War Lord Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: David Rollins
that I wasn’t making it all up, and also gave me the chance to relieve him of one of his beers.
Eventually, when Arlen realized that I was also in the room and steadily working my way through his booze, he excused himself to Marnie and presented me with the 988. ‘This is filled out on my end and ready to go.’
Except that Marnie was here now and a big part of the reason for going on vacation was null and void. I checked over the form.
‘Today you’re on Air Force time,’ my supervisor and closest pal said. ‘Sign it and tomorrow you’re on yours – do you good, buddy.’ He picked up his beer. ‘I was thinking we could take Marnie out for dinner, but I see you’ve already got it worked out.’ He nodded at the bucket of KFC on the table.
I glanced at her. ‘You want me to reheat?’
‘Maybe you should sit down,’ she said. ‘Both of you.’
The way she said it told me that it wasn’t because the chicken would need more than a minute or two in the microwave. In my job, when folks tell you to sit down it’s usually because they’re gonna tell you something that’ll make you want to jump to your feet, but I took her advice and a chair, along with Arlen’s last Heineken.
‘So what’s in the bucket, Marnie?’ Arlen asked her.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t hot. Now that I was looking at it more closely I saw condensation had formed on the sides. A droplet of water slid down into a small puddle that had formed around the base. Arlen sat and frowned at the bucket, waiting.
Marnie opened her mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, then closed it. She didn’t know where to start – that much was clear. ‘This is complicated,’ she finally managed to say.
‘Just show us what you’ve got,’ I suggested.
Marnie hesitated and then peeled the lid off the bucket. A white fog of dry-ice vapor rolled up like a smoke ring beneath the lid and climbed above the table, followed by a wave of the stuff pouring out over the sides. I had to admit I was intrigued. So was Arlen, leaning forward on the table, up on his elbows. Marnie’s hand disappeared inside the bucket.
‘Some days ago, a woman I have recently come to know received this,’ she said, producing a plain white envelope. She handed it to me. It was cold and wisps of fog clung to the edges. I’d been expecting . . . Actually, I don’t know what I’d been expecting once I knew a drumstick was unlikely, but an envelope wasn’t it.
‘Open it,’ Marnie urged.
I did as she suggested and removed a sheet of paper. A line of default Microsoft Word black twelve-point Times New Roman type was printed on it. The line was italicized suggesting urgency and several words were in caps. The note read, FAILING to come up with $15 MILLION will TRIGGER delivery of his HEAD. You have 20 days. You will be contacted. No police.
And then Marnie lifted a human hand packed into a meat tray from the KFC bucket and placed it on the table.
Arlen’s jaw hit the floor.
The sight of it caught me by surprise too, as well as giving me a flashback to a scene I witnessed in the Congo of a man kneeling in the mud, screaming, as soldiers hacked off both his hands with machetes.
‘They run out of chicken?’ I asked her.
Marnie wasn’t amused.
I reached for the pen in Arlen’s top pocket and poked the tray with it, positioning it so I could get a better look at the hand, condensation fogging the plastic wrap with each passing second. Through an oval window in the frost, I could see that the hand itself was greenish brown, the fingernails rimmed with dried blood. A gold ring dressed its squat pinky. ‘So who’s the woman who was sent this?’
‘Her name’s Alabama. She’s a friend of Anna’s. Or, rather, her boyfriend was,’ Marnie said, looking away from the tray. She got up from the table and walked toward the kitchen, the sight of the severed hand obviously giving her some problems. ‘She’s a topless dancer in Vegas.’
This was getting more
Eventually, when Arlen realized that I was also in the room and steadily working my way through his booze, he excused himself to Marnie and presented me with the 988. ‘This is filled out on my end and ready to go.’
Except that Marnie was here now and a big part of the reason for going on vacation was null and void. I checked over the form.
‘Today you’re on Air Force time,’ my supervisor and closest pal said. ‘Sign it and tomorrow you’re on yours – do you good, buddy.’ He picked up his beer. ‘I was thinking we could take Marnie out for dinner, but I see you’ve already got it worked out.’ He nodded at the bucket of KFC on the table.
I glanced at her. ‘You want me to reheat?’
‘Maybe you should sit down,’ she said. ‘Both of you.’
The way she said it told me that it wasn’t because the chicken would need more than a minute or two in the microwave. In my job, when folks tell you to sit down it’s usually because they’re gonna tell you something that’ll make you want to jump to your feet, but I took her advice and a chair, along with Arlen’s last Heineken.
‘So what’s in the bucket, Marnie?’ Arlen asked her.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t hot. Now that I was looking at it more closely I saw condensation had formed on the sides. A droplet of water slid down into a small puddle that had formed around the base. Arlen sat and frowned at the bucket, waiting.
Marnie opened her mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, then closed it. She didn’t know where to start – that much was clear. ‘This is complicated,’ she finally managed to say.
‘Just show us what you’ve got,’ I suggested.
Marnie hesitated and then peeled the lid off the bucket. A white fog of dry-ice vapor rolled up like a smoke ring beneath the lid and climbed above the table, followed by a wave of the stuff pouring out over the sides. I had to admit I was intrigued. So was Arlen, leaning forward on the table, up on his elbows. Marnie’s hand disappeared inside the bucket.
‘Some days ago, a woman I have recently come to know received this,’ she said, producing a plain white envelope. She handed it to me. It was cold and wisps of fog clung to the edges. I’d been expecting . . . Actually, I don’t know what I’d been expecting once I knew a drumstick was unlikely, but an envelope wasn’t it.
‘Open it,’ Marnie urged.
I did as she suggested and removed a sheet of paper. A line of default Microsoft Word black twelve-point Times New Roman type was printed on it. The line was italicized suggesting urgency and several words were in caps. The note read, FAILING to come up with $15 MILLION will TRIGGER delivery of his HEAD. You have 20 days. You will be contacted. No police.
And then Marnie lifted a human hand packed into a meat tray from the KFC bucket and placed it on the table.
Arlen’s jaw hit the floor.
The sight of it caught me by surprise too, as well as giving me a flashback to a scene I witnessed in the Congo of a man kneeling in the mud, screaming, as soldiers hacked off both his hands with machetes.
‘They run out of chicken?’ I asked her.
Marnie wasn’t amused.
I reached for the pen in Arlen’s top pocket and poked the tray with it, positioning it so I could get a better look at the hand, condensation fogging the plastic wrap with each passing second. Through an oval window in the frost, I could see that the hand itself was greenish brown, the fingernails rimmed with dried blood. A gold ring dressed its squat pinky. ‘So who’s the woman who was sent this?’
‘Her name’s Alabama. She’s a friend of Anna’s. Or, rather, her boyfriend was,’ Marnie said, looking away from the tray. She got up from the table and walked toward the kitchen, the sight of the severed hand obviously giving her some problems. ‘She’s a topless dancer in Vegas.’
This was getting more
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