“With what?” An ugly laugh leaves my lips. “With her fingers?”
“She had a lighter pistol.”
“A lighter pistol?” Reino says.
Kent strains his neck to look at Reino. “I was trained to recognize camouflaged weapons. When she made a move to open it, I took the shot.”
And like the showoff he is, he didn’t go for the chest like snipers are trained to do. No, he had to go for the head, proving to every fucking cop in the state what a good shot he is. Few people have his aim. It won’t take them long to figure out who would’ve been capable of firing with such precision.
“Bring the lighter to me,” I instruct, not moving my eyes off of Kent. “It’s in the bag.”
The man to whom I gave the bag goes through it, takes out the lighter, and holds it out to me. I snatch it from his fingers, still in a stare-off with Kent. If he knows how close I am to crushing him, he won’t look so smug.
Silence falls over the room. Everyone’s attention is glued to the lighter as I flip back the lid.
Motherfucker.
Look at that.
A twenty-two-caliber bullet sticks out from the one-inch barrel that’s screwed into the pistol designed to fit in the zippo holder. I’ve heard about lighter pistols, but I’ve never seen one for myself.
There isn’t a lot of maneuvering space between the barrel and the trigger. I aim at a sandbag that leans against the wall and pull the trigger, careful not to touch the barrel with my thumb. The shot goes off louder than I expected it to, the bullet tearing into the bag.
Sand filters through the hole the bullet has ripped in the hessian fabric. I crouch down and turn the bag over.
The bullet hasn’t gone straight through. It would’ve traveled at four hundred and twenty feet per second, but out of a one-inch barrel, the speed was probably less. Still, if that bullet had hit me in the heart or head, it could’ve done serious damage—enough to kill me.
I drop the bag and straighten.
The door opens.
Ulysses walks in. “We had to take a few backroads to avoid a roadblock.” He moves his gaze to Kent. “What did I miss?”
I throw him the lighter pistol.
He catches it in midair, frowning as he examines it.
“She had that on her,” I say.
Ulysses looks at me. “Nice piece of work.”
“Who sells pistols like those?”
“No one I know,” he says.
Kent speaks up. “It’s handmade.”
Ulysses turns the zippo case over. “There’s a mark on the bottom, like a signature.”
“Find out what you can.” I return to my place in front of Kent. “Reino, Ulysses, stay. The rest of you can go except for the team keeping watch outside.”
The men holding Kent down releases him and leave with the others. He doesn’t move. He knows that will be a mistake. He remains kneeling on the floor until the door closes behind the last man.
When there’s just the four of us left, I speak. “Get up.”
He climbs to his feet.
I look him straight in the eyes. “Did you kill Naomi Foster so she couldn’t tell me who kidnapped my wife?”
