Shane stood up from the table and headed for the bar to refill his coffee cup. Behind him, Steve continued to press their groggy friend. Looking at the clock behind the bar, Shane saw that it was nearing 6 a.m. They had been trying to sober the man up for more than four hours. And all they had for it was that his name was Bob.
Jimmy was watching him, Shane realized. Shane had been to the bar a few times before, but he was still law enforcement in the eyes of the bartender. Either that or a notorious criminal. No, probably law enforcement. As a criminal, Shane would have been made to feel more welcome.
Taking a sip of the sludge the bartender called coffee, Shane headed back to the table. Steve was leaning across the table.
"Come on, dude," Steve said. "I'm just asking. You said the FBI's looking in the wrong place. That sounds to me like you know the right place."
"Not sayin' nothin' to no cops," Bob the drunk muttered.
Steve rolled his eye. "I'm not a cop." He raised the picture of Cal Winters again. "So why don't you tell me where the guy in this photo is?"
Bob leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms defiantly.
For a moment, Shane had the urge to drag Bob out of the bar and take him on a little trip to the Salem tunnels. A few minutes suspended over the Salem river might loosen Bob's tongue, just like it had Johnny Corelli's. Unfortunately, the only way to reach the tunnels at this hour would be to break into Wings or Alice's. And a breaking-and-entering charge probably would not be appreciated very much by Judge Lambert. If Bob's information did not pan out, Shane did not want to be stuck behind bars with Kim and Kayla still missing.
"Bob, I'm asking you nicely." Steve sounded like he could barely contain his frustration. "Do you have a wife, Bob? Any family?" He pointed at the picture of Kayla. "That's my wife. Try to imagine your wife in the hands of a killer. So I'm asking you . . . no, I'm begging you. Tell me where she is. Whatever you know."
Shane shook his head. Steve was deluding himself if he thought reason was going to work on Bob. A guy like this did not respond to begging. Shane was about to say something, when he saw Steve give him a sideways glance.
Steve knows it too.
With a curt nod, Shane walked slowly to the table. He leaned over so his face was only inches from Bob's.
"My friend's trying to be a nice chap," Shane said, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm not nearly as nice."
Bob looked Shane over and smirked. "Yeah, like I believe that." He nodded at Shane's button down shirt and coat. "Maybe you can show me after tea."
"Uh oh," Steve muttered, rolling his eye for effect.
Shane hardly needed the prompt. His hand shot out and grabbed Bob by the scruff of his neck. Shane dragged the man out of the booth, pulled him upright and slammed him against a wall.
"Hey!" Jimmy shouted from the bar, as a couple of photos from the wall crashed to the floor.
"Send me the bill," Shane called back. His eyes never left Bob. "Now . . . Bob . . . why don't you tell me where Cal Winters is?"
Bob shook his head. "I don't have ta tell you nothin'."
"No, you don't," Shane said. "But it'll hurt a lot less if you do." As he talked, he fished inside Bob's jacket and found the man's wallet. Without turning his head, Shane tossed the wallet to Steve. "See if there's anything in there."
As Steve started to look through the wallet, Shane tightened his grip and leaned close to Bob. His breath reeked of alcohol. "My patience is really wearing real thin, Bob. My kids need their mother, and I'm not going to sit here when you bloody know something about where she is."
Bob tried to pull away, but his head was pinned against the wall.
"Hey," Steve said. "Lookee here. Our friend Bob - or should I say, Robert Nathan Morris - lives over by the warehouse district. Hmm . . . and this is a badge for Broxton Airfield."
"Now that's interesting." Shane looked the man in his eyes. "So is it one of those places? Have you seen Winters at one of them?" The last words were little more than a snarl.
"I ain't tellin' you nothin'. Not to some limey traitor, I don't."
Shane gave the man a cruel smile. "I'm almost glad you said that," Shane said. He pulled Bob back from the wall and shoved him into it again, ignoring the cry it elicited from the bartender. "So you know who I am. Good. Then you know I'm already up for life in prison for murder. So what's another charge to me?"
He saw something flash in Bob's eyes. Fear.
"And if you watch the news, you also know I was ISA. Do you know how many different ways they teach us to cause pain? Ways that don't show. And if you don't think I have a dozen ways to make you disappear without anyone knowing. . . ." Shane put a hand around Bob's throat and called out to Steve. "Any family pictures in there?"
"Yeah," Steve replied. That was when Shane realized Steve was right next to him. He stuck a wallet-sized photo into the corner of Shane's field of vision, so he could see Bob holding a young girl in his arms, while another stood next to him."
"Pretty girls," Shane said. "I hope you said goodbye to them this morning, old chap. Think about how they're always going to wonder where Daddy went and why. After I'm done with you, they're going to spend the rest of their lives probably thinking you walked out on them. They'll never even know the truth."
The fear flashed again. Bob's eyes darted away from Shane to Steve.
"Not much I can do, dude," Steve said. He sounded almost apologetic.
"No there isn't," Shane added. He reached inside his jacket and pulled his gun from his holster. "So, now, Bob . . . this really is your last chance." For effect, Shane asked Steve, "How about I start with the kneecap? It won't kill, but it's about as painful as it comes. And we won't have to worry about Bob making a get-away."
"No! Please!" Bob cried.
About bloody time, Shane thought.
Pleading, Bob stammered, "I'll tell you. At the airfield. The brown-haired guy. He rented a hangar. I've seen him around."
"What about my wife?" Steve demanded.
"I don't know. I've just seen the guy - comin' and goin'."
"That's good," Shane said. "When did you see him last?"
Bob was quick to answer. "Tonight. Had some bags . . . food bags. Hangar four."
"Okay, Bob. We'll make sure of that." Shane looked at him closely. "I sure hope, for your sake, you're telling the truth."
"I am! I am!" Bob insisted.
Shane let go of the man and stepped back. Bob slid to the floor, but Shane no longer cared about the man. He turned to Steve.
"Damn, dude." Steve's tone was one of admiration. "Didn't know you had that in you."
Shane did not respond. He put his gun back into the holster as they walked together to the bar.
"Okay," Steve growled. "Let's go get them."
As much as Shane wanted to make a beeline to the airport, he hesitated. "Wait, Steve-"
"What do you mean, 'wait'? That's Kayla and Kim out there." Steve's face began to turn red with anger.
"Just give me a few minutes," Shane said calmly. They could not just run off half-cocked like Steve usually did. "Let's just check a couple of things before we head out there. Just in case our friend back there is playing games."
Steve grimaced. "I'm not going to sit here, Donovan."
"Look, Steve, it's just a couple of calls." Shane knew Steve's impatient nature, but tried to reason with him. "It will just take a minute. Just so we don't go in blind. Let's see if we can find out what we're dealing with."
He ignored the look of anger and frustration on Steve's face, as he walked toward the phone. It would only be a few minutes.
Just hang on Kim. If that's where you are, we'll be there soon.