Free Gun Lake by Travis Thrasher Page A

And it might just work.
    She turned off the light and thanked God that tonight, at least, she knew where Jared was sleeping.

17
    SEAN HUMMED A SONG in his head and heard the rumble of the SUV’s engine as he turned the key. He drove up to the Steer-house entrance to pick up Wes. They were going to make it out okay with enough cash to last them for several weeks and nobody hurt. This wasn’t a repeat of the Louisiana mess. Perhaps it was good that the other three weren’t there.
    Except now Sean had to try and find the idiots.
    The passenger door opened, and an out-of-breath Wes climbed into the vehicle. He kept the door open for a minute and just sat there, cursing over and over. Sean was thinking that for a big, dumb guy, Wes sure had a big vocabulary.
    Then Sean noticed his pants.
    “What is that?” he asked.
    “What?”
    “That. Right there. You just eat a hot dog or something? Spill a little ketchup?”
    “Uh … no.”
    This time it was Sean who ripped a curse in the Dodge. “Then what is it?”
    “Well, I had a little problem.”
    “A little problem? Who?”
    “The bartender.”
    “What’d you do?”
    Wes shook his head, looked down, now just repeating the same curse word over.
    “Wes, come on.” Sean shook his head. “How bad?”
    “Couldn’t really get no worse, I guess.”
    Sean again let out a curse, then laughed. “You are such a complete dimwit. You know that?”
    “Hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t want—it got a little out of control.”
    “And those other two?”
    “What?”
    “Where are they?” Sean asked.
    “They’re still in there. They ain’t gonna hurt no one.”
    “Let me clue you in on a little something. They’re not going to tell the cops their friend just happened to get shot by some wandering thugs. Get it? They’re going to identify us.”
    “Yeah, okay.”
    “Yeah, okay.” Sean gritted his teeth and tapped a hard finger against Wes’s head. “Think. Think hard. They got a good look at both of us. We’ve sorta been all over the news these last few days. They know exactly who we are, and it won’t take long for even the dumbest cop to figure it out.”
    Wes just looked at him. “So … don’t we need to take off now?”
    Something inside Sean began bubbling over, burning.
    “We already got three MIAs and a dead broad in Louisiana, and now this,” Sean snapped. “You guys are
trying
to get us caught.”
    “No, man—”
    Sean turned off the ignition and opened his car door.
    “Where’re you going?” Wes asked.
    “To clean up after your mess.”
    “What mess?”
    “Just shut up and stay in here. Okay?”
    “I can come—”
    “No. Stay in here. You’re like a puppy or something. So sit. Stay. Good boy.”
    “Sean, man—”
    “What?” Sean hollered at the big guy who could snap his neck in a second. “What do you have to say?”
    “Nothing.”
    “That’s right. You’ve done enough talking and thinking for one night. Keep it up, and you’ll be napping in your good ol’ cot back at Stag.”
    Wes nodded and accepted Sean’s words.
    Sean began walking back to the Steerhouse, looking up at the clear Texas night sky and wishing it didn’t have to be this way. It shouldn’t have to be this way.
    But maybe this was the only thing he could do. The only way it could go down. Even though he hated it, something still felt strangely right.
    Sean stared at the Glock 31 in his hand and held it up to profile the pistol. He’d studied sporting mags in the house and knew this gun well enough. Ten-shot magazine. Weighing about twenty-six ounces or so with grips on the butt. Used three-fifty-seven sig ammo.
    He looked good brandishing it too. This wasn’t a cocky thought. It was the truth. He looked like the kind of guy who was born to hold that gun.
    He wondered if they would give him a nickname. Something that would stick in the minds of the American public that they would remember for a lifetime. “Stagworth Five” had already been coined, but he