Agnes and the Hitman (25 page)

“And Shane’s coming home any minute.” Taylor looked over his shoulder.

“Yeah, well...” He looked back at Agnes. “You give me back the ring and I’ll go.”

“What?”

“The engagement ring.” He nodded at Agnes’s hand. “Give me my ring back and I’ll go.”

Agnes looked down at the ring he’d given her. She’d actually forgotten about it. Five thousand dollars he’d said it’d cost him. That could buy some stuff for the house. Like landscaping maybe.
Wonder if Garth can landscape?

“No,” she said. “Go away.”

“I want the—”

“You broke the engagement, I get the ring.”

“
You stabbed me with a fork!”

“You married another woman first,” Agnes said. “Go away. I have things to do.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Taylor said.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” Agnes said. “Beat it or I’ll have Doyle take a hammer to the Cobra.”

“Hey!” Taylor said, and then evidently realizing his ride was vulnerable, he left.

Agnes looked at the ring and then at the basement door. “Why can’t anything this week be
simple?”
she said, and went to call her lawyer.

Shane checked his watch. Ten minutes till the payoff. He poked his head in the opening to the front of the van and saw two suspension towers straight ahead on the horizon. Left and right was swamp as far as the eye could see.

“Ideas?” Shane asked.

“I would think a direct approach is needed here, which is your specialty. It’s not like we’re going to be able to sneak up on the drop site.”

“Pull off before you hit the on-ramp for the bridge. I want to see if I can get an over-watch position with a clear shot with the long rifle.”

“Roger that,” Carpenter said, “but it’s going to be a tough angle up to that midspan.”

Shane saw what he meant as they came around a slight curve, and the road rose precipitously toward the nearest tower. “Pull over here,” Shane said before they got so close that he wouldn’t be able to see the midspan.

Carpenter waited until they crossed a concrete bridge over a creek, then pulled over to the side of the road.

“Open the sunroof,” Shane ordered as he placed his
M21
sniper rifle in the passenger seat, muzzle up.

Carpenter did so, and Shane stood between the seats, putting a small spotting scope on the roof of the van.

“Not inconspicuous,” Carpenter noted.

“Feel free to contribute Plan B,” Shane said.

“We grab the consigliere and the money
before
the exchange. Maybe Casey Dean will work a deal with us or break off the contract.”

“Wilson wants Dean terminated.”

“Did he say so?”

“He doesn’t send me out to talk to people.” Shane leaned forward and looked through the spotting scope, adjusting the focus. “He’s testing you.”

Yeah, and I fail if I don’t shoot Casey Dean.

Shane saw a black Lincoln Town Car pulled over in the breakdown lane, right side of the bridge, center span. These goombahs were nothing but predictable, he thought. He checked his watch. Three minutes before two. Casey Dean was a professional, which meant the drop would be made right on time. Shane slid back down in the van, crouching between Carpenter in the driver’s seat and the sniper rifle in the passenger seat, taking the spotting scope with him.

“The consigliere is there.” He held the scope as he peered through the windshield. The view wasn’t quite as good, but he could clearly see the black Town Car.

“Two minutes,” Carpenter said. “And we’ve got flashing lights coming down the road behind us.”

“Cops?” Shane could hear the sirens now.

“Looks like, followed by an ambulance.” Carpenter reached forward and turned on the special radio, tuning it to the local emergency band, the volume turned low while Shane kept his focus on the bridge.

“There’s a report of an accident on the bridge,” Carpenter relayed from his position, leaning close to the radio speaker.

“Bullshit. There’s no accident up there. Dean called this in as a distraction.” Shane was shifting, trying to find where Dean was.

“One minute,” Carpenter announced.

The door on the Town Car opened, and a tall, thin man with gray hair stepped out, holding a shiny metal briefcase. He was looking about, obviously unsure which direction Dean was coming from.

The sirens were getting closer as Shane reached out with his free hand and grabbed the rifle.

“You’re not going to shoot with cops around?” Carpenter asked.

Shane could hear the sirens go by and saw the flashing lights reflected in the windshield. But his focus was on the bridge. The consigliere suddenly reached into
his
jacket pocket and pulled out
his
phone and answered.

“Dean’s making contact,” Shane said.

“One state patrol car and an ambulance, reaching the ramp for the bridge,” Carpenter reported. “And I’ve got another police car in the side mirror coming this way.”

This was definitely cramping his style. He couldn’t pop out the sunroof and blow Casey Dean away with one shot while the police were driving by. He squinted as the consigliere walked over to the side of the bridge and looked over the edge.

“Oh, shit. Dean’s underneath.” Shane slid into the passenger seat and put the rifle across his lap. “Drive!”

Carpenter threw the van into gear and pulled onto the road just as a sheriff’s car blew past. “Which way?”

“Ahead and then—” Shane thought fast. They couldn’t go onto the bridge with all the cops around. He still had the scope to his eye and he saw the consigliere drop the case over the side of the bridge and get back in his car. There was one exit before they hit the on-ramp.

“Take that exit,” Shane ordered.

Carpenter turned hard right. The road curved around and then under the ramp, but there was dense, impenetrable vegetation between the road and the Savannah River.

“We’ve got to see the water,” Shane said, powering down the passenger window.

“Hold on.” Carpenter jerked the wheel hard and they skidded onto a dirt trail. The van’s specially built suspension grappled with the ruts and rocks as Carpenter accelerated down the narrow track.

“Whoa!” Shane yelled as the Savannah River suddenly appeared ahead of them, a rusting chain-link fence indicating the end of the trail.

Carpenter had hit the brakes even as Shane gave the warning, and the van skidded to a halt, the front bumper less than two feet from the fence. Shane was moving as it stopped, throwing open the door and jumping out, the rifle in his hands.

He brought it up to his shoulder in the ready position, the muzzle resting on top of the fence, but he kept the eye closest to the scope closed, while he scanned with the free eye. There were three boats visible. An old tug chugging upriver, and two personal craft heading downriver. Shane put his gun eye to the scope and checked the farthest boat, a cabin cruiser about a half mile away. An old man and woman were visible in the flying bridge.

Not Casey Dean.

He shifted to the second boat, a smaller, faster craft that was kicking up quite a wake and expanding the distance between it and Shane’s gun at a rapid pace. A figure dressed in black, hood pulled up over the head, was at the center console.

Shane aimed at the figure and his finger caressed the trigger. He could feel his heart beating and begin to slow down as he got in the rhythm for the shot.

“You sure that’s Casey Dean?” Carpenter asked.

“No,” Shane said.

“Give me your phone and the card,” Carpenter said.

Shane kept the rifle in place, one eye on the boat, which was fast getting out of range and approaching a bend in the river, where it would be out of sight. He knew exactly what Carpenter wanted to do and preempted his partner by using his off-hand to pull out the phone and card and then dialing the cell phone number as fast as he could. He kept his firing hand on the rifle.

Shane was slightly surprised when there was a ring. Then another and another. The figure on the boat didn’t move. After four rings, a mechanical voice informed him he could leave a message.

“Casey Dean,” Shane said. “I’ve got you in my sight.”

The figure still didn’t move.

The boat reached the bend in the river and was just about out of sight when the figure at the console put his right hand into the air and Shane could see the middle finger extended just as the boat gathered speed and disappeared.

“Look on the positive side,” Carpenter said. “You know what

Casey Dean looks like from behind, dressed in dark sweats with a hood over his head. That’s something to report to Wilson.”

“
Fuck,”
Shane said, and got back in the van.

“What do you mean, I can’t dissolve the partnership?” Agnes said into the phone ten minutes later. “He’s trying to
sabotage it,
Barry.”

“Which is a damn good reason to dissolve it, Agnes,” her lawyer said. “But it’s a partnership. The two of you have to dissolve it together. And Taylor doesn’t want it dissolved. He already called.”

“Barry, he’s trying to get the health department to shut down a wedding we’re catering,” Agnes said. “Isn’t that some kind of breach of contract?”

“I’d sue him,” Barry said. “But then, I’m a lawyer.”

Agnes heard the front door slam and turned to see Lisa Livia come into the kitchen with a shopping bag that said
betsie’s bon ton.

Rhett hadn’t even bothered to lift his head.

“You got a truck coming across your bridge,” Lisa Livia said, and Agnes hung up on Barry and went to the front door to look, almost tripping over five pieces of Lisa Livia’s pink leather luggage in the hall on the way.

“Brenda caught me going through her stuff and threw me off the boat,” Lisa Livia said. “She kept screaming about betrayal. Can I have my old room back?”

“Sure,” Agnes said, heading out the front door. “What truck—?”

It was already crossing the bridge, which groaned its displeasure, and then it was sweeping down the drive and over the lawn—”Will you
stop that?”
Agnes yelled at the driver—and then it stopped and the driver got out and opened the back and wheeled out a crate that looked familiar.

“What the—,” Lisa Livia began, and then the chinless wonder of a driver who also looked familiar opened the crate and another flamingo staggered out, honking like mad, and Cerise went crazy.

The driver came toward Agnes with his clipboard.

“No,” she said.
“You take them both back.”

“I’m just
the delivery guy, lady,” he said, his rabbity face twitching. The patch on his uniform said,
butch
, but he so wasn’t.

“I’m not signing that,” Agnes said.
“Take them back. They need to be in a flock.”

“Can’t do it,” he said. “Just sign this.”

“No.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and looked at him closer. “You’re not from any delivery service. And you delivered Cerise. Downer paid you to do this.
Who are you?”

He met her eyes for a moment, and then bolted for the truck.

“Come back here, you bastard!”
Agnes started after him, but fear made him fast: He dived for the front seat and had the truck in gear and moving before the door was closed.

She walked back to Lisa Livia, who was still carrying her Bon Ton bag, but who’d now picked up the clipboard he’d dropped.

“This one’s name is Hot Pink,” LL said.

Agnes looked down to the river. Hot Pink and Cerise were deep in honking conversation of mutual outrage, but Cerise didn’t seem to be as manic as before. “Is there a return address?”

“No,” Lisa Livia said. “This is like an information sheet. Like a zoo might give out.”

“A zoo.” Agnes closed her eyes. “Call that moron Downer and ask if he had these guys stolen from a zoo.”
What “if”? Of
course
that idiot had them stolen from a zoo. Who sells flamingos?
“Call Downer and tell him we know he hired Butch to steal Cerise and Hot Pink and if he has them taken back right now, we won’t have him arrested and shot.”