My phone was mounted on my dashboard. I pressed the button and asked Siri for directions back to the crime scene. Cheerful as ever, my AI complied.
Siri told me to take a right at the next light. I did. So did the RAV4. She told me to go straight for three blocks, and I did. He did the same. She said to make a left at the next stop signand I accidentally took a right and wound up on a dead-end street. He followed me. Siri politely told me to “safely make a U-turn,” which almost made me laugh. I wasn’t doing anything safely tonight. I threw my car into a U-turn and the RAV4 stayed where it was, then sharply pulled forward, its grill careening toward me. I jammed my foot on the brake. So did he. My heart pounded up into my throat, my ears, my hair. “Jesus Christ.” I whispered.
We’d stopped short of a head-on collision. By inches. Millimeters. I was relieved, then terrified, then very, very angry. Adrenaline coursed through me.
He got out of the RAV4 and walked toward me. I thought about putting the car in reverse, but there was a telephone pole right behind me. So instead I reached into my purse. Got my hand on my .38 and slipped it out.
He moved closer. He was a big man with square shoulders. He wore a bulky black leather jacket with fur at the collar that looked real. This wrap of his managed to be tacky and expensive-looking at the same time—the worst of both worlds. Plus, it didn’t work with the baseball cap. It was as though this guy couldn’t decide what season it was and wanted to make sure he was covered.
He moved closer. Close enough so I could get a good look at his face. I recognized him. That cap. That smile, the meaty jaw half hidden by the scope of a gun the last time I saw him. He was Moon Monaghan’s guy. No question.
Thanks a lot for taking me seriously, Desmond.
Moon’s guy knocked on my window. I opened my door andstepped out slowly. The air felt about ten degrees colder than it had outside the factory, the temperature dropping quickly, the way it always did at this time of year.
He was a tall guy. So tall that when I raised the gun straight out in front of me, it was aimed at his stomach. I raised it higher. “Stay back, asshole,” I said.
He stared at me for a few moments, his hands in the pockets of that bulky, cheesy fur-trimmed jacket. It looked worse up close. The fur was either fox or dyed rabbit. Or dog. It could have been dog.
“Where is he?” he said.
“Where is who?”
“Dylan Welch. Say where he is, you won’t get hurt.”
“First, I feel like if one of us is going to do the threatening, it should be me.” I released the safety.
“You kidding me?”
“Get your hands out of your pockets.”
He took his hands out of his pockets. He was holding a gun in one of them. “Oh, now, come on,” I said.
“What?”
“Drop it.”
“No.”
I switched positions and fired. The bullet hit the concrete half an inch from his foot. Close enough so he knew that I’d missed intentionally and that next time, he might not be so lucky. His eyes went big. “Jesus Christ, lady,” he said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He looked rattled. I was glad. When you’re a woman andyou’re dealing with guys like this, it’s best if they think you aren’t playing with a full deck.
He said it again. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
“I saiddrop it, you piece of shit.”
He dropped the gun, proving my point.
“Shooting me would be a mistake,” he said. “There’s lots more where I come from.”
“Yeah, right. Like cockroaches,” I said.
My headlights were still on and illuminated his face. He was sweating. A lot. His skin shimmered. Droplets fell from his forehead, his nose.
“What do you want with Dylan Welch?” I said.
“None of your business.”
