Shoot the Woman First (6 page)

“Good enough.” She got behind the wheel. Multicolored wires hung from the cracked steering column. She braided two together, and the engine started.

Larry got in beside her. “You sure?”

“I'm sure,” she said. “Let's get out of here.”

*   *   *

They went slowly up the driveway. The Lexus was in the garage, the door shut. She backed the Toyota up next to Larry's rental, pulled wires apart, and the engine went quiet.

They sat there, waiting for the Saturn, listening to the wind. The rain had slackened, but the clouds were low and dark. The pain in her back was a steady throbbing.

“Got crazy back there,” he said.

“It did.”

“I maybe killed that man. I don't know.”

“If you hadn't shot him, he would have killed me.”

“Could have gone a lot worse, I guess.”

“Always,” she said. “Come on, let's have a look, see what we've got.”

They got out, and she opened the trunk, unzipped the duffel. The money was in thick packs, some of them bound by plain rubber bands.

“Sloppy,” he said. She took out a pack, looked through it. Hundreds and fifties, but worn bills. That was good. She shook the bag, looking for anything else that wasn't money, found nothing.

They turned as the Saturn came up the driveway, Glass at the wheel. He parked beside the Toyota. She put the bills back, zipped the bag shut, started to pull it from the trunk, felt a surge of pain. Larry saw it in her face.

“I've got it,” he said. “Go on in.” He took out the bag, shut the lid.

Inside the house, it was almost dark as night. There was a half inch of water on the kitchen floor. They went into the living room, and he dropped the duffel on the couch. The wind picked up outside, rattled something upstairs.

Glass and Cordell came in, shaking off the rain, Cordell carrying the bag with the weapons.

“How'd we do?” Glass said. He smelled of gasoline and smoke.

“Waiting on you before we find out,” she said.

“You all right?”

“I'm good.”

Cordell set the tac bag clanking on the floor. Glass switched on the lanterns, went to the bay window and looked back down to the street. “Nobody out there.”

“Good,” Larry said. “Let's do the count.”

“First things first,” Glass said, and took an empty tac bag from behind the couch, opened it on the floor. “Give it up. Any other weapons. Vests and masks, whatever else you have. Cell phones, too.”

Larry took off his windbreaker, then shrugged out of the sweater, unsnapped his vest. Glass was doing the same. Her own vest had been left behind in the van. She left the Glock where it was.

Cordell hadn't moved. He stood behind the couch, watching them.

“Come on,” Glass said. “Vest off. I'm ditching them.” He folded his own vest into the tac bag. Larry dropped his on top, pulled the windbreaker back on.

“Getting kind of used to it,” Cordell said.

“Take it off,” Glass said. Then to Crissa, “You ready to count?”

“Yeah.”

Glass pulled a folding chair near the couch, sat, and unzipped the duffel. Larry took the other chair, sat close by. Glass began taking out money, lining the packs up on the coffee table. They soon ran out of space, had to set packs on the floor, Glass counting, then handing them over to Larry, who counted them again.

Cordell had his windbreaker off, was pulling the sweater over his head. He looked at the money, glasses askew, said, “Fat stacks.”

“No way it's a half mil,” Larry said. “But it's two hundred K at least.”

“Three hundred, I'm betting,” Glass said. “Or close.”

Cordell was fumbling with the vest straps. He got it off finally, draped it on the back of the couch. Beneath it, he wore the same Bob Marley T-shirt she'd seen before, now dark with sweat across the stomach. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose, watched them count.

“Have a seat,” she told him. “This could take a while.” Glass had a small calculator out, was punching in numbers.

Her back ached. She wanted to sit down but was afraid she wouldn't be able to get up again. She rubbed the small of her back, resettled the Glock. When they were done with the split, ready to leave, she'd put it in the bag with the other guns.

“Three twenty-five,” Glass said. “Even.”

“My count, too,” Larry said.

To Glass, she said, “Five thousand off the top to you, like we agreed. Then that's ninety thousand to each of us.”

“You were always quick that way,” he said. “Cordell and I are going to hang here a bit, let you two get clear. Leave your shares in the duffel, it'll be easier to carry. Just get rid of the bag when you can, to be safe.”

“Right,” Larry said, and began loading money back into the bag.

Glass looked at her. “Nice work.”

“It was,” she said, and then the ceiling above them creaked.

They all looked up. She reached back, touched the Glock, turned and saw Cordell. He met her eyes, and in that instant she knew. Then his hand was coming out from behind his back, from under the Bob Marley T-shirt, and there was a gun in it.

She dove to her left, hit the table, then the floor, packs of money flying around her. She got the Glock free, was bringing it around, but Cordell was already firing, the gun jumping in his hands. Glass spun, as if turning away from the shots.

She kicked at the table to get clear of it. Glass fell across her, and she saw the red and black hole under his right cheekbone. She pushed him away, saw Larry dive for the bag with the guns, Cordell still firing. Then there were footsteps on the stairs, and someone else there in the shadows, firing down over the railing at them.

She snapped a shot at the stairs, then kicked the lantern closest to her. It hit the wall and went dark, and she fired in Cordell's direction, kept rolling, knocking over the chairs, the room full of gunfire.

She came up in a crouch below the bay window, her back to the wall, fired at Cordell again—too low—saw the bullet strike the vest on the back of the couch. She fired higher, but he was already dropping down. The bullet broke glass somewhere beyond him.

She saw the second lantern beside the couch, fired at it. Metal spanged, and it flew to the side. The room dropped into darkness.

More muzzle flashes came from the stairs, rounds striking the wall behind her. She fired at the flashes, raised up for a better shot, and then Larry was coming toward her out of the dark, moving fast. He slammed into her, an arm around her waist, and they went backward through the window, glass and wood giving way around them.

They crashed into skeletal shrubs, then hard onto solid ground, the breath going out of her, the Glock flying from her hand. Larry was already scrambling to his feet, reaching for her, but she pulled away from him, lunged for the gun in the dirt, got it just as a silhouette appeared at the window. She fired at it, and then it was gone again.

“Come on,” Larry said, and she turned to see he had the duffel slung over his left shoulder. He'd had it with him when they'd gone through the window. Their money.

She fired again into the dark window, then rolled to her feet on the wet ground, started across the driveway at a run, Larry beside her. Cover ahead, dead hedges bordering the next yard.

As they reached them, there were popping sounds behind, more shots from the house. Larry fell to his knees. She stood above him, twisted, the Glock in a two-handed grip, and began to fire at the window. Three shots and the slide locked back, the magazine empty.

He was struggling to his feet, out of breath. She dropped the gun, grabbed his arm, and then they were pushing through the hedges together. One of the duffel's straps snagged on a branch, and he pulled to try to free it, the bushes shaking.

“Leave it,” she said.

“No way.” The strap came loose all at once, and he started to fall again. She caught his windbreaker, pushed and pulled him through the rest of the hedge and into the next yard.

The house here was almost identical to the one they'd left, dark, the windows and front door boarded over. No place to hide. Behind them, two more pops, wild shots. Still gripping his jacket, she pulled him along as they ran. On the other side of the yard was a blacktop driveway, then a low stone wall, trees beyond.

She slipped on the wet ground, landed hard, and then he was pulling her up. They crossed the yard together. She reached the wall first, rolled over the top, thumped into the dirt below. He came over behind her, landed on her with a grunt, drove the breath from her again. They rolled clear of each other, and she came up onto her knees, keeping her head below the level of the wall.

Another shot sounded behind them, but muffled, fired inside the house this time, not through the window. Then two more. Then silence.

Larry was breathing hard, his face pale.

“That little prick,” he said. “I should have known.”

“We need to keep moving.”

“You hit anybody back there?”

“I don't know. But we're not going to wait around to find out.”

He rolled onto his knees and winced with pain. It was then she saw the smear of blood on the back of his jacket.

“You're hit,” she said.

“Caught one back there. Maybe two. I don't know.”

They were on a corner lot, no house here, just unbroken trees, open street on two sides. To their left was a chain-link fence, beyond it a long low garage, some sort of municipal facility. Against the side wall of the garage were a half-dozen black plastic fifty-five-gallon drums. Gang tags on the walls, broken windows. The building empty and dark.

She peered over the top of the wall, back at the house. No movement. No noise. But Cordell and his partner would come looking for them soon.

She nodded at the chain-link fence. “Can you climb that?”

“Maybe. I doubt it.”

“We have to,” she said. “We can't be out in the open like this. They'll find us.”

“I can try.”

She helped him to his feet, and they moved in a crouch toward the fence. He dragged the duffel behind him. The back of his jacket was dark with blood now. She could see the hole in the material, just above his right hip, where the bullet had gone in.

He saw her looking, said, “I'm okay. It doesn't hurt. Not yet. I didn't see what happened to Charlie. Did you?”

“Yes,” she said, and left it at that.

The fence was about eight feet high, with two strands of barbed wire across the top. No razor wire, at least. The front gate of the fenced lot was chained and padlocked. Once inside, they might be safe.

“What do you think?” she said.

“I don't know.”

“We have to try.”

“Leave me. Take the money.”

“No.”

Faint noises from back at the house. Car doors shutting, an engine starting.

“We don't have much time,” she said. “We can make it if we do it together. It's not that high.”

“Looks pretty fucking high to me.”

“We have to move.”

She took off the windbreaker, tied the sleeves around her waist. She backed up a few feet, got a running start, leaped, and caught the fence about halfway up, the chain-link rattling and swaying under her. She locked gloved fingers through metal diamonds, got the toe of her boot into another, pulled herself up, and began to climb. The pain in her back was gone now, along with the numbness in her leg. There was nothing but the fence, the yard beyond.

Near the top, she clung with one hand, untied the sleeves of the jacket with the other. Just the two strands of rusty barbed wire, no Y-bar to keep someone from climbing over. But the wire could catch her just as easily, hang her up there, draw blood.

She swung the windbreaker over her head. It took two tries to get it draped across the wire, lining side up.

She looked down at Larry, reached. “Come on, I'll help you.”

“I don't think I can do it.”

Headlights coming down the street now, slow.

“Climb,” she said.

He bent to pick up the duffel, fell to one knee.

“Forget the money,” she said. “Come on.”

He shook his head, stood, hoisted the bag with both hands, unsteady, pushed it up toward her.

There was no time to argue. When the bag was high enough, she hooked fingers in the strap, got the duffel up and onto the barbed wire, then tipped it over. It landed in weeds on the other side.

She looked back down, and he was already climbing, the fence moving under him. He lost his grip on the wet chain-link, slid down, then started up again. She reached for him, caught his jacket, pulled up. He was gasping for air, moving slow, the adrenaline wearing off, the pain and fatigue setting in. She looked back toward the street. If the car came around the corner now, they'd both be outlined against the fence, easy targets.

Halfway up, he stopped, hung there with both hands. She hooked a hand into his armpit, then got her forearm under him to take some of his weight.

“Almost there,” she said.

He grimaced with pain, kept climbing. She had his belt now, could hold him steady as he climbed past her. He reached the top, got his right leg across the jacket, teetered there for a moment and almost fell. Then he righted himself, swung his left leg over and began to climb down the other side. Three feet from the ground, he lost his grip, fell, grunted when he hit the dirt.

Headlights shining through the trees. She went over the top fast, started down, pulling the jacket after her. It snagged on a barb, then tore free. She let it go, dropped the last few feet, landed hard on her side in weeds. He started to get up, and she grabbed his jacket, hissed, “Stay down.” He flattened himself beside her. Thunder echoed in the distance.

The car had stopped around the corner and parked at an angle, headlight beams cutting through the trees. They'd have the windows down, watching and listening. The high beams switched on, threw shadows against the side of the garage. She laid her cheek on wet ground.