Free Claw Back (Louis Kincaid) by P.J. Parrish

stopped. “ Hey, h e’s got another wallet.”
                  Louis felt the guy pull out the small leather wallet that Mobley had given him.
                  “He’s a cop!”
                  “What?”
                  “Look at this, Marv. He’s a fucking cop.”
                  The pale man’s eyes went from the badge down to Louis.              
                  “How’d you find us, cop?”
                  Louis was silent.
                  “Where are the others?”
                  “No others,” Louis said. He felt blood in his mouth and spat it out. “I wasn’t looking for you.”
                  “We need to get the fuck out of her e, Marv. Shoot the fucker and - ”
                  “Shut up , Memo ! I need to think.”
                  Louis pushed to a sitting position and tried to focus on the two men. If he got out of this cabin alive he wanted to remember enough to catch th ese bastards.
    Marv was six-foot and slender, shaved head, horsey face and prominent bad teeth. The t -shirt, Louis could see now, had a Harley emblem on it. The other guy , the one called Memo , was dark, Hispanic maybe, and gone to fat. His faded orange Miami Dolphins t-shirt had the sleeves cut off. He had a scorpion tattoo on his neck.
                  The bald guy tossed the badge wallet to the floor then leaned over and pressed the barrel of the Glock to Louis’s temple.
                  “You kill me, you die in the chair,” Louis said.
                  The man’s breath was like sewer water. “I don’t like niggers and I don’t like cops.”
                  He eased the Glock away from Louis’s head. He threw the badge wallet into a corner. “But I ain’t no murderer.”
                  He moved away. Louis shut his eyes in relief. He could hear the creak of the floorboards as the man moved around the room.              
                  “Find something to tie him up with.”
                  Louis watched the dark man as he rummaged through the kitchen. When he came back, Louis saw a loop of old rope i n his hands. The bald man pointed the Glock toward the bunk beds.
                  “Move your ass over there.”
                  Louis crawled to the bunks. They were heavy wooden things, built into the wall. He leaned back against a post, his ribs on fire.
                  The dark man forced Louis’s hands behind his back. Louis grimaced as the man wrapped the rope tight around his wrists, tying it off high on the top bunk. The dark guy was smiling when he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
                  “Let’s get out of here,” the bald guy said.
                  The other man grabbed a backpack off the counter, paused, then reached over Louis to snag a pack of cigarettes from the bunk.
                  As they left, the dark guy started to pull the door closed. The bald man slapped a hand against it.
                  “Leave it open. Maybe a gator will crawl in and eat him.”
                  Louis could hear them laughing until it was drowned out by the sound of the Jeep coming to life. It built to a roar as they revved the engine then slowly it faded to a low growl as they pulled out of the camp.
                  Louis strained against the rope . No give. His hands were going numb.
                  He looked to the open door, trying to estimate what time it was. He had signed out the Jeep at ten-thirty this morning but in all the twisting and turning trying to find this place he had lost track of time.
    Sergeant Sweet...he was the only one who knew where he had gone. But there was no reason for him to sound the alarm if Louis didn’t