Callie’s Last Dance

She’s holding a single gun, seven rounds. Has a vial of lens spray in the back pocket of her jeans. If things go south she’ll have to move quickly, rush her shots. Four guys caught unaware?

She’s Callie Carpenter. Likes her chances.

Five guys? Too close to call.

Seven? Out of the question.

There are worse places to die than Frankie’s house, worse ways to die than a mob shootout. What sucks is how easily she could have avoided this predicament.

She tells herself not to worry. It’s late. The De Lucas have partied all day. They’ll be alone.

But what if they’re not?

If the entire crew’s here, she’ll die tonight.

If Frankie’s crew shows up.

If they find her.

It all comes down to the dog. If he wakes up, he’ll sniff her out.

She hears the garage door closing again, hears car doors slam. How many?

Two doors. One car.

So far so good.

And where do mobsters meet, anyway? In the boss’s home?

No.

They meet in clubs, offices, strip joints.

Except when their wives are in town.

In which case this is exactly where they’d come.

Shit!

Is it likely Frankie’s crew is coming?

No.

But what if they do?

Callie always provides for every possibility.

Always.

But not this time. True, she didn’t come to Sal’s party expecting to kill a mobster and his wife tonight.

But still. How basic is this?

A fucking escape plan in case things go wrong.

She’s made mistakes before, obviously, but none like this. She’s clearly off her game.

Which reminds her of something else that happened today. Something monumental. Something she thought couldn’t happen in a million years.

She found a weakness in Donovan Creed!

A weakness that could be exploited.

Angie’s in the garage now, making loud baby talk. Like she’s teasing the dog, expecting him to squeal with delight that she’s home. It’s the sort of baby talk women do when they have an audience.

Callie’s mind goes to warp speed. If she had created an alternate escape plan, what would it be?

She wills herself to focus…

And gets it.

If she had a mere minute to prepare, she could do it.

But she doesn’t.

She’d place explosive disks at strategic places in the house, waist-high, and program her cell phone to blow them simultaneously. The disks have a sticky backing that adheres to walls, and offers a kill zone of six feet. Using the hall closet door as the center point, she would set two disks in the hallway, twelve feet apart. They’d blow outward and sideways, and wipe out everyone within twenty-four feet. The closet door and interior walls would provide enough protection to keep her unscathed.

Four other disks could have been set along her escape route. The sudden carnage would kill anyone in the hallway, and injure or stun anyone between her and the back door.

That’s what she could have done, but didn’t.

She hears the garage door open. Angie cooing, “Are you hungry, honey bear? Is mama’s little baby hungry?”

Frankie, still in the garage saying, “What, you expect him to answer? Yeah, mama, I’m hungry! I’m so fuckin’ hungry, mama!”

Is he showing off for his crew members? Callie strains to hear outside laughter, but only hears Angie say, “Oh, shut up, asshole!”

Which allows her to relax. Angie would never speak to him like that if others were present.

Making a mental note to be more careful next time, she puts her head back down, covers it with a coat, and eases into her deep relaxation zone, which she’ll maintain till the De Lucas are sleeping soundly.

Everything seems great. Until Angie screams.

“What the fuck?” Frankie yells.

“Call the cops!”

“What?”

“Call the cops!”

“Why?”

“Someone’s in the house!”

20.

AS THE ADRENALIN surges through her veins, Callie wonders what tipped Angie off. The unconscious dog? The fact the alarm didn’t beep when they opened the door? She grabs her gun and jumps to her feet as Angie yells, “Look!”

Callie quietly opens the closet door, hears Frankie shout, “What the fuck happened?”

By the time Angie yells “They’ve killed Digby!” Callie’s made her way down the hall. She comes up behind the De Lucas as Angie’s kneeling over the dog, and Frankie’s opened his cell phone, ready to dial 911.

“Digby’s okay,” Callie says.

“Jesus Christ!” Frankie yells, startled.

Angie screams and tries to lunge at Callie. But Callie’s got a gun in one hand and a tiny vial of lens cleaner in the other. She sprays the lens cleaner into Angie’s face. Of course, it’s not lens cleaner at all. It’s just packaged that way. To the world, it’s a small metal cylinder, silver, with the words “Lens Cleaner” printed in black. But this particular cylinder contains a mixture of cyanide and dimethyl sulfoxide.

Angie screams and tries to get to her feet, but falls face-first to the floor. Meanwhile, Frankie’s in mid-air, diving toward Callie’s knees. Unable to get off a shot, she clubs him over the head with the butt of the gun as he tackles her. She lands hard on her back, with him on top. She feels the wind go out of her as his head crashes into her stomach. Frankie’s hurt, but he’s tough, and has Callie pinned beneath him. She’s still holding the gun, but with the silencer attached, it’s too long to wedge between them for a shot. Frankie gets to his knees and cocks his fist. Is he planning to shatter her perfect nose?

Yes.

Does he?

No.

She drops the gun, and Frankie lunges for it.

Just as she hoped he would.

When he makes his move, she twists her body enough to slide out from under him. He stretches out to grab the gun, but Callie gets her elbow above the back of his head and smashes his face to the floor. Then scrambles to her feet and kicks his ribs.

Frankie’s tough. He never loses his grip on the gun, and turns it on her. Callie kicks his hand, sends the gun