over a fancy black suit. In his mid-40’s, our fearless leader could charm a lesbian straight. The brains behind this caper, my fellow ex-con could’ve hustled a legitimate fortune when he left the joint. But, like me, he just didn’t believe in an honest living.
He carefully picked up Damea Gency with both arms. The unconscious musical prodigy wore a tasteful, revealing black party dress. Her shoes were off and her toenails were unpainted. Her tanned, 5’6” frame was nothing shy of athletic, nice-tittied perfection. A black hood covered her gorgeous face and most of her long black hair. When Curtis dumped her into my arms, I was too shocked to move. He ran a hand through his styled blonde hair and flashed me a knowing smile.
“Not every day you have a diva in your arms, is it?” Curtis asked as he pulled out a gray pair of gardening gloves and put them on
“Got that right,” I whispered.
“Get her inside,” Curtis ordered, all business again.
I waited for Curtis to put on his ski mask. Then we headed for the front door. Eddie opened the door as I reached the porch. At thirty-one, he wore the same brand of blue coveralls that Curtis and I wore, along with the matching ski mask. He opted for a pair of white surgical gloves. A sawed-off 12-gauge pump was casually slung over his muscled left shoulder.
While I preferred playing basketball back in our days at Joliet, Eddie and Curtis liked to hit the free weights. Once we got out, Curtis let himself go a bit – but not Eddie. He wanted to show off his perfect pecs and thick arms until the day he died. Seeing as he was short and ugly, I could understand his need to distract the ladies.
“C’mon!” Eddie impatiently waved us in, his Mexican accent full of tension. “Inside!”
I carefully carried Damea into the living room. The air conditioner was set to full-blast (thank God!). A quick pang of guilt hit me as I noticed the dozen-plus photos of kids and grandkids all along the Wrenlips’ walls. This time tomorrow, they’d be a pile of ashes – along with the rest of the house. Curtis caught up to us as we headed for the dining room.
The table and furniture had been cleared away, leaving only the dirty beige carpeting. In its place, a stool and a portable computer station were set up. Monitor, hard-drive, and other … hacker stuff was stacked on a three-tiered rolling cart. Curtis tapped me on the back and gestured toward a corner. I gently sat Damea down so that she’d be leaning comfortably against the far corner of the room. Eddie set the shotgun down. He pulled some white rope from his pockets and quickly tied her ankles and hands together.
“Any problems with the Wrenlips?” Curtis asked.
“Not a one,” Eddie replied, half-distracted by Damea’s low-cut bustline. “I gave ‘em both a shot and waited a half-hour, like you said. They’re lights-out.”
Lara stepped out of the bathroom, also in coveralls, wearing white surgical gloves and her ski mask. Short and nervous, she stood up on her toes and gave Curtis a quick kiss through her mask. In her late 20’s, she had never done time. But since this was her first “hands-on” felony, she was a bit nervous.
“Do we really have to wear all of this crap?” Lara asked.
“Yeah,” Curtis eyed Damea with some concern. “That gal’s got a serious resistance to roofies. There’s no telling when she’ll wake up.”
“How many did you slip her?”
“I put one in her wine glass at the party, which should’ve been enough to drop someone twice her size. When that didn’t work, I talked her into a moonlit walk and gave her a shot when she wasn’t looking.”
“Real smooth,” Lara commented with a hint of jealousy. “Can’t wait to hear how you did that.”
Curtis gave her a reassuring grin.
“What if she’s a closet junkie?” Eddie asked. “She might O.D. on us.”
“She would’ve done it by now,” Curtis countered. “And I brought a kit along, just for that. If push comes to shove – “
Damea slowly began to stir.
“She shouldn’t have woken up for another five hours,” Curtis frowned as he glanced at his watch.
“Show time,” Lara nodded to Eddie, who handed her the 12-gauge.
Eddie knelt by Damea as he reached under her hood and pulled a white cloth gag off her mouth. The diva woke up with a dazed moan. Clumsily, she tried to stand, only to realize that her hands and feet were bound. Then she tried to pull her hood off. Eddie grinned and gently pulled her hands away from it.
“Wha- What’s going on?” Damea asked.
“Ms. Gency,” Eddie quietly said, “I’m afraid you’ve been kidnapped.”
Our hostage’s response was to laugh. Even quarter-stoned, her voice was beautiful.
“Oh c’mon, guys!” Damea giggled. “April Fool’s was last week!”
With his right hand, Eddie pulled out a small pocketknife and flicked out its serrated blade. Then he yanked off her hood. Mesmerizing green eyes blinked under the harsh dining room lighting. Amusement turned to fear as she noticed Eddie’s razor-sharp blade hovering inches from her left eye. He held the blade there with the stillness of a surgeon and gave Damea his patented “don’t-make-me-carve-you-up” glare. She cringed.
“Sorry to borrow you, Ms. Gency,” he said, full of menace. “But you have something we want.”
“W-What?” Damea gasped as she looked up at each of us. “What do you want?!”
“The password to your offshore account,” Eddie continued. “The one with 40 million Euros in it.”
The notion made her laugh again. Eddie was half-entranced by her beauty and part angry that she wasn’t coughing up an account number.
“So this is a real kidnapping?” Damea asked.
“Yes,” Eddie said with growing impatience.
“I’m not on some hidden-camera show or something?”
“Does this blade feel fake to you?” Eddie asked as he gently pressed the tip of the knife against her throat.
The ropes on her wrists and ankles snapped like string as the diva made her move. Her hands wrapped around Eddie’s thick right wrist and twisted it with ease. He screamed as bones broke and the knife fell out of his ruined hand. Then Damea Gency casually pushed Eddie off her so hard that his feet left the floor! Eddie was still screaming like a child during his short, painful trip to the ceiling. Then his back hit hard enough to leave a crack as he fell, hit the carpet face-first, and stopped moving.
Damea jumped to her feet with an eager smile. Lara started to level the shotgun at the “helpless” starlet. But our hostage was way too fast. Before Lara could pull the trigger, the diva chopped the weapon in half with a stiff, left-handed strike. Lara stepped back in shock as she dropped both halves of the 12-gauge. Curtis blindsided Damea with an overhand left to the temple. I’d seen him do it to a dozen cons over the years and it worked every time.
She should’ve gone down.
