Joe shuts the passenger door and reaches down to the floorboard, pulling up a small bottle and a rag. He turns them in his hands while Don leans back in the driver’s seat, watching the alley.
“That’s her,” Don says.
They keep talking not knowing I am three feet behind them. Don complains about the payout being split. Joe jokes about how easy this is going to be.
Don reaches for the ignition. Before the key turns, I lean forward and press the blade under his jaw.
Both of them freeze.
Joe slowly twists around in the passenger seat, eyes wide.
“Give me the keys,” I demand.
Don’s hand trembles as he pulls them from the ignition and passes them back over the seat.
I take them and slip them into my pocket.
Joe’s gaze flicks between the knife and Don’s throat. The bottle and rag are still in his hands.
“Both of you were seen with Grant.” My voice lowers. “So you’re going to tell me where he is.”
Don swallows hard. His throat shifts against the edge of the blade.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice thin.
I press the knife deeper. The skin splits and warm blood runs down my fingers.
“You better tell the truth,” I say quietly, “or I’ll carve it out of your throat.”
Don’s breathing turns ragged.
Brooke is not across the street anymore. She has already moved. By the time either of them realizes she's gone, she is standing just outside the passenger side window with her gun drawn.
They never see her.
Joe’s fingers close around whatever he has been reaching for.
A shot cracks through the car.
Joe’s head snaps sideways. Blood and bone explode across the dash and windshield. The force jerks his body, folding him across the center console. His legs kick once before going limp.
Don yells.
I grab his chin, wrench his head back, and drive the blade into his neck. The knife tears through muscle and catches, and the panic in his eyes is immediate.
He claws at the wheel. His feet slam uselessly against the pedals. I rip the blade free and bury it again, higher this time, twisting hard before pulling it out. Blood pours over my hands, flooding the space between us.
His scream breaks into a wet, choking sound.
I hold him there until the strength drains out of his body and his grip goes slack, then shove him sideways and let him collapse against Joe.
I lean back against the seat and exhale.
Brooke’s voice comes through the passenger window, breathless and tight with adrenaline.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, baby, I’m so sorry. Is he dead?”
I turn my head toward the passenger side.
