Remo Went Rogue by Mike McCrary Read Free Book Online Page A

high-end upgrades in Remo’s apartment. Showroom quality living fit for a king .
      Remo staggers through the front door looking like he’s been hit by a truck then dragged for miles. The events of the previous day have taken their toll. His keys get tossed in one direction and his shoes fly in another as he storms through the living room in route to the bar.
    He pulls his tie free, dumping it into a silk lump on the hardwood. Gulps some Johnnie—sweet, sweet nectar make the bad man go away—while trying to pull himself. Thinks, Who lives like this? I gotta get my life in order. This is no way for a man to live. Need to start exercising, eating better, be kinder to animals . . . perhaps people.
    Fuck people.
    Grabs a banana, pours a fresh scotch.
    It’s a start.
    An envelope slips under the door.
    Remo stops cold. His cheeks balloon with Johnnie like a drunk chipmunk.
    Remo eyes it, his heart revving, pushing the needle deep in the red. Sets down his scotch and gingerly moves toward the door. Pokes his head out into the hallway, then allows the rest of his body to follow.
    Empty.
    Nothing.
    Nobody.
    Remo slips back inside, locks the door. He slowly picks up the envelope, treating it like it was a special delivery of anthrax. Takes a long moment, as if not opening it will end whatever the fuck is going on. As if denial will call off the dogs.
    The Mashburn family.
    If only.  
    He slides his finger along the flap creating a slow tear, opening it ever so carefully. In the back of his head he thinks of the Road Runner’s creativity while trying to elude Wile E. Coyote.. With one eye shut he rips the rest of the envelope open. No anthrax or bomb, but he does find a crudely written note. It reads like an inbred five-year-old— or a profane Santa— crafted it.
    We no when U R sleeping. We no when U R awake. Sleep tight, cunt.
    Remo’s balls might have climbed into his sinuses. His hand shakes as he guzzles more Johnnie. It should burn as it slips down his gullet. Remo’s senses are so dull he doesn’t even notice. He races to the bedroom. Clothes scatter in every direction as Remo digs through his dresser.
      “Come on . . . fuck, fuck, fuck. Ah, there you are,” he says, finding the Glock 9mm he has tucked away just in case.
    Hello, lover.
    He inspects the Glock like he knows what he’s doing. Pulls at it, picks at it. “Shit.” The clip falls out, dropping to the floor. The Glock was a gift from a client to show appreciation for a job well done. When Remo opened it years ago his first thought was, how many times has this been used? What a nice, tidy way to get rid of a murder weapon—give it to your attorney.
    Unbelievable dickhead clients.
    Now, however, Remo thinks it’s the most thoughtful fucking gift he’s ever received. He just wishes he’d gone to the range or taken some damn lessons or something. He jams the clip back in and yanks back the slide like they do on TV.
    Blam!
    The blast blows out his bedroom window, a deafening sound reverberating through the apartment. Remo makes a mental note to come up with a good lie before calling maintenance with this one. He slips the gun back into the dresser drawer, covering it with underwear. Perhaps going to the gun was a bit premature. He’s pretty sure the neighbors are out of town. He’ll lie later if he has to.
    Remo heads back into the living room, yanks the sprawling picture window’s curtains shut.
    Throws the remaining three locks on the door.
    Slides the chain on.
    Checks the peephole.
    Jams a chair under the knob.
    He doesn’t know what else to do. He’s defended people who have caused situations like this one. He’s even torn apart on the stand the people who were their victims. But he’s never been the target. He’s not a fan.
      Remo digs through the hall closet, finds a baseball bat and backpedals out. Okay, he thinks, you’re okay. On second thought… he switches off the lights.
    “Shit,” he yelps as he bumps into something, falling