Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) by Gary Ross (100 best novels of all time txt) 📗

superheroes lessens as the evening progresses. Twice you give candy to children so tall you admonish them for being too old to go trick-or-treating. As Grant is on his way to turn off the front light and signal the end of the candy giveaway, the chimes sound one last time. You glance toward the door as Grant opens it and see more kids too old to beg for candy—four of them, in dark hoodies and some kind of Mardi Gras masks. As you rise to chide them, they push through the storm door, two of them seizing Grant’s arms and the one holding a white plastic jug punching him in the gut before slamming the front door behind them. The fourth one is rushing toward you as a scream rises in your throat.

A glove so filthy you can taste dirt clamps over your mouth. You are spun around, a thick arm locks around your waist, and pungent breath hits your right cheek. Stomach clenching, you are held in place to see whatever will happen to your husband. These are not teenagers, you realize with increasing horror, but men, young men, gloved and dressed all in black. Their masks are not actual masks, but white and black paint applied to make the lower half of their faces look like living skulls.

Doubled over and gasping, Grant says, “What do you want?”

As two of them hold him up, the one with what looks like a gallon jug of bleach switches off the inside and outside lights. With illumination from the fireplace and the flat-screen TV above it, everything is now in flickering shadows. Setting down the jug, the man steps into the dining room and drags a chair back past the entryway to the carpet. As he grabs a few chocolate miniatures from the big bowl near the door, the other two force Grant to sit. Producing rolls of nylon cord from their pockets, they tie him to the chair, one securing his upper body, the other his legs. When they are ready to tie their knots, the man now chewing chocolate takes out a small knife. He cuts the cords from what remains on the rolls. Folding and pocketing his knife, he then takes out a red rubber ball, which he stuffs into Grant’s mouth.

“So you’re Grant Gibbons,” he says. His voice is harsh, gravelly. “The jig trying to investigate us.”

The man on Grant’s left cackles. “You got a funny name, old man.” The timbre of his voice is like steel scraping the nerves in your ears. “You know a gibbon is a kinda monkey, right?” He cackles again.

Gravel Voice takes his time opening the last chocolate and popping it into his mouth. Then he leans in so close it almost seems he wants to kiss your husband. “Well, we’re here, porch monkey, to do some investigating of our own.”

“Yeah!” says the man on Grant’s right. “Say hello to Liberty Storm. For real.”

Liberty Storm? Before you can register that the name belongs to one of the groups Grant has been researching for a Post series on white supremacy, Gravel Voice straightens to his full height and throws another punch. The expulsion of air and snot from Grant’s nostrils makes you struggle against the man holding you. But he squeezes your face so hard your jaw hurts. “Hold still, you old black bitch!” His voice is a menacing whisper. “You fight, it’ll be a lot worse when it’s your turn.”

Gravel Voice looks at you for a long moment. “She don’t need to see this, especially if she’s gonna give you trouble. She ain’t that big. Just hold her down.”

You are turned again and forced backwards onto the leather sectional, your glasses askew and your arms beneath you, atop the newspaper you’ve been clipping. The back of the couch blocks your vision. The only man you can see straddles you, his weight immobilizing you. He is positioned so light from the fireplace magnifies every detail of his face. Between the blackened nose and cheeks of his faux skull and the upper edge of his black hood are eyes so blue and intense you shudder. But you cannot look away.

The sound of the next punch makes you try even harder to throw off the young man. Smiling before he spits into your face, he pushes your head down deeper into the cushion. “I’m gonna enjoy what we do to you!” The spit dripping off your right lens near your nose smells of garlic.

“So you wanna know who we are and how we’re organized?” Gravel Voice again. He is the leader—perhaps of this particular team, perhaps of Liberty Storm itself. “You wanna know how we’re funded and where we meet?” Another blow lands, and Grant cries out through the rubber ball. “Well, we want to know where your informant is hiding.” Still another blow. “Tell us where we can find Jody Cropper and we’ll end this sooner.”

There is no mistaking the rhythm of what vibrates through the ball gagging Grant: “Fuck you!”

Then several blows land in rapid succession, hard blows, too many to have come from a single assailant. The sound of your husband’s muffled pain makes your eyes fill. Your own screams stifled by the glove, you try arching your back, thrashing your legs, but Garlic Spit draws back a fist.

“Hey, man, hold on!” Gravel Voice calls out. “She’s old but her lips are definitely DSLs. Don’t hurt ‘em till we’re done with her mouth!”

The man holding you laughs. “Yeah, I guess broken teeth could be a problem.” He shifts his weight just enough for your left arm to wriggle out from under your back. “Is he gonna get to watch her choke on the latex lollipop?”

Blood flowing into them again, the fingers of your left hand touch something metal. You remember the coupons.

“Course!” Gravel Voice says. “After he sees what we do to every slot she’s got, he’s gonna tell us what we want to know. Then he’s gonna beg to die.”

“Her too,” the