She caught his reflection in a glass pane, and she knew this time was different. Not just with how he was keeping his shotgun at arm’s length, but from the cruel twist of his mouth. She realized something else also.
“That guy in the tractor who ran me off the road. You look like him. A cousin of yours? A brother?”
He didn’t say anything. Just pounded harder into her like she was nothing but meat.
“What’s your game? You run rubes off the road, so you can rob them of their cars and money?”
“Shut up!”
“How many rubes you got buried out here?”
He grunted as he pulled out of her. “I’ll shut your mouth for you!” She didn’t fight him as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and guided her toward him. She went willingly. As far as she was concerned she was only going to be biting a sausage in half.
Marlboro man let out a scream. Lauren spat out a lump of flesh and scrambled to the shotgun while he stumbled a step backward while clutching his bloody stump. His eyes grew wide for a brief moment and then the shotgun blast obliterated them, as well as the rest of his face.
Lauren decided she was sick of Kansas. She adjusted her panties and skirt and then fished a set of car keys from Marlboro man’s jacket. With the money she had she was going to leave an ocean or two between her and Jimmy. No one would use her again. She couldn’t help smiling at what happened to the last few men who tried.
Part Two
Lauren rolled down the window as she cruised up Lake Shore Drive in the stolen Camry. No one ever told her the Windy City was so pretty, even at two in the morning. On one side a silver moon spilled a veil of sparks on the lake; on the other a few insomniacs’ lights twinkled in the high-rises. Chicago might be nicer than LA. She smiled, looking forward to a fresh start. Why not? She had the money and the talent. And the Glock.
She turned off the Drive, looking for a twenty-four-hour restaurant. Danger always gave her an appetite, and there’d been plenty of that back in Kansas. She’d spent the last twelve hours racing north to Nebraska in Marlboro Man’s pickup, leaving the carnage — and the bodies — behind. Then east into Iowa where she ditched the truck at a rest stop and hot-wired the Camry. She mentally thanked Hank for teaching her the necessary survival skills.
Now, she spotted the yellow sign above a Golden Nugget on a corner. She parked, slipped the Glock into her waistband, and stashed most of the cash in the trunk. Ducking her head to avoid the video camera tilting down on the sidewalk, she pushed through the door to the restaurant.
Inside, the staff outnumbered the customers. A waitress chatted up the short order cook behind the counter, and the sole customer, a man, crouched over a plate of what might have been meat loaf.
She slid into a booth in the back and picked up a greasy, laminated menu. She was ravenous. The waitress sauntered over and gave her the once-over.
“What ‘ll it be, honey?”
Lauren was about to answer when the door of the restaurant swung open.
A woman came in wearing tight, black leather pants and a faded bomber jacket over a Roots hoody. Her short-cropped hair was jet-black and so was her skin. She looked directly at Lauren with an intensity, and a smile of recognition, that made her stomach seize up.
She knows me.
But that wasn’t possible. There were thousands of miles, and several dead bodies, between her and any place she’d ever been before and anyone who’d ever known her.
It had to be a mistake.
“She’ll have a rare, double-cheese burger with mayonnaise, catsup, mustard, and raw onions, no tomato, crispy fries and a Coke, no ice,” the woman said as she strode over and slid into the booth across the table from Lauren.
Oh yes, she knows me.
It was exactly what Lauren was about to order, her favorite midnight snack.
But Lauren wasn’t hungry any more. She was scared and tired and pissed off.
The waitress scratched out the order on her pad then looked up at the black woman. “What’ll you have?”
“A slice of chocolate cake,” she said. “Black and sweet, like me.”
“I’m sure you are,” the waitress said and lumbered off.
Lauren stared into the woman’s eyes. Her Glock was already aimed at the woman’s crotch under the table.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “That depends, Lauren. If you give me the money you took, I’m the seductive Nubian goddess you had an erotically-charged, late-night meal with one dark night on the road and always regretted not fucking. If you don’t give me the money, then I’m the bad-ass black bitch who killed you with that Glock you’re holding and then burned this hell-hole to the ground.”
Lauren kept her gaze level and her face expressionless.
Never let them see your fear.
“So you work for that low-life Jimmy?” she said.
“More like he works for me, angel.”
“And the money…”
“Mine. Just like your white ass.”
“Bullshit. Jimmy runs all the crank between St. Louis and-”
The woman’s laugh could have scared a Doberman Pinscher. “He told me you liked double cheeseburgers and were smart as hell. As least he got it half right.”
Under the table, Lauren’s hand was beginning to cramp. A Glock with a full clip is a helluva lot heavier than a man’s cock, even Jimmy’s. “What’s there to keep me from shooting you and hitting the road before you bleed out?”
“Think about it. Jimmy works for me. I work for The Man. You fuck with Jimmy, I’m on your ass. You fuck with me, The Man unleashes a shit storm you cannot imagine.”
The waitress delivered the cheeseburger and fries, but Lauren had lost her appetite. The woman grabbed the burger, French kissed a glob of mayo oozing out of the bun, and took a bite. Grease coated her lower lip, and she flicked at it with her tongue.
After a moment, Lauren said, “I don’t have your money.”
“No shit.”
“I stashed it in a farmhouse in Kansas.”
“You stashed it in the trunk of that dumb-ass Camry.” Another laugh like a barking dog.
Shit. She followed me. Maybe all the way from Kansas.
“So you’ve got the money back…”
“Except for what’s stuffed in your bra. Or did you suddenly become a D-cup?"”
“I don't get it. What do you want with me?”
The woman picked up a fry. Her long nails were perfectly manicured and painted blood red. “You gotta pay for what you did.” She sucked the fry into her mouth, took one bite, and swallowed. “You gotta do a job for The Man.”
One quick fluid motion, and Lauren slid out of the booth and pointed the Glock at the woman’s chest. “Tell the bastard to make an appointment.”
The woman’s fist shot out so quickly Lauren didn’t realize she’d been hit until she heard the Glock hit the tile floor and felt the stinger deep in her shoulder joint. A split second later, the woman was on her feet, a strong hand clamped around Lauren’s neck.
“This is the one who killed all those guys in Kansas?”
It was a man’s voice coming from behind Lauren. Filled with disbelief.
“She’s better than this,” the black woman said.
“I hope so, for your sake.”
Lauren strained to turn her head but the woman’s grip was too tight. She knew it was The Man behind her. What she didn’t know was what the hell he wanted with her.
“Hey! Leave her alone!” It was the guy at the counter. He gave up on his meatloaf and slid off the stool, hands on his hips. “I said let her go or I’ll call the cops!”
The Man laughed and nodded at the black woman. Still squeezing Lauren’s neck, she reached inside her bomber jacket with her other hand, whipped out a six-inch carbon steel throwing knife and let it fly, catching the guy in the throat. His carotid artery erupted in a bloody geyser as he melted to the floor.