The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor 10)

“Where’d JC go?” Curtis asked.

It was clear by Gartner’s expression that he was surprised the intruder knew JC’s name. Then that expression changed to one of found opportunity.

Gartner, his tone more controlled, said, “You’re after JC? I can—”

“Damn it! Just answer the question.” He motioned more aggressively with the pistol. “And get your ass over here, slowly.”

Staring at the Glock, Gartner began moving as told. When he was in the middle of the floor, Curtis motioned again with the gun and said, “Now, on your knees.”

As Gartner complied, Curtis looked around the room quickly. Over on one of the sagging folding tables was a roll of three-inch-wide clear packing tape. He walked over and picked it up, then went back to Gartner.

“Hands behind your back,” Curtis said, and when Gartner had complied, Curtis wrapped his wrists tightly together with the tape. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and cut the tape roll free. Then he pushed Gartner hard between the shoulder blades so that he fell forward and smacked his face on the dirty carpeting.

“Shit!” Gartner said. “What’d you do that for?”

Curtis didn’t reply. He put his right knee in the small of Gartner’s back— and on top of the taped wrists—then quickly wrapped Gartner’s ankles with the tape.

The locked doorknob rattled, followed by a knock.

“Dan!” JC’s muffled voice called. “What’s up?”

Will Curtis put the muzzle of the pistol against Gartner’s left temple. “Don’t say a word.”

He looked at Gartner’s eyes, then decided he didn’t trust him to do as ordered. He ran the tape through Gartner’s open mouth and wrapped it twice around his head.

As Curtis stood and went to the door, JC began banging on it.

“Dan! You okay in there?” JC called.

At the door, Curtis held his pistol at the point where he expected to find JC’s head. Then he reached for the knob and unlocked it.

At the sound of the click, the knob spun and the door was yanked open.

JC stood there, an envelope in his right hand and—surprising Curtis—the green plastic canteen in his left. He froze as he saw he was looking at the muzzle of a big-bore pistol.

And, judging how his facial expression changed, he recognized the angry man who was aiming the weapon between his eyes.

“Ahhh,” JC said, dropping the envelope and canteen, and holding up his hands, palms out.

Curtis then noticed some kind of movement in JC’s midsection. When he glanced down, he saw that the crotch of JC’s blue jeans was darkening and the stain was quickly spreading, moving mostly down the inside of the right leg of his pants.

Curtis snorted.

Not so smug now, huh?

Not so tough and cocky, either.

You chickenshit. You just pissed yourself.

“C’mon,” Curtis said, motioning with the pistol for JC to come in. “Strut in over there. Beside your lawyer buddy. And get on your knees.”

After JC reluctantly moved inside the office, Curtis quickly stepped out and grabbed the envelope and the canteen, then pulled the door shut and relocked it.

The envelope was hefty, and packed with a thick wad of paper. Will Curtis put one end of the envelope in his teeth and tore it open. He blew into the hole, then looked inside—then whistled.

He walked over to the desk and started shaking the envelope to dump out its contents.

A stack of well-worn bills—twenties, fifties, and hundreds, easily totaling at least a couple grand—landed by the zip-top bag of white powder. He shook the envelope once more and out fell a cellophane packet of pills.