Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story by G.P. Sorrells (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

stare the man returned to him said otherwise. “We’ve got a meeting with your boss. If you could just let us in, we’ll get out of your way. Let you stare off in the distance and brood for a while longer.”

The brawny man shifted, his free arm reaching behind him. “Don’t get cute,” Micah said, his own hand moving back toward the pistol tucked into his pants holster. “Just open the door.” He wanted to say more. To be a bit more forceful, reckless. But he opted to maintain some sense of civility. At least for the time being.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Castillo retrieved his wallet, removed a pair of bills, and tucked them into the pocket on the brawny man’s leather vest. “Use this to get yourself polished up later. Consider it a thank you, from me, to you, for opening the fucking door.”

The stare down continued for another moment before the brawny man reluctantly pounded on the door behind him. Micah could hear some commotion from inside, but not with much clarity from where he stood. It sounded like multiple people were on the other side of the door, but they didn’t seem keen on their words escaping the four walls surrounding them. The door eventually cracked open, held in place by a cheap security chain.

“What’s up, Roscoe?” The man on the other side of door leaned into the opening to ask his question, rather than pose it straight on.

“Fidel here says he’s got a meeting with the big boss.”

“Correction, Mr. Bunker,” Castillo said, a vein bulging in his forehead, “I’m here to see your boss. The man who tells you to stand outside of this door like a guard dog because he knows you’ll heed his command.”

“What did you fucking say to m…,” Roscoe began, his mind slowly processing the slights aimed at him.

“Castillo?” The man inside asked. His twang made it sound like cast-ill-o instead of its actual pronunciation.

“That’s me,” Castillo replied, waltzing past the dumbfounded Roscoe. Micah followed him, expecting things to take a Southward turn any minute. The door opened and the two men walked into the room.

It looked like any of the other thousands of motel rooms across the country. A queen bed with an overly stiff mattress and tacky sheets, dainty table and two chairs next to a pull-out sofa that had likely seen more than its fair share of use. The key difference between Room #9 at the Magic City Motel and nearly any other such room in the country was certainly the presence of storage lockers lining the wall opposite the bed. Most rooms would have a dresser and television in that area. Perhaps even a mini fridge if the place were upscale enough. But not the Room #9.

Each storage locker stood between five and six feet tall. Most had doors constructed of steel mesh, which provided immediate visibility of the copious firearms secured behind them. Everything from pistols to shotguns to assault rifles rested in the storage lockers. Micah wasn’t certain, but he thought he had even spied the silhouette of a fragmentation grenade or two. The other storage lockers along the wall simply had solid steel doors with thick padlocks on their handles. It was impossible to know what they held, though it was presumably more valuable. Someone had tucked a large safe under the vanity, next to the bathroom.

“Have a seat, gents,” the man gestured toward the couch. “Jeremiah should be out here faster than a one-legged man in an ass kicking competition.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s uh, gonna be out here real quick-like.”

“Got it,” Castillo said, in no rush to accept the offer to rest.

Micah stood near the door, absentmindedly scanning the room for anything of interest. Several small cameras were tucked in the corners, focused on the lockers and the safe. The stillness in the room was broken only by the distant sound of a toilet flushing twice. Multiple door locks disengaged shortly afterward, and the bathroom door swung open.

Jeremiah stepped out, closed the bathroom door, and stared at it as though attempting to determine whether it had made its way into the frame. He turned on a dime and approached the trio. “Jimmy, how the hell are ya?”

“I’m doing all right. And you?”

“Same shit, different day. Been busier than a cat covering crap on a marble floor for the past few months,” Jeremiah sat down on the edge of the bed, facing Castillo and Micah. “I see you’ve met Bennett.”

“Yes, he let us in a moment ago. Your man out front didn’t seem too pleased to see us walking up. Not sure he believed I was who I said I was.”

“Oh, Roscoe? Don’t mind him. His brain rattles around like a BB in a boxcar, but he means well.”

“Jeremiah,” Castillo said, nodding back in Micah’s direction. “this is my associate, Micah. He’s going to help me with the transport of our goods.”

“Pleasure, Micah,” Jeremiah said. “Speaking of goods, what were you after?”

“I’d like to get my hands on some ARs,” Castillo said. “Maybe even something that goes boom, if you got it.”

“We definitely have something like that, compadre,” Bennett chimed in. Jeremiah glared at him, causing the man to stand up and walk toward the vanity.

“Yes, what numb nuts over there was trying to tell you is we have some things which can cause an explosion. How big just depends on your wallet.” Bennett’s face slowly reddened.

“Care to show me?”

“Sure, I just need to see some money first.”

Castillo brought his hand to his chest and opened his mouth in jest. “You don’t think I’m good for it? That hurts, Jeremiah.”

“I know you are, Castillo, but I can’t let my men think we operate on a give first, take later basis. Bozo back there would cost me a fortune.” Bennett continued to get redder in the face and paced. “Show me what you’ve got to play with today and I’ll give you an idea of what we might be able to do.”

“Fair enough. Micah, go grab the