out of their line of sight, I grabbed the half-full bottle by the neck and tossed it high and hard toward the catwalk above the men. Not waiting for it to make contact, I ran back toward