Girls Just Wanna Have Guns (6 page)

Sonofabitch
. He closed his distance to the truck. Exhaled. Thought through his options, stomping down the emotions. Two of his men were positioned across the vacant parking lot, “repairing” an old beat-up car, their “iPods” direct links to a mic of his own that he could key to alert them for fast response. He turned the bike, deciding to run counterclockwise to the van and face it; he wanted to get a look at the driver.

They’d
gagged
her. Had she missed some freaking forecast somewhere? One hundred-percent chance of kidnapping today, with a fair-to-likely chance of morning bruises and bound hands?

That was it. When this was over, assuming she lived (she was going to indulge in that pretty fantasy world for a moment), she was going to take karate again and get that black belt she’d been wanting. (Of course, there was the tiny little problem of the karate teacher not letting her back into his dojo after she accidentally shattered his nose last year, and the judo teacher broke out in hives when she’d tried to sign up at his studio. Maybe there was a jujitsu teacher somewhere who hadn’t heard of her. But by God, she was going to take something.)

She noticed the hand of the asshole holding her arm—he was missing two fingers. The guy who appeared to be the boss knelt in front of her, patting her down. He had a SIG in a shoulder harness, another smaller gun in an ankle strap, a third at his waist, and a Ka-Bar knife strapped to his belt. All he needed was a bazooka strapped on his
back. (Slacker.) He wore a relaxed expression of power, the kind people get when they know they can take a life as easily as let it be. She’d seen that kind of menace before in her ex-boyfriend Alex, who had turned out to be more than just bad-boy rebellious; he’d been a criminal, a gunrunner. Geez, she needed some sort of pill for her nagging case of “Dating the Worst Possible Guy, Stupid,” and while she was at it, maybe they had shots for “Wrong Place, Wrong Time, You Idiot.” Hell, she’d probably need a double dose.

“She’s clear,” the Irish boss said, and she glared at him so she wouldn’t sigh in relief that he had missed the little microphone patch. He watched her with an intensity that scraped her raw nerves. “You’re quite the popular woman today. Now, you’re goin’ to follow my instructions, or you’re goin’ to die. Do you understand this? Nod if you do.” She nodded, noting they made another right turn. Maybe there was a per-mile charge in the Kidnappers’ Union?

“I think it’s about time for the train to finish up, boss,” a small, hunch-shouldered guy called from the front passenger seat. “The cops are on the other side.”

The boss continued, unconcerned. “We have seen the two other groups; we had intended on makin’ your acquaintance first, but there is always the advantage of lettin’ the amateurs have their go. I’d imagine they were quite emphatic about you findin’ the diamonds and deliverin’ only to them.”

She nodded.

“Yes, that is to be expected. I’m certain they made quite the elaborate threats against you, or your family, should you not comply.”

She nodded again as the truck made another right turn. The sound of a motorcycle rumbled louder; Trevor had somehow circled around to approach the truck. For a brief moment, she thought he was going to play chicken with the driver, but he turned into a driveway as if that had been his intended destination.

“Fine, this is fine,” the boss continued. “However, you should know that they are local . . . freelancers. They carry
no real weight and either group could easily be bought off, should you want to eliminate their threat.” Okay, this wasn’t sounding so bad. “I, however, won’t be bought in any way. I’ll be having those diamonds,
álainn
, or many people will die.” He leaned closer. “An’ I’ll make sure the world knows they die as a result of your choices. Do you understand this? You may nod.” His voice rumbled low and soft, the Irish lilt giving it just the right amount of spring to imply that he had a bit of humor sprinkled on top of his psychotic murderous intent. Oh, goody, a
happy
murderer.
Much
better than a cranky one.

She nodded, and felt them turn again.

“Good. You’ll find the diamonds and you’ll wait for me. You should be aware I know exactly what they are, what they’re worth, and how many there are. You will not be able to fool me so do not try. You’ll not be smart enough.”

She seethed and didn’t nod.
Not smart enough. You bastard, I’ll show you not smart
—and then he pulled his knife and used it to start slicing the front of her shirt.

“I can get to you any time I want,
álainn
. Do you understand?”

Trevor kept one eye on his high-tech monitor, which would have appeared to anyone else to be nothing more than a fancy cell phone. Fortunately, it was capable of more than even the Bureau understood. The number spiking in the corner of the handheld’s screen: Bobbie Faye’s heart rate. Dammit, he wanted her out of there. She didn’t whimper, didn’t give him a cue that he’d better move in, get her out now. No, this asshole didn’t want her dead. Yet. Just scared.

Her heartbeat steadied, but hadn’t dropped back to normal.

The phone vibrated. Trevor checked the caller ID and slapped off the phone, in spite of the fact that it was going to piss off his so-called “boss.” He already knew what the man wanted. Rather,
who
the man wanted.

And she was in the truck, her heart rate high, unable to talk.

From:
Simone

To:
JT

Third player. Want me to pull her out?

From:
JT

To:
Simone

No. She’s expendable. Track the player.

Cam listened over his radio to the frustrated cops grousing about being forced to wait for the train to pass in order to reach Ce Ce’s. Two squad cars had peeled off to drive around the unusually long train; no one could tell him what was going on over there. Calls to Ce Ce’s snagged against a busy signal. Maybe the phone had been destroyed, or maybe someone was calling out, but it was killing him not to know if Bobbie Faye was okay. He looked in his rearview mirror to where Stacey sat buckled in, her face sticky with the ice cream he’d bought for her. His mom was going to kill him later when she had to deal with Stacey on a sugar high.

“Uncle Cam, is people shootin’ at Aunt Bobbie Faye again?”

Jesus Christ, where’d the kid learn to put stuff together. Five-year-olds weren’t supposed to be this sharp.

“Ah, she’s fine, honey. She’s just busy and she thought you’d like to go over to Me Maw’s to swim.” Stacey referred to his mom with the same affectionate nickname as did her “regular” grandchildren. His mom still hadn’t accepted the fact that he wasn’t dating Bobbie Faye and Stacey wasn’t going to be another one of her official brood.

Cam strained to hear any details from his radio. He didn’t want to turn it up on the off chance bad news was broadcast—at least at this setting, he could slam the volume down before the kid heard anything damaging.

“When I get big, I’m gonna shoot people ’fore they can shoot me,” Stacey announced, and Cam’s headache cranked up another notch.

“No, honey, you’re not gonna shoot anyone. Nobody’s
gonna shoot at you and you’re going to grow up and be normal.”

Dear God, he hoped.

The Irish bastard slit most of her shirt down the front, letting the knife scratch against her skin just enough to create a welt, the sting of skin broken as if by a razor’s edge, each inch of the cut drawn out with a teasing smile. He was waiting for her to nod, to agree that she wasn’t smart enough to outwit him. He’d probably start slicing some other clothing item if she didn’t agree.

She glared at him. Common Sense had sounded all of the alarms, begging her to play along as “the frightened prisoner,” but the Glaring? That had a mind of its own. Because who in the
fuck
did this guy think he was?

Um, probably a psycho killer
, Common Sense offered. Still, the Glaring wouldn’t back down.

The bastard
laughed
. “Very good. I see we have
tuiscint dá chéle
, a mutual understanding, you see.” He spoke into her ear, his warm breath pulsing against her neck, “I like you,
álainn
, and would like to keep ya without harmin’ ya.”

Keep
? Oh, holy
hell
. She ran rapid fire through Alarm, Fear, Repulsion, and Loathing when Fascination stepped up and said,
Oh, so
this
is what psychotic bad guys look like
.

Mid-shudder, the truck stopped and they tossed her out. She tumbled onto the asphalt, looking up in time to watch the tires spin as they raced away. She yanked the gag from her mouth, spitting out the taste of sweat-soaked cotton. Bobbie Faye spun where she stood on the off chance there were any more criminals who wanted to take her for a test-drive today. The road was clear, except for Trevor on his bike, heading for her, and the cousins in the Hummer, parked, managing to block the “escape route” of the truck . . .
after
it had already driven safely away. Well, give them two points for finally thinking of that little trick, three kidnappers later. God help her if she was ever
on fire. They’d probably figure out to call the fire department when there was nothing left but ashes.

She looked down at her sliced and gaping-open shirt; it had been one of her favorites, and of course, she’d chosen that day to wear her almost-see-through bra. Her hands shook as she ripped the rest of the shirt down the front so she could tie the halves together. The heat of the day baked her skin as she stood in the morning sun, her pulse throbbing so hard she could feel it in her fingertips, too aware of every single drop of sweat running down her skin. She knew she was going into shock, especially since she didn’t really register how close the motorcycle was until Trevor closed his hand over hers. It was everything she could do to keep from leaping forward and throwing her arms around him. His gaze fell to the sliced shirt and the welt still visible. He squeezed her hand, his thumb circling over hers, calming, though the anger shining in his eyes was clear.

“Play along,” he warned as he yanked her to him, throwing her off balance so that she landed against his side and had to grab his arm to keep from falling to the pavement. “Look pissed off for our viewers. Go straight to your Aunt Marie’s house, and whatever you do, when you see me there, you need to be afraid.”

If he kept looking like he’d be happy to go on a murder spree, she didn’t think looking afraid was going to be a real stretch. He shoved her away and pointed at her car, as if he was giving her instructions. She stalked toward the Civic, scooping up her purse from where she’d dropped it before.

“Bobbie Faye, yooohoooooooo, Bobbie Faye,” Francesca called, heading on a direct intercept course between Bobbie Faye and her car. “We decided you’d be safer if I rode with you! So I can protect you if those bad guys come back!”

She looked up to heaven.
Seriously, God, didja just get bored with the pestilence, plague, and a horde of crickets?

U.S. DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY