The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 83

“Then we all go our separate ways and no hard feelings, right?”

Brand gestured again with his chin, this time pointing it at Deputies James and Williams. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll get far,” he said.

So that’s why they’re here, my inner voice said.

“The arrangement seems a bit one-sided,” I said aloud. “You get the money and I get the time.”

“What’s the matter, Dyson? Don’t you think the girl’s worth it? The old man said she was your favorite.”

“She’s my favorite because she’s not an asshole or a bitch. You’re both.”

“Don’t call me names, Dyson. I don’t like it.”

All the while we spoke, I regarded the Mexican standing next to Brand. He watched me watching him. I had seen the expression on his face before. It said he was more than willing to shoot me in the face and toss my body in the nearest ditch if I pushed him into it, otherwise he’d rather not be bothered. So why was he here? The answer came to me when I looked at Brand again.

The thug is his only muscle, my inner voice told me. Probably he was more than enough until now. Fenelon doesn’t count. The deputies, they’re here just for show—no way they’d let Brand dirty their hands any more than he said. That’s why he needs the Mexicans. If you can keep them involved, make sure they’re at the exchange …

I took a chance and asked the Mexican how much Brand had promised him. “Mire, amigo, ?cuánto le prometió ese hijo de puta? ?La mitad?”

Brand took a step backward so he could see us both at the same time. “What are you saying?” he wanted to know.

The Mexican paused before answering. “Sí, la mitad.”

Half, my inner voice translated. Brand promised him half.

James and Williams were still leaning against their patrol car watching the scene as if it were a bad performance of Shakespeare in the Park. I used my thumb to point at them and told the Mexican that Brand had promised the deputies who allowed him to operate in their county the same thing. “La policía le permite a Brand hacer lo que quiere en este territorio. él les prometió la mitad también.”

“?Ah sí?”

“Stop it,” Brand said. “Speak English.”

“?A quién crees que él va a enga?ar?” I asked.

The Mexican gazed at the deputies and then studied Brand with an expression that asked the same question—which of them was Brand planning on screwing over?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Brand wanted to know.

“Sabes que él no se está metiendo en todo este lio por nada,” I said.

“Pues claro que no,” the Mexican replied, agreeing that Brand wasn’t likely to be doing all this for free. I offered advice.

“Si yo fuera tú, yo me iría al lugar del cambio con todas las armas y hombres que tengas.”

He nodded and smiled just a tiny bit as if to say that bringing all the men and guns he had to the exchange was a good idea. But he then suggested that trying to mess with him was most decidedly not. “Puede ser que los use contra ti.”

“Todo lo que quiero es esa chica sana y salva sin ningún da?o,” I said. “Ustedes pueden resolver el resto por su cuenta.”

“Está bien,” the Mexican said, yet I wasn’t sure if he actually believed that I didn’t care what he and Brand did with the money as long as the girl was delivered safe and sound without a scratch on her—or if he cared one way or the other.

“Dammit, speak English,” Brand said. He turned toward Fenelon. “What did they say?”

Fenelon seemed confused. “I don’t know exactly.”

“You speak Spanish.”

“Not that good, you know that.”

Brand turned his attention back to the Mexican. “I don’t know what deal Dyson was trying to make with you…”

“No deal, hombre,” the Mexican said. “He warned to make sure the girl she not be harmed.”

“Brian?”

“That’s what I got, what I could get,” Fenelon said. “Dyson said if the girl was harmed, there would be, what’s the word, consequences.”

“Consequences, Dyson? Are you threatening me?”

“I’ll be seeing you around, John,” I said.

I turned my back on Brand so he wouldn’t see me smile. Both the Mexican and Fenelon were on board—at least they seemed to be—which meant the chance of rescuing Jill just improved greatly. I moved toward the Jeep Cherokee. The two Mexican sentries were clutching their rifles like they were teddy bears—very unprofessional—while watching the old man load the last of the ordnance in the back. Behind me I could hear Brand talking quickly to the Mexican gunrunner.

“Dyson’s got nothing,” he said. “Nobody to help him. He’s all talk.”

My only fear was that I overplayed my hand, that Brand would hurt Jill just to prove that he could. I tried to shake the thought from my head, but it held on too tightly.

“Get in the car,” I told the old man.

He did. At the same time, Brand’s thug helped Jill into the backseat of the Subaru. From where I was standing it looked like he was being gentle about it.