Free Shot of Tequila by J. A. Konrath Page A

for Marty to say something. As he always did, Tequila took in his surroundings and noticed two unusual things. The first was that Marty’s television, usually on a stand by the wall, was missing. The second was that whatever Marty had in front of him, he wasn’t reading it. Only pretending to.
    Marty appeared to reach the end of his reading, and then pushed it aside on his desk and sat back in his chair, meeting Tequila’s stare. He looked extremely calm. Too calm for Marty. Tequila’s apprehension kicked up a notch.
    “Where’s the money?”
    Tequila assumed he meant the collection from Billy Chico. Maybe that’s what Marty was upset over. The fact that Tequila had killed Chico, and that it might lead back to him somehow.
    “I’ve got it on me,” Tequila said.
    Marty smiled, but the smile was as dead as his eyes.
    “Funny, Tequila. Very funny. Aren’t you wondering how I knew it was you?”
    Tequila didn’t understand the question. He waited for more.
    “You forgot about the videotape. I’ve got the whole thing on tape. Got a great shot of your tattoo.”
    Tequila replayed the words in his head, trying to make sense out of them. He was missing something here.
    “What are you talking about?” he finally asked.
    “What am I talking about?” Marty chuckled. “I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. I want my Super Bowl money, you stupid little shit!”
    All of Tequila warning bells rang at once. He sensed quick movement coming behind him and swung around, connecting a right cross into the face of a charging Terco. Terco’s head snapped back as if on hinges, and he fell to his knees.
    Then Matisse came at him, leaping over Terco. Tequila pivoted left and snap-kicked him in the ribs. The larger man grunted, reflexively dropping his cocked fist to his chest to stop the hurt. Tequila spun around fast and used the momentum to smack the back of his left hand into Matisse’s nose. It burst like a rotten tomato, and Matisse howled as if part canine.
    “Freeze!”
    Tequila heard the gun cock and back-flipped onto Marty’s desk. While still in the air he hit the release button on his shoulder rig and jammed both hands into his holsters, coming out with two .45s as he landed on his feet. One was pointed at Marty and the other aimed at Leman, who was now standing behind the beaten Terco and Matisse and aiming a shotgun at Tequila’s noggin.
    “Don’t kill him!” Marty cried.
    “You lousy, piece of shit thief,” Leman spat.
    Tequila kept his sights rock steady, fighting against the adrenaline surging through his veins.
    “This is a big misunderstanding, whatever it is.” He kept his voice even, tried to control his breathing. “Drop the gun, Leman, or I’ll shoot your finger off so you can’t pull the trigger. You know I can.”
    Leman swallowed, tensing up. They’d gone shooting together once, at a gun club in the suburbs. Using his .45, Tequila had put three full clips, twenty-one rounds, into a controlled space the size of a quarter from forty yards away. Then he put twenty-one more rounds through the same hole with his left hand.
    “No, Tequila, I think you’ll be the one dropping the guns.”
    It was Slake, coming from behind him. Tequila glanced backwards and saw the evil son of a bitch peeking out of the closet, a 9mm trained on the small of his back.
    Tequila weighed his options. He’d obviously been accused, and already convicted, of doing something he hadn’t done. The obvious guess was that someone had taken Marty’s Super Bowl stash, and everyone thought it was him. He could either try to convince them otherwise, or try to kill everyone here.
    He figured the odds for each choice were about the same, and neither of them very good.
    “Drop the gun, Tequila,” Slake cooed.
    Marty shook with rage. “Drop it, you shit!”
    Matisse and Terco slowly gained their footing, making the situation worse. If Tequila jumped to the side and shot Leman while in motion, he might have enough time to