Yup, the guy with the cannonball head. With a name like Tank, Bran wasn’t surprised. He was big and rough, and like every guy around the table, he was carrying. Small arms in jeans pockets, a gun holstered inside a jacket. When Tank bent over to take his shot, Bran glimpsed a semiauto holstered at the small of his back.
Not good news, but again, not really unexpected. He ran through his options, chose plan B but didn’t completely toss A and C in case he had to improvise. Whichever worked, he needed to get the guy out of there. Bran was damned glad Colt Wheeler waited in his shiny black Mustang out in the parking lot.
Carrying his beer back to the bar, Bran sat down and sent a text, told Colt that Tank was there and it looked like taking him out through the back door was their best option.
Will text when he goes to the john, he added.
Tank must have had a bladder as big as his head because he didn’t leave the table for nearly two hours. When he did, Bran tossed money on the bar to pay for his drinks, texted Colt to come in through the back door, which he unlocked, then headed for the men’s room.
Tank was zipping up his fly when Bran walked in behind him. Surprise being his only advantage, he moved fast. A kidney jab doubled Tank over with a grunt. Bran slammed an elbow under his chin, knocking him backward into the wall, grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his head down into the knee Bran shot into his face.
He jerked the gun out of Tank’s belt as he staggered away, mumbling unintelligible words, rummy but not unconscious. Which was good since 280 pounds of deadweight was bad news. Bran tucked the gun into his waistband as Colt pushed through the bathroom door, and the two of them managed to half drag, half carry Tank out into the hall, which fortunately was empty.
The cold outside air revived the guy a little but Colt’s quick jab, knocking his head back, had his chin drooping back down on his chest.
Bran slapped a piece of duct tape over Tank’s mouth while Colt used zip ties to bind the guy’s wrists and ankles. Loading him into the back of the Expedition on his belly, Bran bent his legs up behind him and zip-tied his ankles to his wrists. Colt tossed a blanket over his massive body as Bran slid in behind the wheel.
“I’ll be right behind you.” Colt strode off toward his Mustang.
They were out of the lot and hauling ass down the highway when Tank began to wake up. He was shouting muffled curses behind the duct tape, death threats, Bran was sure, and thrashing around in the back, but the way he was tied, there wasn’t much he could do.
Bran turned off the main road onto a farm road, then made a couple more evasive turns before pulling onto a road parallel to the highway heading south. He took out his cell and hit the contact number he’d entered for sheriff’s detective Mace Galen, put it on speaker, and set it on the console next to the driver’s seat.
A groggy Galen picked up on the third ring. “Whoever the hell this is, it better be important.”
“Brandon Garrett. I’ve got a little present for you, Detective. Made a citizen’s arrest on a guy named Wayne Conrad Coffman. Calls himself Tank. He’s the man who murdered Janos Petrov. Where would you like me to drop him off?”
Galen cursed foully. “You realize you’re interfering in a sheriff’s investigation, right?”
“He was carrying a SIG P220 .45 cal. When you run ballistics, I’m pretty sure you’ll find it matches the bullet that killed Petrov. Worst case, you’ll have him for carrying an illegal firearm. That’ll give you some time to check things out.”
Galen swore again.
“I’m heading south out of Aurora. Tank’s only a little banged up. I’d really like to get him off my hands before his friends show up to rescue him.” He checked the rearview mirror, saw Colt’s headlights, but so far no one else. It wouldn’t be long before his buddies realized their friend wasn’t in one of the bathroom stalls getting a blow job from one of the busty blondes who’d been giving him the eye all evening.
“Get him to the county line,” Galen said. “Closest is probably Highway 83 at Palmer Divide. I’ll have deputies waiting to pick him up. What are you driving?”
“Dark gray Ford Expedition.” Bran punched the destination into the GPS. “Unless I run into trouble, I’m forty-five minutes away.” Give or take, depending on how many evasive turns he needed to make or if Tank’s crew showed up.
Bran ended the call and hit the gas. He punched Cole’s contact number and hit the speaker button. “We’re heading south to the county line at Highway 83 and Palmer Divide. Sheriff’s deputies will take it from there.”
“Damn. Just when things were getting interesting.”
Bran chuckled. “They still may, if those bastards figure out what happened to their buddy.”
“I’ve still got your back.”
“I know. Thanks. Listen, when we get close, I want you to pull over. I need you to take my gear bag. Lot of toys in there the cops won’t appreciate. It’s legal—mostly—but I don’t need the hassle. I’ll pick it up when I get back.”
“Copy that.”
“Once you’ve got my gear, I want you to head back to Denver. No need for you to get balled up with the sheriff.”
“You sure?”
“Affirmative.”
The Expedition rolled down the road at a speed hovering around the limit. Under the circumstances, getting pulled over would not be a good idea.
