Free The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel by Claude Bouchard

crack when they talked
to him but, just in case, I tossed the gun in the river.”
    “What
river?” I asked, to see if he was lying.
    “Saint-Lawrence,”
he answered immediately, “From the Jacques-Cartier Bridge on the walking path
at three in the morning same night I’d used it.”
    “Where
did you get it?” was my next question.
    “I
bought it off some guy,” he replied.
    “Who,
Birks?” I asked, showing some frustration. “Give me a damned name.”
    “The
guy could get in real trouble, man,” Birks argued. “I gave him my word.”
    “How
stupid are you?” I snapped. “I killed Matty over this
and you know that because he’s dead and he was the only one who could tie you
into this. Now, you’re concerned because some guy who sold you a gun could get
in trouble? Look at yourself, you idiot. You are in trouble. Give me his damned name.”
    “Aw,
Jesus, man,” Birks whined again. “Alright, his name is Greg O’Shea. He works
for some company that make guns and stuff for the army.”
    “So,
this gun you had,” I asked, “It was from where this Greg works?”
    “Yeah,
yeah,” said Birks. “He’s a manager or something and he figured out some way to
get guns out without nobody noticing. Some guy I know hooked me up with him and
I bought a piece. That’s all. Just the one gun we talked about.”
    “Does
Greg sell a lot of guns like that?” I asked.
    “I
guess,” said Birks. “He had a bunch of different guns he showed me to choose
from and he told me to let him know if I needed anything else.”
    “Good
to know,” I said, memorizing O’Shea’s name for later. “Thanks, Birks. You did good .”
    We
rode along in silence for a minute or two until Birks spoke up. “Where are you
taking me?”
    “Do
you like golf?” I asked in response.
    “Golf?”
he repeated. “Like, the game?”
    “Yes,
golf,” I confirmed.
    “I
never played,” he said. “Only went to drive some balls a couple of times and,
you know, mini-putt kinda thing.”
    “I’m
taking you to a golf course,” I said. “It’s not finished yet, still under
construction. We’re almost there.”
    “What
are we going there for?” he asked.
    “You
ask a lot of questions,” I replied. “Just shut up, wait and you’ll see soon
enough.”
    We
rode the short distance remaining in silence and were soon on the site of the
future Montreal Island Golf Club near the eastern tip of the island.
Construction had begun but was in the early stages with the opening of the
first of two courses planned for 1998, in two years’ time. From a recent visit,
I knew that security was non-existent which meant there would be nobody around
for miles, barring traffic on Autoroute 40 some
distance from the location I had selected. I parked the car facing north, away
from the highway, and turned off the engine but left the headlights on because
I needed to see and it was dark.
    “We’re
here,” I announced.
    “Now
what?” Birks asked, his tone shaky, not surprising considering he figured
things weren’t looking up for him.
    “Now,
we’re going to get out,” I replied before opening the door and getting out.
    I
went around the car and opened the passenger side door then crouched down and
sliced the tape which secured his right ankle to the seat brace.
    “You
can stretch your legs now,” I said as returned his seat to the upright
position.
    Moving
to the rear door, I pulled it open and, with a couple more strategic cuts, the
tape holding Birks head and arms to the head rest was no longer an issue.
    “Okay,
you can get out now,” I said as I slammed the rear door shut.
    “No,
I can’t, goddamn it,” he whined. “I’m still fucking taped.”
    Reaching
in behind the head rest, I got hold of one end of the cut tape and yanked it,
taking some of his hair out as well.
    “Jesus,
are you crazy?” he shrieked as he struggled, successfully freeing himself. “You
ripped my fucking hair out.”
    I
reached into the car, grabbed the front of