Don’t shoot!”
Spencer snorted and gave her a quick glance.
“Why not?!”
“The flammable fumes, love.” Chira replied insistently. “The flammable fumes.”
Spencer inhaled deeply … then frowned as he coughed. His drug-addled brain put two-and-two together just as Tempschal kicked open the attic door, her askew wig still on her head. Her gunshot wounds - both old and new - had closed. In her right hand was the blood-covered rolling pin. The guardian glared at Spencer with savage fantasies of retribution. He merely giggled at her as he aimed at her face.
“That wig really looks good on you!” Spencer taunted with downright euphoria.
Tempschal growled as she ripped off the wig with her left hand and tossed it away. Chira looked up at him with growing concern. A few more minutes in this room and the fumes might result in an overdose … if the Lingon didn’t kill him first.
“That gun won’t stop me,” Tempschal growled in her “old lady” voice.
“Nope,” Spencer chuckled as he tapped his nose with his free hand. “But the alchemical explosion just might.”
The sentry stopped and sniffed the air. Her rage turned into dread as she backed up a step.
“Let’s make a deal, you ugly old thing. Swap places with my lady fair -”
“You’re dead!” Tempschal yelled in her true voice, which was something deep, dark, and frightening to the ear.
Spencer confidently snickered before he continued.
“We gag you, of course. And nobody else dies. Or, we can play ‘Blow-the-drug-lab’ and end up in tiny bits.”
Tempschal eyed the manacles for a moment. The demon sentinel knew that her employers would kill her - slowly - if they came back to find their cash cow gone and her chained to a wall. Worse, this drug lab had been compromised. Odds were a surviving cop or two was outside calling for SWAT backup. Even if she killed this fool and got away with Chira, her employers would be less than happy about this fiasco.
It would almost be better to die.
“You’d kill her?” Tempschal skeptically asked, stalling for time to think of a way out of this mess. “After coming all this way to save her?”
“Yep,” Spencer replied without hesitation. “She’s better off dead than like this.”
Chira didn’t quite agree. But she kept her expression neutral and her mouth shut.
“It’s us against the world, you fucking shit monkey,” Spencer said with a raised voice and an unstable posture. “‘Til Hell do us part.”
Spencer cocked the hammer turned his gun barrel toward the drug lab.
“So start speaking that release phrase … or end up a third wheel on our little Hell ride.”
THE DIVA
This was a score to brag about (not that any of us ever could).
It was simple and virtually gun-free. Instead of the usual high-speed getaway driving, all I had to do was arrange transportation for a kidnapping. Tonight, I was behind the wheel of a stolen plumbing van, speeding off with the Damea Gency in the back. The twenty-three year-old pop star/actress/hostage was finer than Angelina Jolie in her pre-baby prime.
I could practically smell her money.
“Slow it down!” Curtis yelled through the partition.
I glanced down at the speedometer and realized that I was doing eighty on a two-lane California road. He was right (like always). This was speed-trap heaven. The last thing we needed was to get pulled over by some bored deputy. I got my head back into the crime, slowed down, and eyed the driver’s side mirror one more time. Nobody was near us. A few miles later, we passed a welcome sign to the great state of Nevada. A full moon lit up the flat, arid landscape like some kind of high-powered stellar flashlight.
Another hour later, we arrived at the safe house; an old, single-story ranch home with peeling white paint and a huge front lawn. A hundred feet behind the house was an ancient wooden barn that no one had ever bothered to paint. Rusty farm equipment and overgrown grass took up the rest of the place, which had definitely seen better days. As I drove up to the barn, I had to admit that it was the last place anyone would look for us.
Curtis picked the spot out last month. Lara and Eddie set up surveillance. The property belonged to Joe and Vera Wrenlip. The long-married retirees lived alone, kept assorted fish, and didn’t get out much during the week. On weekends, they shopped, went to the movies, and spent time at a local Methodist church. During the week, Vera painted landscapes. Joe spent most of his waking hours watching cable and drinking cheap beer.
Based on the phone taps, we figured that they weren’t very chatty. None of their family was nearby. The closest neighbor was over a mile away. Their only regular visitor was the mailman. If they were the victims of a Sunday evening home invasion, the Wrenlips might not be missed for days – maybe weeks. So, while Curtis and I were kidnapping the “2010 Sexiest Woman Alive,” Eddie and Lara paid the Wrenlips a visit with a 12-gauge shotgun.
Hopefully, they didn’t give Eddie any lip.
Second-generation illegal alien, Eddie was a Chi-town gangbanger with too much body art and too little temper. As a “gangsta,” he learned the in’s and out’s of breaking-and-entering (like how to case a home or plant our audio bugs), which made him useful. I also had to admit that Eddie didn’t flinch in the face of trouble. The man didn’t know when to be afraid. So he’d throw fists or lead at the drop of a hat. With this much money at stake, Curtis figured that we might need him.
Still, he was a hotheaded asshole. The dude liked pointing loaded guns at people when they upset him. But that’s why Curtis sent Lara along with him. Curtis’ fiancée was a self-taught money launderer with a Computer Science degree from MIT. Blessed with decent looks and an honest face, she was almost as good with people as Curtis. With her at the scene, Eddie would probably behave. Even he’s not stupid enough to mess things up with an itchy trigger finger … I hope.
I parked the van in the old wooden barn, right next to the two getaway cars: for when this was over. While the red Toyota Celica and the white Saturn sedan both looked like rusted, beat-up clunkers, they weren’t where it counted. I tweaked them both to the point where they’d outrun any cop car on the road.
Killing the engine, I got out of the car and went over the plan. When we were done here, we would torch the van, the barn, and their house. Curtis figured that the flames would get rid of any useful evidence. Then we’d leave Damea and the Wrenlips safely bound and gagged outside. Then we’d call 9-1-1 (on their behalf) when we were safely away.
I pulled a black ski mask out of my pocket and put it on. Even with the van’s half-assed A/C, I was sweating like shit under my blue plumber coveralls and black driving gloves. But I couldn’t take ‘em off. Underneath were the street clothes I’d wear when we left. If things went south, we could ditch the coveralls and look like normal folks inside of thirty seconds. The masks and coveralls kept the Wrenlips from getting a good look at our faces or our street clothes.
That
