Page 47 of Hellbent

“No. No way.”

“Give me your gun.”

She stared him down, unblinking. Finally he unholstered the skinny ARES and handed it to her. She regarded the slender 1911 with amusement, turning it this way and that. “Nice gun. They make it in pink?”

“Only if you special order it.”

“It goes well with your hips.”

“Thanks.”

“You should accessorize it with, like, a clutch purse. Maybe a string of pearls.”

“Are you done?”

“Just about.”

He waited.

She said, “If you pull the trigger, does a little flame come out the end? Or a flag that says ‘Bang’?”

“Joey.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Go to the lamp.”

He rose and walked over to the table lamp.

“Turn it off, count five seconds, then turn it back on.”

He pulled the chain, the room falling into darkness. A five count passed, and he turned the light back on.

The 1911 rested in front of her crossed legs. It had been fieldstripped. Frame, slide, bushing, barrel, guide rod, recoil spring, spring plug, and slide stop. In a nice touch, she’d stacked the remaining four rounds on end on the magazine.

Her gaze held steel. “Again,” she said.

He tugged the chain once more, counted to five, clicked the lamp on.

The pistol, reassembled.

She had a tiny dimple in her right cheek even when she wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t smiling now.

“You can be my lookout,” he said. “But only because it’s safer for you to be near me than on your own.”

“Gee,” she said. “Thanks.”

She stood, twirled the gun on her palm, and presented him with the grip. He took the ARES and clicked it home in his high-guard Kydex holster.

“What if they’re expecting you?” she asked.

“Even if they are,” he said, “it won’t help them.”

21

Quick and Easy

Central Eastside was an industrial district checkered with low-rent housing. Evan coasted in the stolen Subaru with the switched rear license plate, watching a parade of radiator shops, commercial laundries, and wholesale construction-supply joints march by. The streets were pothole-intensive, shimmering with broken glass. A few spots had been taken over by brewpubs and distilleries, gentrification doing its cheery best, but they were out ahead of the curve here and—from the looks of the clientele and graffiti—in over their heads.

Joey took in the streets and seemed not uneasy in the least.