Shorty released the trigger before a volley stitched the metal ceiling. Fortunately, the van had been an impossible target to miss. His stray bullets shredded its front tires, windshield, and roof.
Without tires, the van’s front rims dug into the road and its ass end flew into the sky for a series of cartwheels that would have made an overweight gymnast proud. Two screaming bodies flailed into the air as the van exploded. Its flaming carcass careened off the road and rolled down a sharp ravine to a farmer’s field below.
Shorty looked at the gun in surprise. It packed a lot of wallop for such a small-
A bullet smashed through the ceiling and tore a chunk of meat from his arm. Shorty cried out and dropped the gun, only to watch in stunned horror as it bounced once on the floor before sliding out the open doorway.
Shorty’s cries were silenced when another bullet pierced the ceiling and puckered the floor between his legs. It was followed by an angry voice.
“You little bastard! Think you can steal from me?”
Another bullet, this time less than four inches from his head. Shorty dove into the remaining luggage and scrambled toward the rear of the hold… where he found Twinkle’s handgun. He snapped it up in both hands as the drug dealer pumped another hole through the ceiling.
This time, instead of retreating, Shorty sprinted to the fresh hole, jammed his gun against it, and squeezed the trigger.
A loud scream echoed through the hold and a heavy thump hit the ceiling as the gunman fell.
“You shot my fucking bal-”
Shorty aimed his gun where a bump had suddenly appeared in the ceiling and fired again. By the time he ran dry, the screaming had stopped.
“Nice work,” said LoLa. “You always did overcompensate.”
Shorty spun. The motorbike and sidecar was matching pace outside again, while LoLa was armed and pissed and standing in the doorway of the baggage compartment.
“And you were always nimble.” Shorty dropped his empty gun to the floor and cradled his wounded arm.
“So what do we have left?” LoLa asked.
“Between us or-”
“Drugs, numbnut.”
Shorty indicated the lone black bag sitting near the open doorway. “Twenty kilograms of uncut heroin. Worth around two million.”
“Hardly seems worth the trouble.”
Despite himself, Shorty grinned. “You’ve come that far up in the world, huh?”
LoLa smiled. “Never walked taller.”
She lifted her gun and fingered the trigger.
Shorty blurted, “There’s a fourth bag.”
LoLa’s smile brightened and she eased off the trigger. “Oh?”
“Six hundred thousand in cash. I figure you take the drugs, leave me the dough. I’ve earned it.”
“Earned it? You cost me four good men, transportation, weapons, and dry-cleaning, not to mention my brother.”
“You never liked Twinkle much.”
“No, but I loved him.”
Shorty and LoLa stared at each other for an endless moment, a thousand memories shared in the blink of an eye.
“We’ll always have Paris,” said Shorty.
LoLa snorted. “A fishbowl fuck in Tennessee doesn’t count, Shorty, don’t you get that? I need more than road trips in a broken-down VW van, nightclubs with putrid toilets, and hiding from the landlord on rent day. You always thought too small. I plan to live large.”
“You’ve gone hard.”
“No, Shorty. The problem is, you’ve stayed soft.” She waved the gun at his chest. “Get me the bag.”
Shorty tilted his chin. “It’s just back there.”
“Do I look like I do heavy lifting? Get it.”
Shorty scrambled over the remains of the unopened luggage and pulled out the last black bag. He hefted it onto his shoulder, wincing at the pain, and returned to the woman he’d once loved.
“Pity it has to end this way, honeybee,” he said.
LoLa thumbed back the hammer.
When the bus pulled into the Texaco station ten minutes later, a squad of eight patrol cars swarmed around it. The men and women in blue were bundled in armor-plated protection, riot helmets, and enough firepower to ventilate a crack den.
They removed the traumatized passengers first before rushing the luggage compartment.
They didn’t meet any resistance.
Inside was a lone body dressed in head-to-toe black, its lifeblood coating a duffel bag filled with twenty kilos of pure, uncut heroin.
The dead woman had a tiny screwdriver protruding from her chest and half a Toblerone bar stuffed in her mouth.
GRANT McKENZIE was born in Scotland, lives in Canada, and writes U.S.-based thrillers. As such, he wears a kilt and toque with his six guns. His debut novel, Switch, was lauded by author Ken Bruen as “Harlan Coben on speed” and quickly became a bestseller in Germany. It has been published in seven countries and three languages so far.
Wednesday’s Child by Ken Bruen
Had.
Funny how vital that damn word had become in my life.
Had… An Irish mother.
Had… Big plans.
Had… Serious rent due.
Had… To make one major score.
I’d washed up in Ireland almost a year ago. Let’s just say I had to leave New York in a hurry.
Ireland seemed to be one of the last places on the planet to still love the good ol’ USA.
And, they were under the very erroneous impression that we had money.
Of course, until very recently, they’d had buckets of the green, forgive the pun, themselves. But the recession had killed their Celtic Tiger.
I’d gone to Galway as it was my mother’s hometown and was amazed to find an almost mini-USA. The teenagers all spoke like escapees from The Hills. Wore Converse, baseball T-shirts, chinos. It was like staggering onto a shoot for The Gap.
With my accent, winning smile, and risky credit cards, I’d rented an office in Woodquay, close to the very centre of the city. About a mugging away from the main street. I was supposedly a financial consultant but depending on the client, I could consult on any damn thing you needed. I managed to get the word around that I was an ex- military guy, and had a knack for making problems disappear.
