Page 117 of The Slayer
Chuito lifted his sweatshirt, showing off the holster he was wearing. “Can I run without it? It’s chafing like a bitch.”
The drug dealer waved him off. “If you want to slum, be my guest.”
“Gracias.” Chuito nodded and started walking away.
“Hey, Rocky.”
Chuito turned back to him, arching an eyebrow once more.
“Is it true what they say ’bout ya?”
“What do they say?” Chuito asked him.
“They say you did some pretty interesting things back in Miami.”
Chuito gave him an unimpressed look. “Shopping for employees or customers?”
“Just curious.”
“We’re good,” Chuito assured him. “I don’t give a fuck what you do, man. Everyone’s got to make a living.”
“What ’bout the sheriff?”
“You think I talk with the sheriff about what I used to do in Miami?” Chuito snorted and repeated, “We’re good.”
He nodded, seeming to hear the truth in Chuito’s words. “Okay, then.”
“No shotguns.” Chuito gave him a harsh glare. “They irritate me.”
The drug dealer laughed and agreed. “No shotguns. I promise. I’ll tell the boys you’re all right.”
* * * *
The next two nights, Chuito ran later, closer to ten o’clock, and it was cold as fuck. The lighting was bad without the last fading streaks of the sunset to help. He nearly busted his ass more than once.
And of course, it was snowing both nights. He was officially done with this project. This motherfucker needed to die just for making Chuito be out in this.
On the third night, he ran at midnight. No one was on the road. No one was outside. No lights were on. Everyone in Garnet slept early, even the criminals.
He had run past the trailer park for over two weeks, and he hadn’t once seen Vaughn Davis since he got out on bail for shooting at Wyatt.
Chuito was sort of stunned they set bail.
They sure as fuck wouldn’t have set bail if a Latino shot at a sheriff. It didn’t matter where it was in the country; Chuito would bet his career that if this rapist bastard, Vaughn Davis, hadn’t been white, his ass would still be rotting away in jail.
He even had a record.
Hestillgot bail.
It just made Chuito angrier as he walked up the stairs to Vaughn’s trailer, keeping his steps light. Thank God they didn’t creak. He leaned in, staring at the lock when he got onto the porch, seeing that there wasn’t a dead bolt. He didn’t think there was, because he had been glancing at this door for two weeks.
Bonus.
He’d worn light gloves on purpose—the kind he’d used when he was younger and robbed houses, because cars weren’t all he’d stolen in his youth.
Marcos used to say Chuito had a rare gift when it came to picking locks. So much so that when they talked about going straight, Marcos would suggest that Chuito would be an amazing locksmith because there wasn’t a car or house he couldn’t break into.
It turned out Chuito hadn’t lost his touch, even if his fingers were near frozen. His old key chain, with all the tools a thief would need, felt like it had never left his hand. He opened the door in less than ten seconds and had his gun out faster than that.
