“You and me got different ideas about cheap, white boy.”
Holly jabbed the gun barrel in Pepé’s eye, and the Mexican shrieked in pain. “I’m not in the mood for glib, Pepé. Now, again, why so cheap?”
Pepé wiped at the streak of blood coming from his eye.
“Okay,” Holly said, “allow me. I’m just spitballing here, so you feel free to jump in and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m thinking maybe this guy in the motel was a bigger deal than you let on, maybe too big a fish for you to fry, and this English fuck knew it, so he gave you whatever he wanted you to have, and you were happy to get it. Is that what happened?”
Pepé sat silent.
“This is your last chance to tell me everything, Pepé, or I’m going to smash that phone, and little Carlos—”
“Burroughs,” Pepé said.
Holly repeated it slowly. “Burroughs?”
“Yeah. Some baller from up in Georgia. I didn’t even know they had ballers in Georgia. Backwoods motherfucker. He was too well protected for my boys to get involved, so I walked. Cut my losses.”
“And his name was Burroughs?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m fucking sure, and that’s all I know.”
The two men sat across from each other in the breakfast nook for a long minute as Holly studied the bloodied gangster for any signs that he may have more to share. “I think I believe you, Pops,” Holly finally said. Pepé closed his eyes, lowered his head, and appeared to start praying.
Holly shook his head slowly from side to side and picked up the phone. He hit redial and held it to his ear. “Take the boy back to his mother,” he said, then ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.
“Now do it,” Pepé said without opening his eyes. He didn’t have to ask again. Holly lifted the Glock and shot him once in the chest, and again in the neck.
CHAPTER
20
OSCAR WILCOMBE
JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA
2015
1.
The office was small, smaller than Agent Holly expected it to be. Motorcycle-enthusiast magazines and paraphernalia were scattered throughout the room. The furniture was nice but not too nice. The paintings on the wall were cheap lithographs of much pricier real-deals, and the coffee at the self-serve station by the door was no better than that at any quick-stop—worse, maybe. Holly set the coffee on the waiting room table and thumbed through a copy of Cycle World, pretending not to stare at the only thing worth looking at in the room, the raven-haired beauty behind the reception desk. He pegged her to be in her mid-thirties, closer to six than four, but not a sign of road wear on her face. Huge lips, painted the color of a shiny candy apple, pouted below a sharp nose and dark, almost navy-blue eyes. He had pictures of this one in the file he was putting together on Wilcombe, but to see her in person was breathtaking.
A bald tree trunk of a man decked out in denim from head to toe walked out of the office behind Bianca Wilcombe and whispered something in her ear. They smiled politely at each other, and the man left the office, giving Holly the stink-eye all the way out the door. Holly winked at him, taking in the details. Committing the man’s face to memory.
“Mr. Holly?” Bianca said. “Mr. Wilcombe will see you now.”
“Thanks.” Holly laid the magazine back down on the table, stood, and walked past Bianca to the office door. He hoped she would give him the same smile she’d given the blue-jean giant a moment ago. She didn’t. She didn’t even look.
2.
“Agent Holly. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. If I’d known you were coming, I would have cleared my calendar.” Oscar Wilcombe was pushing seventy and looked every bit of it. His small frame hunched over as he walked and, at some point over the past few years, he’d lost anything that resembled a neck. His head looked more like it sprouted directly from the middle of his shoulders, like he was a human/turtle hybrid. His gray flannel suit hung off him like it was still on the hanger, and his hair had been reduced to a few gray survivors stretched out over his bald head in a comb-over that even he had to know looked ridiculous. He reached out a delicate, thin hand and Holly shook it, careful not to break it.
“Well, you know us federal-agent types. We like to keep people guessing. If we told you we were coming, you’d have time to prepare.”
Wilcombe squinted over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Do I need time to prepare?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Wilcombe walked back around his desk and took a seat. He motioned for Holly to do the same in the armchair across from him. “What is this about, Mr. Holly?”
“Agent.”
“Huh?” The old man squinted again.
“It’s Agent Holly. Not Mister. You need to remember that, because I don’t want any confusion about how important this conversation is going to be to you.”
“Umm, okay.” Wilcombe sat back and steepled his fingers in his lap.