Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

“Behind Tick Tock. Quarter of ten,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

I broke the connection and returned the phone to my pocket. Brian looked at me quizzically. “Tick Tock?” he said. “It’s a clock store?”

“A restaurant,” I said. “Supposed to be very good.”

“Would he really do this at a good restaurant?” Brian asked doubtfully.

“I know the area a little,” I said. “There’s an empty lot next door, and the parking lot behind is pretty well screened. It’s actually a perfect place.”

“If you say so, brother,” he said.

“I do,” I told him.

He nodded. “It might be wise to get there first?”

“Agreed,” I said, and I stood up. “Shall we?”

We dropped some cash on the table and went out to his car, and Brian rolled out onto U.S. 1. “I’m not sure what we do next if this doesn’t work,” Brian said as he drove us north and then up onto I-95.

“Then let’s make sure it works,” I said.

We crossed over to South Beach on the MacArthur Causeway, and drove straight up 5th. Brian cruised right past Tick Tock without slowing, and I looked carefully as we went by. Of course there was nothing to see but a small crowd waiting to get in. None of them seemed to be carrying assault rifles. A block past, Brian turned right and then into a parking lot with a concealing row of trees around the perimeter. He parked in a spot with a view of the restaurant, and left the engine running.

“How would you like to proceed?” he said.

“It would be nice to know the odds,” I said. “How many of them should we expect?”

“They think there’s only one of us—you,” he said. “There were two of them last time, but this time it’s public. So probably three,” he said. “The extra man will be the driver. He’ll wait with the motor running. And he’ll provide backup, of course, but the shooters won’t want to use him. Pride, you know,” he said, shaking his head. “They really take their work seriously. So I think three men. Any more would seem like overkill.” He gave me a large and very bad smile. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Better you than them,” I said. “Three men, then—the two shooters, and the driver.”

“Probably,” he said, nodding.

“If they split up, it gets very difficult,” I said. “Three targets in three different places.”

“And probably a cross fire on us,” he said. “That’s what they’ll do.”

“But they have to get there first for that,” I said, thinking out loud.

“They won’t,” Brian said happily.

“So for just a minute or so, we’ll have all three of them together, in their vehicle.”

“And we will have a cross fire on them.”

“Right,” I said. “We have to assume that they will have assault rifles, at the least.”

“Almost certainly,” he said.

“But if we surprise them, an automatic weapon takes a bit longer to bring up and fire. And I would guess that the driver will probably not be as much of a shooter.”

“That’s why he’s driving.”

“Yes,” I said. “And his hands will be on the wheel. So, we each take one of the other two. One each.”

“The one nearest to me is mine,” he said.

“Likewise. And we take the driver alive.”