Less acceptable now, though. “What do you mean?”
“Are you with Johnny?” He took a step forward, and she retreated. She bumped the edge of the Dumpster, the metal cool and greasy against her bare arm. Shit.
She could dash for the mouth of the alley. But heels were hardly running shoes. Besides, she’d be abandoning the guys. Getting away wasn’t enough. Somehow she had to get him out of here.
How, though? She had the gun in her purse, but he was so close…
“Come on. What’s going on?” His breath was faintly sour.
And then it came to her. A way to make any man move, random creep or hardened drug dealer.
“If you don’t leave right now,” she said, “I’ll scream rape.”
He stiffened. “Why would you do that?”
She took a deep inhale, opened her mouth. Stared him straight in the eye, watched him calculate how long and loud she could scream, how many people might be around to hear it. It was dark but not late, and Lincoln had plenty of traffic, plus the apartments nearby…
“OK.” He put his hands up. “OK.” He took a step backward. “Easy.”
“Keep going.” She moved away from the Dumpster, the purse in her hands.
“There’s no need to get crazy.”
“Just move your car and leave me alone.”
He grimaced, and glanced over his shoulder. Checked his watch. “Let me make a phone call.”
“Now.”
The man sighed. “You win.” He took another step back.
He had just pulled out his keys when the back door to the restaurant swung open.
IAN WAS FIGHTING THE URGE to bounce on his toes, to howl at the moon. They’d done it, they’d really done it. Johnny Love was on the floor, taped and gasping from Mitch’s kick. The duffel bag was on the desk, more than enough in it, even split four ways, to cover what he owed Katz. He was back on top. “We good?”
“Yeah.” Mitch stepped back from Johnny, looked around the office. Took keys from the desk, then hoisted the duffel bag to his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Ian led the way back out of the office, the gun still in his hand. He liked it. Maybe when this was all over, he’d get one of his own. It felt good.
The back room was just as they’d left it, too bright and packed with crap. Mitch closed the door to the office, then stopped to fiddle with the key ring. He tried a handful until one turned.
“That’s cold, man.”
“Just being thorough,” Mitch said. “Nice work.”
“You too.” They stood in masks, grinning at each other like kids.
“All right. Let’s get out of here.” Ian pushed open the back door and stepped out.
Into the glare of headlights. What the-
“Fuck!” A man’s voice.
Everything slowed into crystalline cocaine clarity. Ian saw Mitch freeze behind him, one hand still on the door, the bag over his shoulder. The orange rental car parked twenty feet away. Beside it, two figures, one of them Jenn, her hands going to her mouth. The other a guy, in silhouette. He was moving, keys falling from his hand as it swept behind his back, holy shit, coming back with a gun. Ian stared, his mouth open, as the man slid into a target shooter’s pose, feet apart.
Then the thought hit. You have a gun too.
He started to raise his pistol.
“Don’t.” The man’s voice was high, unsteady. “You,” he said over his shoulder. “Lady. Don’t move.”
You can do this. This guy has three targets. He’s nervous. He’s not ready. You are.
“You two! Drop your guns!” The man in the leather jacket swung jerkily from person to person.
All you have to do is wait for him to turn again.
“Oh God,” Jenn said.
It was coming down fast, but he was faster, he could feel it. Just like playing cards, there came a moment when someone’s bluff looked so good that you wanted to fold. The mark of a real player was the strength to see past that fear.
The man said to Jenn, “Move over by them.”
His attention on her.
Mitch yelled, “Ian, don’t-”
He let his body take over, lowering to a crouch as he brought his pistol up. The man swung back to him. Ian stared down the barrel, finger moving for the trigger.
JESUS BUT HIS HEAD HURT.
Alex’s temples pounded and throbbed. His vision was blurry, one eye closed, sweat and blood on his face. Through his good eye he saw Mitch’s and Ian’s feet walk past, saw the door close. There was the sound of keys.
Why had Ian hit him that hard? All they needed was to show Johnny that he was clean, not lose an eye in the process.
Relax. You’re in pain, not thinking straight. The worst that happened is maybe he cracked a bone in your cheek. You’re probably fine. He forced his breathing to slow.
Near him, Johnny wriggled, trying to worm his way to a sitting position. Alex thought he ought to do the same, but even the idea of moving was enough to send fresh agony sheeting through him.
It’s over. At least it’s over. Other than the hit to your head, everything went fine. The pain will fade. What you did here will change your life. Cassie won’t move. You’ll have enough money to figure out what you want to do. Quit bartending, maybe go back to school.
It’s over.
Then, muffled by the walls, he heard yelling, and a gunshot.
Part II. The Rules Change
“There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is other people.”
– Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit
CHAPTER 12
SOMEONE WAS KICKING THE DOOR. Alex watched through a haze as it bowed and buckled. They’re doing it wrong. You don’t kick the middle. You kick the side. Hadn’t they ever watched a cop show?
Shock. This must be clinical shock. That’s why the pain felt farther away, why he hadn’t panicked at the yelling, at the-
Gunshot.
Jesus!
There had been a gunshot. How long ago? Time seemed strange and elastic. Maybe thirty seconds? He strained to hear, listening for voices. As if on cue, another shot rang out.
What was happening? Who was shooting?
Oh God. Who had been shot?
The thought made him blink and focus, which brought the pain throbbing back. He had to get out of here. See if his friends needed help.
Johnny had made it to his knees. He was trying to shout something, his voice coming out vowels behind the tape. The person on the other side of the door kicked again, and a boot broke through the hollow-core door in a shower of splinters. Someone swore, and then the foot was pulled back and a hand replaced it, fumbling for the knob. A moment later the door swung open, and a figure, someone he knew, who? The other bartender. Chip. His name was Chip. Why had it been hard to get the guy’s name? They’d worked together for years.
“Oh my God,” Chip said. He stood wild eyed, frozen. Johnny made incomprehensible sounds, held up his arms. Chip got it, hurried to him, started pulling the duct tape. “Are you OK?”
Johnny coughed as his mouth was freed, gulped a breath. His face was slapped-red where the skin had been peeled. “What does it look like, you asshole? Do my hands.”
Chip started to unwrap them, then Johnny said, “Scissors. In the drawer.” A moment later he was free. He took the hand Chip offered, stood up. “Call the police.”
“What about him?”
“I’ll take care of him. Go!”
Chip turned and sprinted out.
Johnny groaned, stretched. He knelt beside Alex, pulled the tape from his mouth. “You all right, kid?”
No, I’m fucking not, there was someone shooting out where my friends are. But he couldn’t say that, couldn’t give any hint of concern. “My eye.”
“It’ll be OK. We’ll get it checked out. Hold still.” Johnny leaned over, put the scissors against the bonds holding Alex’s wrists. He started to cut, then stopped. Rocked back on his heels.