122 Rules (33 page)

“You didn’t have to do that!” Monica crouched beside her fallen friend.

“Get up!” the man hissed. “Get up, or I’ll shoot you right here and leave your bodies for the birds.”

Monica stood, puffing hard on the cigarette still in her mouth. Lazy smoke wafted into the air and drifted away on the light breeze blowing in from the river. She stepped towards the hitman. “You’re the man I saw with Joe.”

He stared into her eyes but didn’t say anything.

She reached out and traced his scar with the tip of her finger, from the edge of his ear down his jawline. “If you’re going to kill us, I should at least know your name, don’t you think?”

He appraised her but didn’t say anything.

Monica moved closer. “What harm can come from that?” They stood almost nose to nose, and she smelled his Old Spice aftershave, saw the flecks of gray in his blue, bloodshot eyes. She’d recognize an alcoholic anywhere. She should, after all, having grown up with one.

“My name is Tyron.” He removed the gun from his pocket, keeping it close to his body and trained on Angel, who still lay on the ground, unmoving.

“Tyron,” she purred. Smoke passed out her lips as she spoke.

“Put that out. They make a girl’s mouth taste like an ashtray. I hate that.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you,” she said and took it from her mouth. “Better?” She leaned in closer.

“Yes. Now do as I said and—” He didn’t get the words out before Monica jabbed the smoldering end of the cigarette into his eye. Tyron shoved her back, screaming, his hands cradling his face. Monica didn’t give him a chance to recover; she stepped forward and kicked him in the groin. He doubled over, the hand holding the gun performing double duty as he used it to also clutch his testicles while the other remained attached to his eye.

Angel popped up, a large branch, about the size of a Louisville Slugger, in her hands. She pulled the stick back over her shoulder, took a tremendous swing, and conked the thug in the back of the head.

Though not as hard as the baseball bat from Monica’s youth, Angel’s makeshift weapon nevertheless stunned the would-be assassin, knocking him from his feet. He thudded on his side in the thick grass. Monica grabbed the gun, but Tyron clung to it. Maybe in their struggle he would shoot his own nuts off.

Angel brought her foot down on his wrist, and he screamed in pain. Monica wrenched the gun from his grasp, and they sprinted for her car.

As they ran from the park, Monica threw the weapon into the lake. They scrambled into the vehicle. Angel started it, and with a slight squeal of tires, they pulled out into the light, evening traffic.

* * *

Tyron pulled himself to his feet using a nearby tree in time to see the Audi merge into the flow of cars. He leaned against the maple, the pain in his eye pulsing to the beat of his heart. Tears streamed from the burned orb, his wrist throbbed, a large knot had begun to form on the back of his head, and he wheezed from the blow to his crotch. All of his injuries combined didn’t come close to the beating his pride had taken.

Barry could go screw himself. When Tyron caught these two cunts, he’d make them pay.

He limped to his car and settled into the front seat. He moaned, jammed the key into the ignition, started the engine, and headed the way they had gone.

42

“So,” Angel said through a mouthful of veggies and cheese, “this looks pretty simple. We just get on the Seventy here.” She smudged grease across the screen as she traced the freeway from St. Louis. “It’ll take us into Indiana then Ohio, and then we turn left in Pennsylvania.”

“Lisa’s going to be pissed you dirtied up her screen. She hates that.”

“Well the next time we have a séance, she can talk to me about it.”

Monica’s face darkened. “Wow, with everything happening so fast, I hadn’t even really
had
time to digest the fact that she’s gone.”

“I thought you hated that town and everyone in it?”

“I suppose that’s true, and Lisa was probably the highest maintenance person I’d ever met. Self-centered. Artificial. But she was still my friend. She gave me my first job… Okay, sure the FBI arranged it somehow, but still.”

“Honey, I know this is tough, but we almost got shot and dumped into the river this afternoon. At least one crazed lunatic is searching for us, maybe more. I get you need to mourn her and all, but right this minute is not the time. I promise, no more dead Lisa jokes, okay?”

Monica nodded. “You know how to get there?”

“I think so, though I’m not entirely sure where we are, and I hate to disturb Mr. Congeniality.” She flicked her eyes towards the man behind the counter. They chatted while Angel finished her food and wiped her mouth. “I’m stuffed. Okay, no more stalling. I’m going in.” Angel stood to go talk to the proprietor when Monica grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“Wait,” Monica said, her eyes fixed on the front of the restaurant.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I think I saw him.”

“Who? The bald mobber?” Angel tried looking through the windows, but the darkness outside intensified the internal reflection. She could only see shadows on the street.

“No. Peter.”

“Peter? As in Peter, the bastard and hitman from Walberg?
That
Peter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. I saw someone on a motorcycle, and it kinda looked like his. He drove past, and I swear he looked right at me.”

Could the stress be making her friend see danger around every corner? No one could possibly know where they were.

“I know it sounds crazy, but I swear that’s what it felt like.”

She held up her hands as if in surrender. “All right, I believe you. So say it was him. Do we wait and see what he wants?”

“Huh? No!”

“Okay, then let’s get out of here.”

They stood to leave, but just as Angel reached for her coat and the laptop, someone pushed through the door. For a second, she thought it would be the man on the motorcycle, but the figure that entered wore a gray leather jacket and a baseball cap casting a shadow on his face instead of the standard motorcycle riding gear. She started to turn back toward Monica when the light caught the scar running from his ear to his jaw, and her stomach clenched. The pizza she’d eaten turned to a lump of lead in her gut.

Tyron stepped into the little restaurant, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Hey!” the large man behind the counter shouted. “You can’t do that!”

The mobster raised his silenced pistol and shot the proprietor in the forehead. The cook went right on flipping onions and peppers—swords clashing on the grill like a samurai, oblivious to his coworker’s death—until the huge dead man fell on him. He screamed and pushed the proprietor to the floor, terror registering on his chubby face. He then raised his eyes from the murdered man to the mobster, staring into the dark infinity of the killer’s gun.

A quiet “pumpf” from the gun, and a spot appeared into the middle of the cook’s forehead, a twin of his coworker’s. He fell forward, bending at the waist, landing face first on the grill where his skin began to sizzle and pop right alongside the peppers and onions.

“Good evening, ladies,” Tyron said. “I believe we have some unfinished business. No chances this time. Put your stuff down, and hands above your heads.” When they hesitated, he motioned with the gun. “Go on, or I end this now.”

“I wish you hadn’t thrown that gun away,” Angel stage-whispered to Monica as she set her bag down and raised her hands.

“I don’t know how to use one,” she whispered back. “Do you?”

“No. But right now I’d try and figure it out.”

“Tsk tsk. No forethought. No planning. You didn’t think you’d see me again. Unforeseen things unfold when you are unprepared. Now, here’s what’s going to happen.” He tossed a pair of handcuffs onto the table. “You”—he waved the gun towards Angel—“are dispensable. It’s your bitch friend I’m really interested in, so you will be my little helper.”

“Go bang yourself,” Angel said.

Tyron shot the table to Angel’s left.

She jumped as though electrocuted.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m the one holding all the cards. I have both your lives in my hands. Now unless you want me to start shooting little pieces of your friend off one bit at a time, you will cooperate. Now, cuff the bitch.”

Angel looked at Monica.

Monica nodded. “Just do it. Maybe if you help, he’ll let you go.”

“Mon—”

Monica put her hands in front of her. “Ang, please. It’s been coming to this for over a year now. I thought I could outrun these bastards, but it’s not going to happen.”

A tear spilled from Angel’s cheek as she clicked the cuffs shut around Monica’s wrists—the meshing of the metal teeth as ominous as the blade of a guillotine being slid into place.

“Okay, you’ve got me. Now let her go,” Monica said.

His quiet laugh mingled with the sound of the frying cook and vegetables. “No, I don’t think so. She’s going to be my driver. Besides”—he rubbed the back of his head—“there’s a little payback in order. So here’s what’s going to happen, you’re going to wrap her coat around the cuffs—no need to draw unwarranted attention to ourselves—then we’re going to go across the street to my car. You and I will get in the back seat, and you”—he looked at Angel—“as I said, will drive. If you so much as turn the blinker in the wrong direction, I’ll shoot a piece of her off, starting with her kneecaps and working my way to more painful, intimate, places.”

“Where are we going?” Angel asked.

“Someplace private. You will find out in good time; it’s all about proper planning. You’d be wise to keep that in mind next time.” He chuckled at his own little joke. “All right, let’s go.”

Angel wrapped the coat around Monica’s hands.

Monica’s eyes dropped. “I’m sorry.”

“It was my choice to come with you. I knew the risks.”

“Did you? Are you sure? Would you have still come if you knew this was a possibility?”

“A million times over,” Angel assured her.

“Enough!” Tyron shouted. “Let’s go.”

* * *

As they made their way toward the front of the restaurant, a burning stench saturated the air—scorched vegetables and searing fry cook. Monica glanced at the sickening sight of the dead man blackening on the griddle.

Tyron followed her gaze. “Unfortunate.” He stepped aside, and for a moment, they clustered together. If she had planned to do something, the time had come, but she didn’t have any tricks left in her handbag. In the park, the pompous mobster had underestimated them, and they had used that to catch him off guard. But this time…

Maybe when they got outside, she could start screaming for help? If she threw herself on top of him, maybe Angel could get away? But as each new thought formed in her mind, she realized her friend would never abandon her, even if it meant their deaths. Resigned, she plodded towards the entrance of the small eatery.

A dull “Pop! Pop! Pop!” emanated from the front of the restaurant. The trio froze, staring as the big picture window overlooking the street spider-webbed and became frosted. A dark figure approached, like Death had decided to pay them a visit from another dimension.

The huge window exploded. A dramatic shower of safety glass rained down on them, and they had to turn away to shield themselves. Monica looked up in time to see a black-clad demon sail through the air. She and Angel stood just behind the bald mobster, when it—he—slammed into their assailant, and the four of them toppled to the floor in a heap of arms, legs, and miscellaneous restaurant paraphernalia.

Monica landed on top of Angel but underneath Tyron, along with what seemed like half a dozen busted-up chairs. Though she struggled to get free, the dead weight of the heavy assassin kept her pinned. Had the thug planned for this particular contingency?

Chairs lifted off her, and the killer’s weight vanished. The man in black picked up Tyron and threw him aside. Monica tensed, ready to fight, as she saw Peter reach down for her. Instead of grabbing her by the throat, he grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. He did the same with Angel.

“Peter, what the hell?” Monica asked.

“Get out of here,” he commanded.

“I don’t understa—”

“Now!”

Angel, as unsteady on her feet as a newborn fawn, grabbed their purses and the laptop, and the two women started to leave.

“Wait. Not this.” He grabbed the computer from Angel, withdrew a gun from his coat pocket, threw the PC into the air, and shot it. Turning back to Monica, he said, “Don’t ever log on to that email again. Understand? It’s been compromised.”

“No, I don’t understand any of this.” She started to say something else, but she didn’t have a chance before a chair broke over Peter’s back. The simple piece of furniture dissolved into splinters of wood and bits of plastic. Tyron grabbed Peter, spun him around, and hit him in the face. Peter responded by grabbing the man in a bear hug and piling on top of him.