Page 40 of Wild Temple

Geysers of crimson spewed.

The scumbag groaned and staggered back.

I dashed across the veranda and held up at the corner, then swung my pistol around.

The dirtbag clutched his mangled hand, doubled over with pain, blood spurting.

He looked up at me with gritted teeth and angry eyes.

“Don’t move!”

He hesitated for a moment, then reached for a backup in his waistband.

Bad move.

Another double tap—one to the chest and one to the head—sent him tumbling away. He fell back and rolled down the hill into the underbrush.

I didn't think there was anyone else around, but I kept a cautious watch on my surroundings as I moved to Rafi on the daybed. My fingers felt for a pulse in his neck.

The funnyman was long gone.

I took the keys from his pocket, then darted into the house and took cautious steps across the living room to the kitchen. I knelt down beside the thug who had bled out on the hardwoods.

He didn't have a pulse either.

I fished through his pockets, taking his keys and looking for identification. He just had a little cash but no wallet.

An extra magazine from his back pocket might come in handy.

I crept out of the kitchen, then made my way up the narrow steps to the loft. The barrel of my pistol led the way.

The loft was empty.

The chaos had died down, and the gun smoke had drifted away.

A dog continued to bark in the distance.

I moved back through the house and collected my spent shell casings, just for good measure.

Rafi had a nice selection of liquor in the house. I grabbed a bottle of 151-proof rum and a pack of bar matches I found atop a counter.

Still wearing Rafi’s ball cap, I pulled the brim low, walked outside, and took the steps down to the walkway that led to the street. Shrouded in foliage, it offered a little cover.

I scanned the area.

There were no lights on in neighboring houses. I'm sure there were people peering out of windows, but nobody wanted to get involved.

I clicked the key fob on the keys I had taken from the assailant in the kitchen. Lights on a car parked down the block flashed, and the alarm chirped.

I hustled down the walkway to Rafi’s van and doused the interior with the high-proof rum I’d taken, then tossed in the pack of matches.

The flames spread slowly across the seat cushions as I walked away. The glow grew intense, soon engulfing the vehicle.

I hopped into the assailant’s silver four-door sedan, cranked up the engine, and pulled away. I banked a U-turn and headed back the way we came.

Rafi’s van flickered in the rearview, black smoke billowing into the sky. There would be no trace DNA left. Not that the investigators in this town would go to that length, but it never hurts to be paranoid.

I felt bad for Rafi. He was probably not a bad guy, apart from the fact that he was aiding and abetting sex traffickers. Okay, maybe I didn't feel that bad. He was a rotten sleaze bag like the rest of them, albeit with a somewhat affable demeanor.