Free Sample Friday with a bit of the upcoming sequel to Captain Cooker - Best Laid Plans of Idiots and Fuck-Ups.
Chapter 1 - Monday
“I don’t want to die listening to this song,” Cooke thought as the kid pulled up his shirt to reveal a shiny silver automatic stuffed in his pants. Cooke had a feeling the music was intentional, the kid’s vision of the perfect soundtrack for pulling a trigger.
“You stealing the man’s beer?” the other half of the pair asked over the noise coming from the tricked out little foreign car the pair had pulled into the yard.
“Yeah,” Cooke lifted the back pack in his other hand, “I’m taking his steaks too.”
“What about the money?” The unarmed man continued as he lifted his wrap around shades up to a resting place on his thick beanie style cap.
“There was money?”
“You’re not here for the money?”
“No,” Cooke lied.
He already had the money stuffed in the trunk of his car. It was why he came to this faded stucco shack with bars on the windows and an alarm system too expensive for this humble house. Unlike the food and beer, he had retrieved the money with permission. Since the owner would be looking through iron bars long after the beer became warm and the meat spoiled, liberating them hardly seemed like theft.
Valerie Murphy, the man’s lawyer, had hired Cooke to retrieve the cash. Other than the client being involved in a cash business with associates he did not trust, Cooke knew nothing about him.
Cooke set down the beer and steaks, “It’s all yours.”
“We did not come for no fucking T-bones,” the one without a weapon showing said.
“There is beer too, plus, I think these are rib eyes.”
“Look pal,” the one with the gun began as he made a show of placing his palm on the handle of his pistol, “I don’t have any patience for bullshit. We know about the stash and we know you’re here for it.”
“You know, you would be a lot scarier if you didn’t have the gun pointed at your own balls.” Cooke told him.
The kid responded by wrapping his fingers around the handle and moving to draw the pistol from his saggy waistband. Cooke slapped the kid’s hand, stopping the pistol before the kid could pull it out of his pants. The pistol fired as Cooke punched him in the face. The kid took a seat on the front porch, bleeding from the nose and thigh. Cooke held onto the gun, which he swung into the face of the other kid.
“Don’t,” The kid said.
“Get on your knees,” Cooke told him.
“Why? So you can execute me?”
“This thing works just as well if you’re standing up.”
The kid just stared.
“Hurry up, it seems to have a hair trigger,” Cooke said, motioning at the guy sitting on his ass trying in vain to plug the hole in his leg with his thumbs.
“Please don’t kill me,” the kid said as he sat on the ground.
“I can’t believe you shot me,” the other managed to say.
“You shot yourself, which is what happens when you stick a gun in your pants with a round chambered and the safety off.”
“You stealing the man’s beer?” the other half of the pair asked over the noise coming from the tricked out little foreign car the pair had pulled into the yard.
“Yeah,” Cooke lifted the back pack in his other hand, “I’m taking his steaks too.”
“What about the money?” The unarmed man continued as he lifted his wrap around shades up to a resting place on his thick beanie style cap.
“There was money?”
“You’re not here for the money?”
“No,” Cooke lied.
He already had the money stuffed in the trunk of his car. It was why he came to this faded stucco shack with bars on the windows and an alarm system too expensive for this humble house. Unlike the food and beer, he had retrieved the money with permission. Since the owner would be looking through iron bars long after the beer became warm and the meat spoiled, liberating them hardly seemed like theft.
Valerie Murphy, the man’s lawyer, had hired Cooke to retrieve the cash. Other than the client being involved in a cash business with associates he did not trust, Cooke knew nothing about him.
Cooke set down the beer and steaks, “It’s all yours.”
“We did not come for no fucking T-bones,” the one without a weapon showing said.
“There is beer too, plus, I think these are rib eyes.”
“Look pal,” the one with the gun began as he made a show of placing his palm on the handle of his pistol, “I don’t have any patience for bullshit. We know about the stash and we know you’re here for it.”
“You know, you would be a lot scarier if you didn’t have the gun pointed at your own balls.” Cooke told him.
The kid responded by wrapping his fingers around the handle and moving to draw the pistol from his saggy waistband. Cooke slapped the kid’s hand, stopping the pistol before the kid could pull it out of his pants. The pistol fired as Cooke punched him in the face. The kid took a seat on the front porch, bleeding from the nose and thigh. Cooke held onto the gun, which he swung into the face of the other kid.
“Don’t,” The kid said.
“Get on your knees,” Cooke told him.
“Why? So you can execute me?”
“This thing works just as well if you’re standing up.”
The kid just stared.
“Hurry up, it seems to have a hair trigger,” Cooke said, motioning at the guy sitting on his ass trying in vain to plug the hole in his leg with his thumbs.
“Please don’t kill me,” the kid said as he sat on the ground.
“I can’t believe you shot me,” the other managed to say.
“You shot yourself, which is what happens when you stick a gun in your pants with a round chambered and the safety off.”
Look for the rest in two weeks. Get caught up with the first Cooke novel, Captain Cooker which is available right now.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B071YD749W
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