Girls Just Wanna Have Guns Read online

  “Ah, she’s fine, honey. She’s just busy and she thought you’d like to go over to Me Maw’s to swim.” Stacey referred to his mom with the same affectionate nickname as did her “regular” grandchildren. His mom still hadn’t accepted the fact that he wasn’t dating Bobbie Faye and Stacey wasn’t going to be another one of her official brood.

  Cam strained to hear any details from his radio. He didn’t want to turn it up on the off chance bad news was broadcast—at least at this setting, he could slam the volume down before the kid heard anything damaging.

  “When I get big, I’m gonna shoot people ’fore they can shoot me,” Stacey announced, and Cam’s headache cranked up another notch.

  “No, honey, you’re not gonna shoot anyone. Nobody’s gonna shoot at you and you’re going to grow up and be normal.”

  Dear God, he hoped.

  The Irish bastard slit most of her shirt down the front, letting the knife scratch against her skin just enough to create a welt, the sting of skin broken as if by a razor’s edge, each inch of the cut drawn out with a teasing smile. He was waiting for her to nod, to agree that she wasn’t smart enough to outwit him. He’d probably start slicing some other clothing item if she didn’t agree.

  She glared at him. Common Sense had sounded all of the alarms, begging her to play along as “the frightened prisoner,” but the Glaring? That had a mind of its own. Because who in the fuck did this guy think he was?

  Um, probably a psycho killer, Common Sense offered. Still, the Glaring wouldn’t back down.

  The bastard laughed. “Very good. I see we have tuiscint dá chéle, a mutual understanding, you see.” He spoke into her ear, his warm breath pulsing against her neck, “I like you, álainn, and would like to keep ya without harmin’ ya.”

  Keep? Oh, holy hell. She ran rapid fire through Alarm, Fear, Repulsion, and Loathing when Fascination stepped up and said, Oh, so this is what psychotic bad guys look like.

  Mid-shudder, the truck stopped and they tossed her out. She tumbled onto the asphalt, looking up in time to watch the tires spin as they raced away. She yanked the gag from her mouth, spitting out the taste of sweat-soaked cotton. Bobbie Faye spun where she stood on the off chance there were any more criminals who wanted to take her for a test-drive today. The road was clear, except for Trevor on his bike, heading for her, and the cousins in the Hummer, parked, managing to block the “escape route” of the truck . . . after it had already driven safely away. Well, give them two points for finally thinking of that little trick, three kidnappers later. God help her if she was ever on fire. They’d probably figure out to call the fire department when there was nothing left but ashes.

  She looked down at her sliced and gaping-open shirt; it had been one of her favorites, and of course, she’d chosen that day to wear her almost-see-through bra. Her hands shook as she ripped the rest of the shirt down the front so she could tie the halves together. The heat of the day baked her skin as she stood in the morning sun, her pulse throbbing so hard she could feel it in her fingertips, too aware of every single drop of sweat running down her skin. She knew she was going into shock, especially since she didn’t really register how close the motorcycle was until Trevor closed his hand over hers. It was everything she could do to keep from leaping forward and throwing her arms around him. His gaze fell to the sliced shirt and the welt still visible. He squeezed her hand, his thumb circling over hers, calming, though the anger shining in his eyes was clear.

  “Play along,” he warned as he yanked her to him, throwing her off balance so that she landed against his side and had to grab his arm to keep from falling to the pavement. “Look pissed off for our viewers. Go straight to your Aunt Marie’s house, and whatever you do, when you see me there, you need to be afraid.”

  If he kept looking like he’d be happy to go on a murder spree, she didn’t think looking afraid was going to be a real stretch. He shoved her away and pointed at her car, as if he was giving her instructions. She stalked toward the Civic, scooping up her purse from where she’d dropped it before.

  “Bobbie Faye, yooohoooooooo, Bobbie Faye,” Francesca called, heading on a direct intercept course between Bobbie Faye and her car. “We decided you’d be safer if I rode with you! So I can protect you if those bad guys come back!”

  She looked up to heaven. Seriously, God, didja just get bored with the pestilence, plague, and a horde of crickets?

  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—al1 known pieces are to be searched, galleries plus private collections. Various offices around the country, including FBI, tasked to help.

  Cam drove away from his mom’s house where Stacey had managed to shove two chocolate chip cookies into her mouth before she’d been there one whole minute. She was such a determined little kid, he just prayed that whatever she decided to do when she grew up was legal. He hated to think about the damage someone with Bobbie Faye’s genes could do if she actually planned it.

  The radio crackled with officers finally on the scene at Ce Ce’s. The gunmen, whoever they were, had begun shooting after Francesca had entered the store. Given Francesca’s dad’s mob ties, this could not bode well for Bobbie Faye, though Bobbie Faye seemed to have gone willingly. The officer called in a “last reported sighting” location and the direction the witnesses believed Bobbie Faye had driven away. Cam spun his car, stomping the gas. There was a chance—a small chance—he could intercept them and find out what the hell was going on.

  If Bobbie Faye’s car had started on the first, or even the third try, Fluffy-head would have been stuck riding with the other cousins and Bobbie Faye could have had the few minutes’ ride to Marie’s to think through the day’s events. Instead, Francesca had made it to the car in time to join her and was now practically trying to levitate above the torn-and-duct-taped ICEE-stained seat in order to avoid touching anything.

  “Bobbie Faye, you really need to get a new car. With leather seats. You should get leather for days like today when you’re cut and bleeding—leather wipes off easier.”

  “Right, because the seats are the thing I should be worried about when I’m bleeding.”

  “Just don’t let anyone Luminol them. Leather really isn’t ever the same after that, I don’t care what the detectives tell you.”

  “You never really had a chance at a normal upbringing, either, did you?”

  “We’re normal,” Francesca answered, hurt, her voice petulant.

  “Frannie, anyone whose dad routinely heads out to the garage with an Uzi in one hand and a pistol in the other is not leading a normal life.”

  “There were raccoons that tore up our trash. Daddy was just scaring them off. We’re normal.”

  “Uh-huh. Three of the references you listed for your first job after college were in prison for organized crime.”

  “Oooh, that was the job at Cosmetics Heaven! They loved me over there. I did the best makeovers, ever. I got so good, they gave me all of the hard cases.”

  Bobbie Faye accelerated, weaving through the back streets, neatly avoiding the multitude of cop cars zooming toward Ce Ce’s. It was a sad commentary on her life that Bobbie Faye knew which side streets to take to accomplish this feat. She knew from the decibel level of the sirens that Benoit, Cam’s best friend, was leaving Rosie’s Diner four blocks away and heading her direction, and that he’d probably be biting into a shrimp po’boy with juice dripping down his chin, and forgetting to look to his left, whe
re she passed by just a block away. She resisted waving to his profile as he did just that.

  “You need a complete overhaul,” Francesca said, pushing a finger against Bobbie Faye’s cheek. “You have to do something about those pores. You could park a truck in there.”

  Bobbie Faye had the sudden impulse that an animal in a trap would have: chew anything off just to escape.

  While Francesca catalogued every facial product she thought Bobbie Faye needed (and there were many), Bobbie Faye headed north on Highway 171, past the train car switching station, beyond an industrial park of businesses, and then through the heavily treed neighborhoods that lined the highway. Her little car coughed thick clouds of black smoke every single mile. There was no gas station for miles to check her engine until she got well past the bridge. With each new blast of smoke from her exhaust, the Hummer backed off so as not to Hoover up the nasty fumes. Bobbie Faye and Francesca, however, weren’t as lucky. As the oily vapor seeped into the interior, Bobbie Faye rolled down a window and Francesca had a coughing fit.

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “To your mom’s.”

  “When she disappeared, we tried there first. Pick somewhere else.”

  “It’s not exactly like I’m equipped with onboard ‘diamond MapQuest’ in my ass, Frannie. Maybe she left a clue at her house to give us some sort of starting point.” Bobbie Faye couldn’t exactly say they had to go there first because the FBI hottie she’d been lusting after had told her to.

  Sooty fog shot through the dash. “I think we should ride with the cousins,” Francesca wheezed. She flapped her hands to fan the smoke away. “The Hummer is new and clean and smells pretty and it doesn’t have that awful ticking sound.”

  “Nice try, but my car doesn’t tick.”

  “Does so.”

  Bobbie Faye approached a bridge that spanned a swollen bayou.

  “I’m sure I hear ticking.” Francesca pouted.

  Her cell phone rang, and Bobbie Faye dug it out of her purse, noting Cam’s caller ID. “I’m kinda busy right now,” she answered.

  “Where the hell are you? The men said Ce Ce’s looked like a war zone.”

  “Bobbie Faye!” Francesca tugged on her arm. “I really do hear ticking.”

  “I have a little errand,” Bobbie Faye told Cam. “You did the thing?”

  “Who’s that with you? And what’s ticking?” he asked.

  “Nobody and nothing. Did you—”

  “Yes. She’s safe with my mom. What’s—”

  “Just because I’m pretty doesn’t mean I don’t hear things,” Francesca groused. “And there’s ticking.”

  “Nothing’s ticking, Francesca, so give it a rest!”

  “There’s ticking?” Cam asked, and Bobbie Faye hated that forceful, controlled freaking-out sound he had at times like this. “What’s ticking?”

  “Nothing, Cam. Everything’s fine.”

  “There is ticking!” Francesca shouted, vindicated. “Look!” She gestured wildly to the floorboard of the backseat. Then her face elongated as her eyebrows went up and her chin dropped. “Uh-oh. Is that a bomb?”

  Oh, holy hell.

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Audio in BF’s car. Something about a bomb.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  You are fucking kidding me.

  * * *

  “A bomb?” Cam asked, the horror in his voice evident.

  “Um, yeah, well, busy now. Gotta go.”

  He shouted as she hung up, but there was no time to explain. Not that she could explain anything, actually, because when had her life ever made sense? Especially now. She was mid-bridge with a car that was spewing so much smoke, she expected a Hazmat team to parachute in any minute now, not to mention the teeny-tiny problem of there being something very bomblike in her backseat. Was there a timer on that thing? Then again, why would she trust a person trying to blow her up to show her how long she had left to live? She pulled over, and she and Francesca hopped out.

  Sonofabitch. Oncoming traffic. She waved them off, stopping them from entering the bridge. Francesca grabbed her arm and tried to drag her back toward the Hummer.

  “I don’t wanna walk all the way to the end. Let’s just ride with the cousins.”

  “I can’t let other people blow up, Frannie,” Bobbie Faye said, digging her phone back out and dialing 911. It was a good thing she had some warning. . . .

  Wait. How often do bombs actually tick anymore? In this age of C-4 plastique explosives, bombs didn’t still tick, right? How convenient that it ticked long enough for her to get safely out. She thought about the first abductors and their warning to stop trying to find the diamonds and realized: it was a con. They were trying to scare her off. And she fell for it. Geez, she felt like she should give back some of her IQ points.

  She spun and headed for her car. Maybe she could coax it a little farther, at least to a gas station.

  “Bobbie Faye! You’re crazier’n your mamma, and that’s a bunch of crazy!”

  At which point, the car, apparently eager to help punctuate the point . . . detonated.

  Seven

  The concussion slammed Bobbie Faye against Francesca and they crashed to the road. Car parts and shrapnel flew in every direction as a fireball rolled out and upward. After what might have been an eternity, but was maybe only a half a second, the car debris rained down as the side of the bridge near her car started caving toward the water. Huh. Bombs can still tick. Valuable little piece of information there.

  “Ooooooooh,” Francesca singsang, sounding like she did back in fifth grade when she ratted Bobbie Faye out for selling those Popsicles made of holy water. “The mayor’s gonna have a heart attack.”

  “Again,” Bobbie Faye agreed.

  “Maybe you can send him an apology?”

  “Yeah, because I’m sure there’s a Hallmark card for that somewhere: sorry about the bridge, please don’t die.” A piece of the bridge fell into the bayou below. “I wonder if they sell postage stamps in prison?”

  Bobbie Faye’s ears rang, and the arched structure shook as she and Francesca got unsteadily to their feet. The hole near her burning car prevented the Hummer from moving forward. Her phone chirped as she tried to decide which direction to go: back across the unsteady bridge toward her cousins, or onward to the opposite bank. Caller ID: Nina. Her best friend was in Italy doing a fashion spread for her new magazine (having branched off from her quasi-S&M modeling agency to a quasi-S&M magazine).

  “Hey,” Nina said by way of hello, “you’re not going to believe where I am.”

  “I betcha I got ya beat.”

  “I’m a guest in an Italian villa, where they’re serving me tagliolini with crab meat and aubergine sauce.”

  “I’m standing on a bridge where my car just exploded and part of the bridge is falling into the water. But hey! The good news is, I think we’ve avoided the sniper!”

  “Okay, I’m not playing this game with you anymore. You always win.”

  Nina leaned forward on the silk divan in the gorgeous sixteenth-century salon while the photographer’s assistant adjusted the lighting. “Are you okay?” She waved off the waiters who were hovering with trays of food, eyeing the models; they’d gotten amazingly good service at the villa.

  “Oh yeah. Cuts, bruises, bad hair, people trying to kill me. Normal day.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” Nina said, popping open her laptop. “I can catch a corporate flight out tomorrow.”

  “No, you stay. This is going to be fine. I just have to find some stuff. It’ll all be over before you could get home anyway.”

  “I want to help. What can I do?”

  “Pray. A lot.”

  “Do you remember the time you put a voice-activated tape recorder in Father Patrick’s confessional and ended up breaking up at least eleven marriages that we know about?”

  �
��Can I help it if Father Patrick was a lot busier than we thought?”

  “Well, I think God’s still mad at you for that one. You might need more than prayer.”

  Trevor saw a bullet whiz past Bobbie Faye. The hell? It had been close enough to slice the top of her shirt at the shoulder, and she hit the deck of the bridge, lying on her stomach, palms down, ready to crawl whichever direction she could determine was safe. As he scanned the banks of the bayou down and to his left, he radioed his men to get the fucking Hummer out of his way. He couldn’t see where the sniper hid in the rampant overgrowth of reedy grasses and thick green brush.

  “We’re done,” John said, checking his sights on his rifle scope. The crazy bitch had dropped below the bridge railing. And this was after she got out of the shitty car in time. He hadn’t had the supplies to do a fancy remote detonator. He hated this fucking job; he coulda been done earlier if they’d just let him pick her off in the first place. One quick shot to the head on her way into work this morning and bam, he woulda gotten his payoff. Instead, he was belly down on this Godforsaken bank of a bayou, up to his ass in bugs and mosquitoes and probably snakes. At least there was so much muddy crap growing out here, he coulda had a party and no one woulda seen ’im.

  “Ah, but you missed,” Otto, his Italian partner said, low and annoyed. “Like the other sniper. You try again, no?”

  The fucking other sniper, whoever the hell he was, couldn’t hit a drunk in a bar. Fired too wild. Stupid amateurs. John checked his sights again. “Too many people. I told you we shoulda taken her out from the beginning.”

  “This is not what the buyer wanted,” Otto said, and it gave John a helluva lot of satisfaction that the man had been forced to crawl in the mud in his expensive clothes. Why in the hell would some asshole wear leather pants in the South in summer? “He only want,” Otto continued, “to say go away.”