Girls Just Wanna Have Guns Page 3

  Francesca’s cousins . . . well . . . technically, two of them were her cousins as well . . . looked at her, hope brimming.

  “Maybe you can figure out where Mamma hid them?” Francesca asked. “Because you’re really crazy and Mamma’s really crazy, so y’all are a lot alike. You probably can think just like her.”

  “It scares me that you’re in sales.”

  The front window shattered and a bullet whizzed just over Bobbie Faye’s head and she yelled, “Down!” grabbing the Glock and the bullets on her way to the floor. Allison and Alicia, the twins who worked the front counter, herded the rest of the customers to a back room where there was no flying debris or glass. The cousins spread out, and Mitch shot back, though he clearly was confused as to where to shoot, since he was doing a fantastic job of getting rid of all of the dangerous mannequins lined up in rows in the camo section of the store.

  “Mitch!” she yelled, but he couldn’t hear her as he picked off a plastic head. Another sniper bullet whizzed past, shattering the tins of gunpowder above Bobbie Faye’s head, and black powder showered her and the floor.

  Great. Bad hair and flammability, all in one move. Yip-fucking-ee. She loaded the Glock, and told Francesca to call 911. As she peeked out from behind the counter, she realized Maimee had not, in fact, moved to the ground like everyone else, and while Mitch kept shooting, more sniper bullets slammed into the Coleman lanterns nearby and glass went everywhere.

  “Miz Maimee, get down!”

  “I’m calling my prayer partners,” Maimee announced as she dialed her cell. “We’ll just meet here. I think this is God’s way of telling me we need matching Glocks.”

  Bobbie Faye wondered if Mr. Edgar would live long enough to see Maimee in that nice padded cell she was clearly headed for.

  “The train’s going to block the police,” Kit yelled from near the door where she stood at a safe angle, peering out. There was a long-ass train slowly approaching the tracks just a block beyond Ce Ce’s store; the cops would have a twenty-minute detour if the damned thing wasn’t moving.

  “Frannie,” Bobbie Faye gripped the woman’s arm, hoping to shake her out of her ditzy-fugue state, “get the cousins out of here. Go to the police.”

  “No way. Daddy’s got lots of ’em on the payroll. They’ll lock us up before we can help Mamma. We gotta find the diamonds first.”

  “The FBI—” But Bobbie Faye stopped when Francesca rolled her eyes. Her dad’s shady activities had included bribing senators and God knew who else.

  “They questioned Mamma, but she didn’t have the diamonds on her, so she must’ve hidden them. We heard she’s supposed to be selling them, and if she does that, Daddy will really be mad, so we only have a couple of days, and now we can’t find her.”

  More bullets shattered display cases, embedded in walls, and knocked things off shelves, and Bobbie Faye couldn’t tell whether the shooting was from the sniper, Mitch, or Donny joining in for show. When Ce Ce got back from her errand, Bobbie Faye was going to wish one of the bullets had hit its mark. “Who the hell is out there shooting, anyway?”

  “Maybe somebody who doesn’t want us to find the diamonds?” Francesca guessed.

  “You’re all causing more damage than those stupid diamonds are worth.”

  “There’s about thirty and they’re worth at least a million.”

  Holy shit, that was a lot, even for diamonds. And Bobbie Faye realized that why yes, someone probably would shoot her for that kind of money. Actually, there were a few people who’d shoot her for free; add in that kind of money and people were going to line up out the wazoo with guns aimed her direction.

  “I’m really sorry to get you involved.” Francesca worked her expression from quivering all the way up to full-blown remorse.

  The glass fish tank holding the bait minnows shattered from a direct shot and water and minnows whooshed out everywhere. From the other end of the store, she heard a muffled, “Oops.”

  Then Kit said, “It’s okay, Mitch, honey. You shot real good there. Not a single fish shot you back.”

  Sonofabitch, it was like a bumper crop of crazy in there. They were destroying Ce Ce’s, which was bad enough, but now she knew she was going to have to help them. As much as it killed her to admit it, they were family. And there was a part of her, an ingrained sensibility, that just could not let one of them get killed while she stood by and did nothing.

  She really fucking hated that stupid sensibility.

  U.S. DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY

  FROM THE DESK OF JESSICA TYLER (JT) ELLIS

  ASSISTANT TO THE UNDERSECRETARY OF THE UNDERSECRETARY OF THE SECRETARY OF THE ASSISTANT TO THE DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE HOMELAND SECURITY

  NEW ORLEANS, LA

  Re: progress report stats

  (to be filed under field notes, personal, only)

  Textiles which originated with Marie Despré to be seized for suspicion of acting as a method of smuggling diamonds. Textiles include but are not limited to: purses, belts, shoes, and accessories. Please note that suspect’s other hobbies include sculptural art—all known pieces are to be searched, galleries plus private collections. Various offices around the country, including FBI, tasked to help.

  Four

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Confirmed: shooting inside. Tapped into security via phone. BF alive. Any luck that end?

  * * *

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  Textile search continues. Three politicians, two not with spouse, questioned. Several movie stars’ homes searched. One agent bitten by dog.

  Encourage BF to work for us. Necessary means.

  * * *

  Detective Cameron Moreau leaned back in his chair in his claustrophobic office in the tiny cinder-block State Police building. He stretched out his long, lanky six-foot-four frame, his cowboy boots kicked up onto his desk as he crossed his arms and contemplated the file in front of him: a murder of a Lake Charles jeweler, known to deal in high-end jewels for very wealthy clients.

  The shot pattern and utter lack of forensic evidence made it clear that this wasn’t an amateur deal and the PD had almost no leads—information they’d managed to keep completely out of the news for once. Something about the shot pattern had been bothering him, but he’d stared at it now for a couple of days in between the normal chaos of his job, and he couldn’t quite place what was making him uneasy.

  It hadn’t helped that the FBI had swarmed onto the case like mosquitoes, chasing down the leads and questioning his every move and then not sharing information. Screw them, he was tired of this case already. The FBI wouldn’t tell him why in the hell this jeweler meant so much to them, and normally, he’d have just stowed the case away, cooperating only when the Bureau got around to calling . . . only this time, there was that shot pattern making him uneasy.

  He’d been feeling seriously wary all morning, in fact. Some people could predict when it was going to rain by when their bones ached. Cam could predict impending doom. Maybe it was just because he’d dated Bobbie Faye too long. Or maybe it was all of the years prior to that when they’d been best friends. He’d weathered more than enough of her disasters and the experience had made him alert to any signs of catastrophe bouncing off the horizon and heading his direction. He was trailing after a shooter with no evidence, the freaking FBI was so far up his ass they ought to have medical degrees, and the headache clawing the inside of his skull was getting worse.

  Activity picked up in the station. Cops’ voices reached a steady thrum of excitement. Jason, one of the dispatchers, hurried down the hall, stuck his head in Cam’s door, and said, “You know there’s gunshots over at Ce Ce’s?”

  Adrenaline shot up his spine. Jesus H. Christ.

  He bit back the is Bobbie Faye okay? question. She wasn’t his concern anymore. They’d broken up, it had been a year, and she had made it crystal fucking clear she had no interest in him. Didn’t nee
d him, didn’t want his help. Got pissed off at him anytime he tried to tell her how to handle something when all he’d been trying to do was make sure she was okay. Which was fine, actually. Better than fine. He was dating Winna now. A very sweet, very pretty schoolteacher. A nice person who didn’t tear up half of the state. A woman who actually called him and asked his advice on anything from cars to career. She was quiet. Normal. Thank God.

  When Cam didn’t respond, Jason kept going down the hall and Cam exhaled. He was permanently out of the Bobbie Faye business—someone else could take care of her disasters.

  His phone rang and he grabbed it up. One of his street sources had promised a clue to the shooter in the jeweler case. But instead of his source, Cam heard gunshots and glass crashing. And then Bobbie Faye, as calmly as if she were ordering pizza, said, “Um, Cam? Do you think you could go pick up Stacey from camp and bring her to your mom’s for me? I’ve got a mess to deal with here—I don’t think I’m going to make it over there on time.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Oh, just a little disagreement. Don’t have time to explain. Look, you said I should have asked you to help last time, and I am and it’s important because it’s Stacey, and—Hey!” she shouted at someone in the store as the sound of ordnance and background screaming cranked up in volume on his phone.

  “Bobbie Faye!” he shouted.

  “This is not my fault,” she snapped before he could finish his thought. “Look, you can bust my ass for it later, okay?”

  “I’m coming there.”

  “No, dammit. Just go get Stacey.”

  She hung up the phone, but not before he heard rapid-fire shots close by, and he was pretty sure Bobbie Faye was shooting back. And just like that, he was sucked in.

  Why in the hell couldn’t she just PMS like the rest of ’em?

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Fuck. Sniper. NOT OURS. Looks to be after BF.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  On it. Ordering back-up. Send coordinates.

  * * *

  “Stop the damned shooting!” Bobbie Faye shouted over the hailstorm of bullets. She’d wanted to explain to Cam what was happening, but he’d never believe she hadn’t brought this on herself. And frankly, she didn’t want half of her family in jail while she tried to solve the problem and, knowing Cam, that’s exactly what would happen if she’d told him. He had a very nasty habit of being a cop first. She needed time to find the diamonds. She didn’t know where the hell Marie had put the damned things, but she did know Marie was a creature of comfort, and there were a few family members who would house her. Then there was Marie’s business to search, her friends to talk to, and if Bobbie Faye had to turn the whole freaking state upside down and shake it, she would find those fucking diamonds and beat the living crap out of her relatives with them.

  Sirens blared at a distance and she eased over to a side window near the end cap of camping gear: the train was dead still on the tracks, blocking the police. Another bullet zinged in through the front.

  She’d have to go out the side porch where she could circle around to her car. She grabbed her purse and shoved in the loaded Glock, pocketing the keys to the gun cases in case Maimee decided that God was all about forgiveness and she’d have a heavenly get-out-of-hell-free card just for the asking if she accidentally liberated one of the other pistols in the case.

  “C’mon,” Bobbie Faye said to the cousins, and led them to the side exit as Francesca re-explained to Mitch that no, he didn’t have to shoot anyone. Yet.

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  They’re coming out. SIDE DOOR. Necessary means engaged.

  * * *

  Cam shouted instructions as he ran through the station house. Even if he hadn’t been the Detective Sergeant on duty, his CO would have called him in. He was kidding himself if he thought he’d be able to avoid Bobbie Faye’s swath of destruction. If she wasn’t already dead, he just might kill her himself.

  On his way out to his car, Cam pulled out Trevor Cormier’s card from his wallet—the FBI agent tangled up in Bobbie Faye’s last unholy mess. The bastard who’d had incredibly possessive body language toward Bobbie Faye when Cam had finally tracked them down. Not that it mattered to Cam if Trevor was attracted to Bobbie Faye. The man, Cam had learned, had been Special Ops before he was FBI, and the majority of his records were classified. Sure, he’d proven himself more than capable when Bobbie Faye’s brother had been kidnapped, but still . . . Special Ops in Afghanistan and Syria and God knows where else meant, in all likelihood, that Trevor had multiple kills under his belt. Multiple strategic kills . . . offensive kills . . . had to change a man. Harden him. Rumor had it that Trevor had no qualms about using anyone he needed to get what he wanted when he was undercover. It was part of the job. And his record indicated that he was exceptionally good at his job.

  Trevor had asked Cam to contact him if Bobbie Faye ran into any trouble while Trevor was back at Quantico dealing with the fallout from Roy’s kidnapping. Cam wasn’t sure why he hesitated calling Trevor, but he did. He put the card back in his wallet and hopped in his car.

  Bobbie Faye stepped outside into the bright summer sun and felt the sweat immediately start to trickle down the back of her neck beneath her heavy hair. She hadn’t gone four feet when she slammed straight into a guy who, by all appearances, was rounding the corner, coming from the coffee shop adjacent to Ce Ce’s. Her first thought was to determine whether he’d been the idiot shooting into the store, but he didn’t appear to be armed and, oddly, she could still hear ordnance pinging into the store behind her. Parking Lot Guy seemed to be heading toward his gleaming black Harley waiting a few yards away. Her second impression was that it was almost like . . . he’d detoured . . . in order to run into her.

  Geez, paranoid much?

  In his scuffed biker boots, he stood a little taller than six foot, a baseball cap pulled low over longish brown hair in a ponytail; a mustache and goatee registered, but mostly, she’d first focused at her eye level where incredibly tanned, muscled arms were covered with tats and scars. She registered the hottie factor, the flat abs and nice ass, in the moment it took her to try to sidestep and spin away from where they’d rammed into each other. Something intangible, some scent, jumpstarted her Hormones, which backpedaled with a whoa and in an overriding show of power, halted her entire body with a flood of heat, and that was kinda weird because the last time that happened was when Trevor . . . holy shit.

  Trevor was here. Undercover.

  She stumbled as she caught the expression in his eyes that warned her to not show she knew who he was, and his hands were instantly on her waist, keeping her from crashing into the concrete parking lot. Those hands felt goooooooooooood. Thank you, Jesus, for loving me a little. Trevor slid his right hand just a little beneath the hem of her shirt, and Bobbie Faye was about to amend that little to a lot when she felt him stick something like a Band-Aid just above the top of her jeans. For a second there, she flashed on all of those hot talks, practically phone sex, they’d had when he’d been in Quantico after Roy’s kidnapping. She had to fight against the reflex of jumping up, landing on him, and circling her legs around his waist. That might have given things away a tiny bit. She was such the pro.

  “Holy freaking geez, asshole, keep your damned hands to yourself,” she griped for Francesca’s benefit as she and the cousins caught up. Bobbie Faye stepped away from Trevor, pushing against a bicep (and she wanted an Oscar for resisting licking it, thank you very much).

  “Hey, bitch. You fell on me. Watch your step.”

  He pushed past her, climbed on his bike and started the roaring engine . . . and seemed to be stalling, checking gauges. It dawned on her that his watch your step had been said with a heads-up tone. She spun, checking out her surroundings to see if Trevor had been alluding to any specific impending dan
ger. The train whistle sliced through the normal morning traffic noises as she walked toward her Honda Civic—a sad, rusted, and dented little box of a car that had recently wheezed past the two-hundred-and-forty-thousand-mile mark on the odometer. Bobbie Faye glanced back over her shoulder as Trevor pulled out a flask and ostensibly consulted some sort of map, though from this angle, she could have sworn he was actually looking at her instead. Other than the menacing-looking biker image he projected, everything seemed quiet on the tree-lined side street.

  Well, other than that white van, bearing down on her.

  Which then proceeded to stop as the side door slid open and hands grabbed her, yanking her inside, while someone shoved a sack over her head.

  Five

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Oh, shit. BF yanked off street. Another player. No audio. Visual on van. Sending license plate . . . now.