Jack went through two boxes of Hydra-Shoks. He took a flashlight from the truck and inspected his work. He’d hit the shack plenty of times. But most of his shots had missed the target, which admittedly was closer in size to the Incredible Hulk than Wyetta Earp or Rorie Holloway.
Kate stood beside him. He hadn’t heard her coming.
She eyed the bullet holes in the side of the shack, little tsk-tsk-tsk sounds passing between her lips. Finally she said, “If you use the pistol, make sure you’re close enough to smell their perfume.”
“Maybe I should use the shotgun,” Jack suggested. “I’m more likely to hit something with it, right?”
Kate shook her head. “You’re more likely to hit me. Better stick with the pistol.”
Jack figured he’d save himself further embarrassment by changing the subject. “Who did you phone?”
“All our friends in Pipeline Beach. Wyetta still isn’t home. Neither is Rorie.”
“You think they’re waiting for us at the Riptide?”
“I think so. The heat’s on. They haven’t found the money, and now they’ve murdered Ellis. They’ll want us out of the picture. They won’t want anyone sniffing around the mess they’ve made.”
“Shit.” Jack ejected the clip from the Heckler and began reloading. He was all thumbs, though-slick little cartridges slipped between his fingers and dropped to the ground.
“Let me do that,” Kate said.
“Man,” Jack said. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this business. And if I get my ass killed by a woman named Wyetta Earp. . man oh man, talk about your embarrassing endings-”
“You’ll do fine.” Kate slapped the clip home and returned the pistol.
They were close now. Their eyes met-he had to look up because she was just a little taller than he was. Not a lot, just a little. His eyes were green and alive in the tarnished moonlight, and one corner of his mouth was kind of twitchy, like he couldn’t decide if he should smile or not, and she started to step away-
His hand found hers in the shadows. “Hey,” he said. “Just for luck, huh? Just because we’re doing this thing together.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
She kissed him. It had been a long time since she had kissed anyone. Since Vince. And Jack Baddalach was a good kisser. His lips were soft, and his mouth was warm, and he didn’t push her away, he drew her in, his arms around her, and her arms slipped around his waist and the kiss was slow and easy and wonderful.
They really took their time with it.
As if they had all the time in the world.
Their noses touched as their lips parted.
They let them touch like that for a long moment, staring into each other’s eyes.
Both smiled. Jack stepped back, hands drifting over her hips but not letting go just yet because he was a little dizzy and had to hold onto something.
“You’re something, Major Kate Benteen,” he said. “I never met anyone quite like you.”
His voice was as soft as his kiss, as soft as his hands on black leather.
Those hands were drifting away.
Kate found one of them. Held it in hers. Guided it to her breast.
Leather whispered in Jack Baddalach’s grasp.
“This outfit has thirteen zippers,” Kate said. “And every one of them works.”
Kate glanced at the pair of high beams in the rearview mirror. Baddalach was behind those headlights, following in the rented Range Rover.
God knew what he was thinking.
Kate knew what she was thinking: Goddamn-it just doesn’t get much more romantic than this. Off to kill a couple of gunslingin’ law-gals, but first let’s make a little love on an old horse blanket in the back of a Dodge Dakota. Snuggled up between a bunch of boxes filled with bootleg telephones, and not one drop of champagne between them, but who the hell needs champagne when you’ve got a tarnished moon in the sky and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of stud on top of you and good music on the radio.
An oldies station out of Tucson. Late night and hardly any commercials. The disc jockey must have known what was going on out there in the desert. He’d played “Surfer Girl” and “Sealed with a Kiss” and “Hurts So Bad.” Hell, he’d even played “Baby the Rain Must Fall.”
Kate bit her lower lip. She hadn’t felt this bad in a long time. This good, either. She hadn’t felt much of anything in nearly two years. She’d been running on that even keel, just sticking to a routine, taking things nice and easy and-
Damn, but it felt good to be with a man again.
Damn, but she was miserable.
Jack Baddalach. If only she had been with him. . and only him. His breath warm on her neck while the cool evening breeze brushed her brow, his lips finding hers in the shallow glow of moonlight.
If only she hadn’t closed her eyes and given in while her heart dredged up the memory of Vincent Komoko.
Because then it was Vince’s breath warming her neck while the cool evening breeze brushed her brow. Vince’s lips finding hers in the shallow glow of moonlight. .
The telepathic disc jockey up in Tucson was still in touch. He dropped the needle on Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely.” Kate turned off the radio.
“Goddamnit,” she said, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. “Goddamnit!”
Why did Jack Baddalach have to turn out to be such a fuckin’ nice guy, anyway?
PART SIX
ONE
Woody’s balls were killing him.
Shit. That motel bitch could kick like a fucking mule. Had to be she knew karate or something.
He paced along the junkyard fence. The bitch was hiding in there somewhere. Her kick had sure enough doubled him over, but he’d managed to straighten up just in time to see her scramble over the chain-link fence.
Woody shined a flashlight through the chain-link but didn’t see a goddamn thing besides busted-up cars.
He’d found the flashlight in the bitch’s house. While he was looking around, he’d traded the sharpened toothbrush for a meat cleaver, too.
The cleaver was pretty damn sharp. Maybe he should just jump the fence, go after her.
But her dog was in there, too. And Woody didn’t want to go up against a pit bull, not even with a meat cleaver. Shit. He’d just been dog-bit the other day. The monk had, anyway. And Woody couldn’t see himself making any mistake that the monk had made.
Man, it seemed like he’d been pacing back and forth for hours. The motel bitch was hiding, and there was no sign of the boxer or the bitch in the black bikini. Woody swore. Maybe he should just bag the whole deal. Find the keys to the motel bitch’s Volvo and hit the dusty trail. Worry about getting himself some trim somewhere civilized, like Tucson maybe.
Yeah. Why not.
He went into the bitch’s house one more time. Her purse lay on the sofa. Woody grabbed her car keys. Figured, what the hell, and grabbed a wad of greenbacks, too.
It’d be good to see this fucked-up place in his rearview mirror, anyway. Just put the whole deal behind him. Coming here had been the monk’s idea, anyway. Woody should have figured it would be a king-sized mistake.
Woody counted the bitch’s money as he stepped out the door. Sixty-seven bucks and change. He shook his head. But, shit. . sixty-seven bucks was better than noth-
“Freeze, asshole.”
Woody froze.
The sheriff said, “Drop the cleaver.”
“Do it now,” said the deputy.
Sandy couldn’t believe her luck. She climbed the chain-link fence and ran across the parking lot.
Wyetta had her pistol trained on Woody Jefferson while Rorie patted him down. “Sheriff!” Sandy shouted. “Jesus, am I glad to see you! That son of a bitch practically broke down my door. He tried to rape me, and-”