Alex Kork
It was after nine P.M., and they were walking back across the street toward Porter’s Guns and Ammo, coming from a Waffle House where she and Charles had run into Luther.
Kite had moved over to their table and insisted everyone order the triple-scattered-all-the-way hashbrowns. Spent half the meal raving about how it was the best thing he’d put in his mouth, maybe ever. Alex, tired of hearing about fried potatoes, had stretched her right leg under the table and dug the steel toe of her cowboy boot into his crotch, given it a little wiggle, and told him he hadn’t tasted her yet.
That shut shy-boy down for a while.
Seemed to get under her brother’s skin, too.
Well, f**k him and what he thinks. Ever since Charles got married, Alex had been seeing less and less of him. They hadn’t killed anyone together in months. She actually considered stretching over the table, giving that odd f**ker Luther a sloppy, wet kiss, just to watch how Charles reacted.
But that would be weak, giving in to petty insecurity. There was a part of her that despised feeling so vulnerable. No one but Charles could elicit such weakness. Sometimes, she hated him for it.
Now they were moving through the dark parking lot of the gun shop.
They passed a trio who reeked of gunpowder, obviously fresh off the range—a good-looking forty-something woman walking between two men, one tall and ruggedly handsome, the other short and as wide as a Mack truck.
Up ahead, a man in a leather jacket stood by the entrance.
When he turned, she could see that he was Hispanic.
And drop-dead gorgeous.
“Hey, Javier,” Luther said. “These are my friends, Alex and Charles. Alex and Charles, here’s the guy I was telling you about.”
Alex was the first to extend a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Javier,” she said. “I’m Alex.”
“The pleasure is all mine, senorita.” The handshake lingered.
Charles sidled up beside Alex, threw his arm over her shoulder. “What’s in the box?” he asked.
“New pistol I picked up today at the show. Unfortunately, the shop here’s closed.”
Charles glanced at the door. “It’s not closed,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I said it’s not closed. At least, not to certain people.”
Javier straightened, Alex studying his hands, to see if they clenched into fists, wondering what Charles was up to, but also kind of thinking it might be funny to see him take an ass-beating.
“What do you mean certain people?” Javier asked. “And you better answer that question very, very clearly. I’ve had all the redneck, bigot bullshit I can take today.”
By the light which illuminated Porter’s Guns and Ammo, Alex saw her brother smile one of his wicked smiles.
“I meant to people who can’t pick locks,” Charles said.
Mr. K
“You obviously like firearms, but can you also recognize the craftsmanship of a well-made knife?” Mr. K asked as he pulled Porter’s pants down below his knees.
The shop owner was inching back into consciousness to find his wrists zip-tied behind his back. His ankles were similarly bound.
Mr. K watched Porter’s eyes flutter open. The hitman had taken off his jacket and was sitting on Porter’s thighs, holding the Morrell ice pick. He knew the penis was fed by numerous blood vessels, so this required a delicate touch. A dead client couldn’t pay, and employers universally frowned upon that.
He tugged down Porter’s white jockey shorts, and then chuckled to himself.
“You’re uncut,” Mr. K said.
“What?” Porter was terrified and confused and trembling with fear.
“You haven’t been circumcised.”
“Please…whatever you’re thinking—”
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Porter, for the cash that you owe Mr. Dovolanni. If the answer you provide doesn’t satisfy me, I’m going to circumcise you right here on the floor of your gun shop. Do you understand what I’ve just said to you?”
Porter’s eyes were welling up with tears. “Please, please…”
And now the begging, Mr. K mused. Human beings were so predictable when facing situations of terror.
“…I’ll give you anything…”
There must be some basis for it in Darwinian evolution, but Mr. K had never been able to understand how crying, shitting your pants, and breaking down into hysterics had ever served man or any of his ancestors in life or death scenarios.
“…you want if you…”
If an ancient Cro-Magnon were at the mercy of a saber-toothed tiger or a soldier of an opposing tribe, certainly this type of behavior would have proven futile.
“…only let me…”
Predators couldn’t be swayed by emotion or pleas or despair.
“…explain…”
It wasn’t in their programming. It certainly wasn’t in Mr. K’s. In these situations, only brute force—physical resistance—stood a chance. And yet in all his contract killings and torture-killings, only twice had the mark ever fought back.
“…you’ve gotta understand…”
How had this trait of utter cowardice in the face of fear prevailed through the evolutionary cycle ending at Homo sapien sapien?
“Can you pay me right now?” Mr. K asked calmly. “That’s the only question I’m interested in hearing you answer.”
“Tomorrow,” Porter said. “I’ll rob a f**king bank if I—”
“Hmm. Unfortunately, tomorrow’s no good for me.”
Mr. K pulled the ball-gag out of his pocket and jammed it into Porter’s mouth, had it fastened around his skull in five seconds.
“Did you get a chance to stop by Morrell’s Edges?” Mr. K asked, holding up the ice pick to make sure Porter saw the blade. “He told me it was the sharpest thing he’d ever made. Let’s give it a whirl, shall we?”
Porter raised his head and shrieked through the ball-gag.
“Oh, relax,” Mr. K said. “What I hear, the ladies don’t like a guy with a turtleneck anyway.”
As he reached down, he heard the locking mechanism in the door shift.
Mr. K glanced at the door, back at Porter.
“You typed in the dummy code.”
Porter shook his head violently. Possibly telling the truth.
Mr. K rose quickly to his feet, set the ice pick on the counter, and grabbed his 9mm.
“If I find you’ve lied to me,” Mr. K said, “I’ll spend the next three days taking you slowly apart.”