Page 42 of The Fourth Option
Paladin leaped down from his roof perch, a hundred pounds of muscle and fury. He flew into the man with the shotgun. Paladin compressed his jaw over the gun arm, snarling, teeth flashing, neck thrashing. The shotgun fell to the floor of the van.
Walker lunged at Beanie, spinning him into the corner of the van with bone-jarring force. The rifle was trapped between them, barrel pointed skyward. Walker’s knee shot up, slamming into his assailant’s groin, and as Beanie doubled over, Walker ripped the weapon free. In one fluid motion, he reversed it and drove the stock into Beanie’s face with a sickening crunch.
Beanie screamed, hands clutching his shattered nose, blood pouring through his fingers as he crumpled to his knees. Walker hit him twice more in the face with the butt of the rifle before turning to Tank and smashing it into his jaw.
“Los,” Walker barked. Let go.
Paladin backed off as Walker snatched up the shotgun and pulled the man out of the van. His Marlins cap was gone, his cheek torn open in a ragged flap that exposed the gumline, an ugly wound, bleeding like a spigot.
Walker delivered a Thai kick to the side of Tank Top’s leg, causing him to buckle and drop to the ground. Both assailants lay bleeding and moaning at Walker’s feet.
“You broke my jaw, man,” Tank managed.
“Consider yourself lucky.”
The AKM had a sling, so Walker ran it over his shoulder and press-checked the shotgun, a Mossberg pump-action. A shell was chambered.
“What did you two think you were doing?” he asked Tank Top.
“Scoring, asshole.”
“You thought you’d rob me?”
The man didn’t answer. He cupped his hand to his cheek. Blood poured through the fingers. Walker asked a different question. “Where’s a good place to get Snowball around here?”
“He’s a fucking narc!” Beanie yelled. “Don’t answer him!”
Walker whirled around and bashed the shotgun stock into Beanie’s neck.
“Fuck!” Beanie screamed. “Get that shit anywhere. This is the Ninth.”
“Dealers pay off any cops?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Walker lowered the shotgun barrel. “Give me your wallet.” The man dug into his pocket and tossed his nylon-Velcro wallet to the dirt.
“You too,” he said to Tank Top.
Walker picked up the wallets and ensured they had IDs.
Then he pointed the shotgun directly at Tank Top’s head. “Take your buddy to a hospital. Remember I have your wallets. If you talk about this to anyone, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
“You’re fucking crazy!”
“Maybe. But if I ever see you again, I’ll skin you alive before I feed you to the gators.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WALT KIMBEL WASN’Tabout to meet with Lieutenant Cornelius Bates in the bar at the base of the Four Seasons, a few stories beneath the ballroom where the city’s elite continued to drink and celebrate while the media snapped photos.
Instead, he chose the back bar at the Rusty Nail in the Warehouse District, a shadowed haunt on the edge of the Quarter.
Kimbel ordered a Sazerac, both because he liked the drink and because it looked like the kind of choice a man in a tuxedo would make this close to Bourbon Street. He was two sips in when Bates sauntered through the door.
“You look like you could use one of these,” Kimbel said as Bates slid into the booth, the width of his bow tie perfectly aligned with the outer edges of his penetrating eyes.
“That’s tourist shit, Walt.”
