Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay Gordon Carroll (readera ebook reader .txt) 📖

a swollen goose egg purpling nicely on his temple. The pimple faced kid, Kevin Burbank (I had all their driver’s licenses and cell phones in my pocket) was back in the driver’s seat.

Actually, I was now thinking fondly of them as The Three Stooges, and had considered renaming them Larry, Curley and Moe.

There are two main routes to Castle Rock from where we were, the first being C-470 east to I-25 south. I chose the second way, C-470 to Santa-Fe, and Santa-Fe to the I-85 exit, where the outlet stores are. There’s a few more lights going this way and slower speeds, but it cuts enough miles off the trip to more than make up for it.

I had to leave Max back with my car, under the shade of the tree. I have a kill switch so I can let her run, and a Life Saver package in case the interior of the car overheats. If that were to happen, the back windows would automatically roll down and an alarm would go off on my pager.

The shotgun was back in its rack. I’d have liked to keep it with me, but I had no way of knowing what type of surveillance they might have deployed, so I played it safe.

My .45 rode reassuringly along my lower spine. I kept it put away for the same reason I didn’t take the Remington. Besides, without their weapons these stooges weren’t going to cause me any trouble, and if they tried I’d shove Shoulder Wound into the door, and give Skull Shirt, (AKA Curly), some noogies and a good ol’ whoop-whoop-whoop, nyag-nyag-nyag, and finish him off with a two-finger eye-poke.

Wise guys, eh?

I was worried about Shane. I hoped he was okay, but that queasy feeling down low in my gut wouldn’t go away.

The Three Stooges smelled really bad. Stale tobacco, sweat, blood, I think there was even some nasty foot odor thrown in there somewhere. Max was lucky I hadn’t brought him.

I ran possible scenarios through my mind. It’s an old trick that can save your life. You can never be totally ready for any given situation, but you can minimize the shock value by playing through scenes and deciding beforehand how you will react to them.

I imagined a Gold Finger type character, complete with Odd Job body guard meeting us at the gas station. Gold Finger would pull out a gun, only I’d be a touch faster. I’d shoot, turn, knowing Odd Job was even now spinning his razor-brimmed bowler at me. It would miss by inches and I would take him out with one shot.

I would cover Gold Finger with the gun, having just winged him; after all I needed him alive to tell me where Shane was.

Shane.

Please, Lord, let him be alive.

What was Shane mixed up in? Identity theft? Gambling? Porn? That garbage is everywhere these days. Although for the life of me I couldn’t come up with what that could have to do with the burglary of his house.

Small enough to fit inside a book cover.

Something a teenaged boy would be into.

Something bad enough to bring in pros — which meant money — big money.

Pros who used petty underlings to keep their identity secret, and who were willing to kidnap and maybe even murder to get whatever it was they were looking for.

It didn’t add up, no matter how I figured it. Too many pieces of the puzzle were missing.

We turned left onto Founders Parkway. The gas station was a half mile east on the right side of the street.

Pimple Face took the turn and drove around to the back of the small convenience store and shut off the engine. He looked scared. So did the others.

I felt a little scared myself. The unknown has that affect.

Would Batman be scared? Would Superman? Would Gilligan?

This wasn’t helping at all.

I looked at Skull Shirt. “What now?”

“I don’t know. He said to just wait in the car.”

“I need a doctor,” said Bleeding Boy, from my other side.

“Yes you do.”

The side and back mirrors gave me a pretty good view of the immediate surrounding area. I scanned them constantly.

Now that we weren’t moving, the smell was worse. Even with the windows open, the stagnant air in the car was bloated with their odor. Don’t these guys ever take a bath?

It wasn’t a particularly hot day, but the oppressive close quarters of the car made me feel claustrophobic and itchy. A line of sweat ran down the back of my neck, giving me a shiver.

I wonder if super heroes ever get the shivers?

This wasn’t helping my confidence.

How long had we been here? I looked at my watch — nearly ten minutes. What were they waiting for? Had they spotted me somehow?

Two teenage girls walked out of the store sipping sodas through straws. They were both dressed in halter tops and shorts.

Man, these guys stunk. It was like a pillow of green-funk was wrapped around my head. Why couldn’t they have instructed them to all wait outside the car? As if kidnapping wasn’t bad enough, they had to nauseate me too?

“Your dog broke my friggin’ shoulder.”

“Cry baby.”

“I mean it, dude. He really messed me up. That was just wrong, siccing him on me like that. It was wrong.”

I smiled. “What do you think that double-ott buck would have done to you…dude? Consider yourself lucky.” Luckier than me. He didn’t seem to mind sitting in the middle of a mustard-gas zone.

Baldy looked shocked. “You would have shot me?”

“I still might. The day is young.”

The two girls started yakking on cell phones at the same time. Maybe they were talking to each other.

A black limo pulled up behind us. The front license plate read NNL-7421. Reading backwards is a talent. There was a small crack on the passenger’s side of the windshield, and some kind of parking sticker low on the driver’s side of the dashboard, but I couldn’t make it out from here. Five men piled out, all wearing black suits and sunglasses.

Men in Black? None