Last Resort: A New Joe Dillard Novel (Joe Dillard Series Book 10) by Scott Pratt & J.D. Pratt

Author:Scott Pratt & J.D. Pratt [Pratt, Scott & Pratt, J.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Phoenix Flying, LLC
Published: 2023-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

27

“I repeat: hands up and don’t turn around.”

The human brain, I’ve discovered, can perform an astonishing number of calculations in a very short time when its survival is at stake: The guy’s voice sounds fairly high and young. It’s coming from below my ear level—he’s shorter than me. There’s a slight wobble of fear in it. He’s stalling; he hasn’t had time to prepare his next actions yet. He doesn’t want me to turn around because he doesn’t want me to see he’s smaller than me and unarmed. He’s standing about three feet behind me.

Before I was consciously aware of any of these thoughts, my body launched into motion. Pivoting with my right foot, I propelled myself backwards, then spun around with lightning speed, driving my left elbow into the side of the man’s head and plunging my body into his.

My size and weight were too much for him, and he toppled backward to the dirt floor. I landed with one knee on his belly and one on the ground. I pulled my gun from my waistband and put it to his head.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” the mustachioed young man with the bad teeth screamed. “Tell me what you want!”

One thing I learned long ago—back in my Army Ranger days—was never to ask the enemy an open question. It betrays uncertainty and gives them wiggle-room to lie. Always act like you already know the big stuff.

“I know you have the girl,” I said.

With my free left hand, I pulled my phone from my pocket. I tapped on “Photos,” as Lilly had taught me to do, and brought up Abby’s picture. “Her name is Abby Pruitt. Tell me where I can find her. If I don’t believe your answer, I will fire a bullet through your rotten teeth.”

“She’s not here! Not anymore. She left this morning, with three of the other girls.”

“Liar. I’ve been watching the road all morning.” I pointed the gun into his mouth.

“They were in a moving van! That’s how we transport them!”

Damn. That truck. I’d had a feeling I should follow it.

I lifted the guy to his feet by his shirt collar. “We’re going to walk. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Understood?”

He nodded. I punched him in the stomach, just to establish dominance. Marching him in front of me at gunpoint, I explored the barn, looking for materials with which to tie him up. Luckily, the place had a workshop area with lots of tools and supplies. I tied the guy to a barn post, using weed-whacker cord, then found some duct tape in a crate of junk.

I placed the gun barrel against the immobilized man’s cheek and asked him where the moving van was headed. To a residence in Arizona, he informed me. Like Merlo Maroni, he claimed employees of the organization, such as himself, were never told more than they needed to know. All he professed to know was that the residence was somewhere near Phoenix and that a couple of the girls who had lived there referred to it as Black Canyon.

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