Kicking her right leg up, hyperextending her hip joint, Margo allowed the weight of the limb to do the work; it swung past her face, her calf brushing her ear, her shin touching her shoulder, and her boot slamming into the forehead of the man behind her.
Dazed, he lost his hold—on her and on the weapon—and she easily snatched the Taser out of his grasp. Spinning, she took two steps back and fired, the electrified prongs popping quietly as they streaked the short distance and plunged through the man’s uniform right above his name tag: GERARD.
Gerard the guard? Margo made a face as the man went stiff, eyes rolling back, a shudder passing through his frame. When the charge was spent, he slumped dramatically to the floor. Margo nudged him a little with her boot, just in case he was playing possum. A smell like singed hair rose up, and she decided he wasn’t.
She had rebuckled her harness and retrieved the bag with the stolen paintings when Leif and Joaquin appeared in the upper gallery. Both boys were disheveled, but their eyes were bright. Leif gestured at the two prone bodies. “We heard a gun. You had trouble?”
With a sly smile, she hitched a shoulder. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. You?”
A look passed between the two boys that she’d have loved to interrogate, but all Leif said was, “Same.”
“Good to know.” The guard she’d brought down first, the one who’d face-planted firmly on the marble floor, was starting to move again; quickly, Margo took the pistol from his belt, emptied the clip, and tossed the works over the stone railing and down into the Grand Hall. The other gun was still somewhere nearby, hidden in the statuary, but there was no time to hunt for it. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Together, the three of them retraced the steps she’d taken earlier—Spain, Venice, Holland—and they were just easing open the door back into the administrative corridor when the bright chirp of a walkie-talkie rang out under the vast ceiling. One of the guards was up, his unsteady voice carrying through the empty space.
“… multiple intruders … two, maybe three … didn’t get a good look…”
“Go,” Margo whispered, ushering the two boys ahead of her into the pitch-black hallway and back to the office where they’d first entered the building.
A cool, damp breeze brought in the scent of urban life through the gaping hole of the window, and Margo sucked in a lungful. When the door was firmly shut behind them, she snatched off her glasses and activated her comm. “We’re in place. Commence extraction.”
“Are you all in place?” It was Axel, his tone a challenge.
“Yes, damn it!” Margo glared out the window at the concrete tiers of the parking garage across the way, suddenly wishing her fancy glasses had been equipped with a death laser as well as the night vision tech. “Fire the fucking thing already, Liesl!”
A moment later, there was a snap, and once again the grappling hook was hurtling out of the shadows and through the air above the alley. This time, however, it was rising up from a point on the second floor of the structure, its glittering fangs revolving slowly as it neared the window. When it cleared the emptied pane, it first struck the ceiling, then fell to the desk and rolled onto the floor, where Margo snatched it up. Anchoring it on the metal pipe below the window, she reported back through the comm, and watched as the cable was pulled taut from the other end.
“Okay, guys, time to get lost,” she urged, unable to dull the razor edge of anxiety in her voice. The guard would realize immediately that they hadn’t escaped by the central staircase, and the administrative hallway, with its emergency exit, was the only other way out; if he was looking for them, if he was close enough to have heard the grappling hook …
Axel broke in on her fretful train of thought. “All set.”
Margo signaled to Joaquin, who hooked his harness to the cable, climbed onto the sill, and jumped. His body shot across the alley, sleek as a torpedo, and Margo breathed a sigh of relief. One down. No matter how much mayhem they faced on a job, the getaway was always the most stressful part. Nothing counted if they didn’t stick the dismount.
Then, as Joaquin heaved himself up over the railing of the parking garage, a heavy crash sounded from the far end of the administrative corridor—the door being flung open.
Their time was up.
“Go, go, go,” Margo hissed at Leif, shoving him toward the cable, but the boy resisted.
“I’ll hold him off.” With the delicate point of his chin, he gestured to the door leading into the hallway. “You should go first.”
Margo stiffened. “I’m always the last one out. That’s the rule.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got the stuff,” Leif returned, urgency heating his voice. Knobs rattled and more doors banged open along the corridor, the guard getting closer, checking offices. “If the paintings don’t get out, what was the point to any of this?”
He was right. Grimly, Margo yanked the satchel off her shoulders and shoved it into the boy’s arms. “The framed canvases have trackers implanted; you’ll see them as soon as you take off the backing. The second you get across—and I mean the very second—you rip those things out. Do whatever you have to, just don’t damage the merchandise!”
“Got it.” Leif nodded shortly, slinging the bag onto his back and tightening the straps. Then he hooked himself up to the zip line, and with a last look of misgiving, dropped out of sight. His clip made a sizzling noise at it skimmed the length of the cable, but the thump of Margo’s heart nearly drowned it out.
Or maybe that thump was the sound of the guard tossing open the door of the adjoining office.
Scrambling into the window, she clipped herself to the zip line and maneuvered onto the stone ledge. Across, Leif was dragging himself onto the lip of the second-floor wall, each instant passing like an eternity. Unbalanced by the satchel, his leg slipped, and he had to try again. Margo’s mouth felt as dry as a bag of flour, her skin raging hot under the nylon.
Behind her, the doorknob jiggled, a key scraping the metal tumblers of the lock before snapping it open. Her body went electric with nerves. Leif cleared the railing, the door behind her flew open—and Margo dove off the ledge and into the air.
Ten feet down and thirty feet across, the plunge took seconds that felt like years, wind streaming over her as the guard rushed to the window. Her feet hit the wall a moment before the first bullet did the same, ripping loose a chunk of concrete the size of a golf ball, and her pulse thundered in her ears. More gunshots came in rapid succession, one missing her by an inch as she dragged herself over the railing, diving into the safety of the garage.
* * *
Moments later, a beat-up panel van with a missing license plate careened down the exit ramp of the parking structure, crashing through the barrier gate and fishtailing onto the street. Sirens wailed in the distance as the unmarked vehicle slewed across lanes, rocketing past the museum and picking up speed, tires screaming to protest a hard left onto Spring Street. The only witnesses still on the sidewalks at that hour were people with no interest in getting involved with the cops, and they found convenient shadows to melt into as the high-pitched croon of police cruisers drew closer.
The fleeing auto jumped the curb for an illegal right onto Third, and then skidded left when it hit Main. The cops were gaining, though, sirens coming from more directions, and the ungainly van lost speed and ground with every corner. Flashing lights blazed in its rearview as the driver blew through a red at First, and a phalanx of cruisers streamed into the intersection at Temple, forming a hasty and impromptu blockade.
At the foot of the imposing tower of City Hall, the van swerved and skidded to a stop, all out of escape routes. And there it waited, exhaust pipe huffing a trail of vapor into the night air. The police first shouted instructions through a megaphone for the driver to exit the vehicle, and when these passed with no response, a group of five officers approached the target on foot—guns raised, body armor strapped in place.
Four officers took tactical positions around the van, whi
le the fifth—an eighteen-year veteran named Emilio Ramirez—cautiously approached the driver’s door. Wrenching it open, he thrust his gun into the cab … and then recoiled at the fetid stench that billowed out—alcohol, soiled clothing, and unwashed flesh. An old man with grimy skin hunkered over the wheel, eyes huge and unfocused, his mouth shaped into something like a grin.
“She paid me,” the man slurred, his breath stinking of cheap whiskey and rotting teeth. “Paid me and she said, ‘drive, drive, drive!’”
He giggled and coughed wetly into his lap, and then Ramirez hauled him out from behind the wheel. On the other side of the van, an officer yanked open the side door and jumped back, eyes as big as the Hollywood Bowl. “Shit. We’ve got possible explosives back here—we’re gonna need the bomb squad!”
A perimeter was established. The driver was cuffed and escorted outside of the potential blast radius, where Ramirez and his lieutenant bombarded the clearly intoxicated man with questions about what they’d found in the back of the van—four black, plastic cylinders, each with a tiny, blinking light at one end. The suspect was uncooperative, and possibly non compos mentis. No matter what they asked, or how they phrased their demands, he just kept repeating the same story over and over: She paid me, she told me to drive, she told me, she said, “This is for you, and all you have to do is drive.”
“Who paid you?” Ramirez demanded. “Who told you to drive?”
“An Amazon.” The old man’s eyes were wide and dreamy, fixed on City Hall. “She had brown skin and blue hair and diamonds on her eyelids, and she was as tall as that building right there. And she said, ‘This is yours, and all you have to do is drive…’”
6
Shortly after the unmarked van blitzed through the parking gate, a luxury Cadillac with tinted windows and a grille of shining, golden metal followed it almost soundlessly down the ramp, turning the opposite direction and zooming discreetly away. It diligently obeyed all traffic laws, even pulling to the curb when three police cars roared past with their sirens howling, lights pulsing against the night.
Heading north, the SUV maintained an even speed until it left downtown, skirting the edges of Elysian Park before angling eastward. The streets were silent, the sky turning indigo behind its field of stars—and if you weren’t inside the vehicle to listen to Margo’s furious tirade, you’d think it was the beginning of a peaceful morning.
“An Escalade?” She practically screeched, stuffing her platinum wig into a netted bag and then cramming it into her duffel like a pair of old socks. With effort, Davon stifled the urge to share a piece of unsolicited—yet clearly necessary—advice on the care of one’s hairpieces. “Are you freaking kidding me, Davon?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” He nudged the gas, the vehicle’s speed edging up at a feather touch of the pedal. He wasn’t going to let her ruin this for him. “Feel how well this baby handles? And look: we’re almost there!”
“We had a plan in place. What was wrong with the Subaru?” Margo demanded. She began wiping off her makeup with a towelette, her skin flushed pink underneath.
“See now, you just answered your own question,” Davon countered. The other boys were wisely staying out of the argument, assiduously removing their own wigs, makeup, and padding, looking like students terrified of being called on to answer a question about material they hadn’t studied. “That Subaru was twelve years old, and it looked like somebody had used it as a damn piñata.”
“The fact that it looked like a piece of junk was the point.” Margo unpinned her hair, strawberry blond locks tumbling past her shoulders. “You made a last-minute decision to steal a frigging Cadillac for our getaway car! Why didn’t you just hijack a fucking blimp? We could’ve spray-painted ‘PAY ATTENTION TO ME!’ all over the side and saved some time.”
“Hijacking a blimp is way harder than boosting a Caddy,” Davon riposted, and regretted it the second the quip was out of his mouth. With a sigh of contrition, he said, “Margo, honey, trust me. The cops don’t pull over folks in Escalades—unless they’re asking for it, or the Escalade has been reported stolen. And whoever left this gorgeous ride in that parking garage is not paying that close attention to their things.”
Margo’s expression was still dour as she massaged her scalp with her fingers. “That’s not even—”
“—the point, I know,” Davon finished for her.
“Changing the plan without consulting or telling anybody introduces—”
“—variables that can’t be predicted, I know.” Davon clicked on her seat warmer, hoping it’d relax her a little. Kill with kindness, his mother always said, and if that doesn’t work, use a knife. “I was eliminating unpredictable variables, Margo. That Subaru was on its last legs, and it had zero pickup. If the cops hadn’t fallen for the decoy, we’d have been just as screwed as if we’d taken the van ourselves.”
Pulling her arms out of the bodysuit’s sleeves, Margo was silent for a moment. “Is that true?”
“On my auntie’s grave, may she please die soon.” Davon didn’t even feel guilty. It was mostly true. He wasn’t absolutely sure a twelve-year-old Subaru could outrun the cops—not as sure as he was about the Caddy—and that variable sure sounded unpredictable to him. “You told me I could make the calls when it came to anything automotive, I’ll remind you, and this thing is pretty automotive.”
Margo was still scowling, but her shoulders didn’t look quite so tense as she shoved her bodysuit down to her ankles. She was wearing a sports bra and, on top of it, a second bra—this one padded, so that her silhouette would still match her teammates’. She stuck her feet into a pair of jeans before she spoke. “Don’t do it again. I don’t like surprises.”
“Neither do I.” Axel’s snotty remark was loud enough for everyone to hear, but it was enthusiastically ignored.
“I promise this was a one-time thing,” Davon stated, crossing his fingers. Like hell he’d pass up a Cadillac if there were ever another chance at one. And anyway, it wasn’t like Margo could fire him.
Chain-link fencing appeared at the side of the road, a seemingly endless length of it erupting out of hardscrabble weeds, and Davon slowed the Escalade. Beyond the wiry lattice, swamped in darkness, the crumbling remains of a long-abandoned mall sprawled like a lost island in a sea of fissured, concrete pavement. At regular intervals, scratched and dented KEEP OUT signs were lashed up with twists of metal—but at equal intervals, sections of the enclosure had been ripped open so people could crawl through.
Turning up a weedy, disused drive, Davon brought the Escalade to a stop before a wide gate across the entrance to the parking lot, secured with a chain and industrial-sized padlock. Leaving the engine running, he hopped out and stepped quickly to the barrier. Within seconds, he had it open, and the Cadillac glided through.
Fact was, he probably could have picked that lock in his sleep, but he hadn’t needed to; Margo had taken the fun out of everything—like usual—earlier in the day with a pair of bolt cutters and a brand-new padlock to which she held the key. It eliminates one more variable, she’d started to explain, and then Davon had begun bleeding from the ears.
The Cadillac’s engine was so quiet it barely made a sound as they drove across the decaying lot toward the gloomy, forsaken hulk of the old mall; but even so, figures materialized beneath the shadowy overhang of what had once been an entrance to the food court as the car drew near, swaying like zombies, their eyes glinting in the moonlight.
Turning the wheel, Davon guided the SUV around the looming end of the complex, to its desolate backside. Fragments of glass littered the pavement, twinkling in the moonlight like earthbound stars, and more bodies shuffled around, passing joints, food, and bottles of beer from hand to hand. Parked beneath a burned-out security light, well concealed from the road, were a gunmetal-gray Dodge Challenger and a matte black Zero DSR electric motorcycle. Five men gathered by the vehicles, talking and smoking, each one maintaining a casual grip on a baseball bat or a nasty-looking length of
pipe.
As the Escalade eased to a halt, the men straightened up; and when Davon climbed out, the largest of the five sauntered up to him, a metal bat clutched in one meaty fist. He flashed a grin that was missing a few teeth, taking in the bright blue wig, sparkly eye makeup, and exaggerated curves. With a gesture to the SUV, the man spoke in a gruff voice. “Nice wheels.”
“Nothing but the best for Dior Galore,” Davon purred, pulling off a glove to examine his long, glossy fingernails. He towered over the guy with the bat, looking down from an advantage of at least eight inches in his high heels—another thing Margo had passed an edict against, believe it or not. They were drag queens, for fuck’s sake, and she didn’t want them to wear heels.
“You can’t run from armed guards in four-inch heels, Davon,” she’d claimed, preposterously. “What if you twist an ankle?” In response, he’d shown her clips of French figure skater Surya Bonaly doing backflips on the ice in the 1988 Olympics, landing flawlessly on a single blade. Margo had folded her arms across her chest. “You aren’t Surya Bonaly.”
It was maybe the rudest thing she’d ever said to him.
Never mind that he performed in four-inch heels three nights a week, doing leaps, death drops, and fucking backflips; it was still out of the question. But he’d spent every part of tonight sitting behind the wheel, and he got to make the call on all things automotive, so on went the good shoes—and Margo could kiss his sweet, padded ass if she didn’t like it.
“We watched the Dodge and the bike just like we agreed, Miss Galore, and nothin’ happened to ’em. You can check ’em out.” The man gestured to his buddies, who were paying keen attention. Davon moved over to the Zero and then the Challenger, running his hands along the side panels and making a show of looking for possible damage, while the guy continued, “Couple of the tweakers thought they could try somethin’, but we shut ’em down. Nobody else even dared after that.”
Death Prefers Blondes Page 5
