Girls Just Wanna Have Guns

by Toni McGee Causey

  * * *

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  Where’s Trevor?

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Following.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  Does he know you’re there?

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Unknown.

  * * *

  Holy fried butterflies, someone had actually kidnapped her. Could chocolate give you hallucinations? Was she having flashbacks from her heavy M&M benders in the fifth grade? Because seriously, what the hell?

  One of the hijackers in the van twisted her arms behind her, holding her in place as the van door slid and clicked shut, and then the van accelerated . . . slowly.

  “Your famiglia, Bobbie Faye, they are to get you killed, sì?” a gruff, Italian-accented male asked.

  “Look, if Roy owes you money, I don’t—”

  “This ain’t about your brother,” a creepy, raspy voice said on her left, surprising her. After Roy’s kidnapping and the subsequent press about her rescuing him, quite a few people had surfaced trying to coerce her to pay his debts. (Not to mention husbands and boyfriends of women he was seeing who kindly wanted to rearrange his face.) She had grown so accustomed to surprise visits, Fear had taken to napping somewhere in the back room of her brain.

  Raspy poked her with a gun barrel. Fear was now definitely awake, and kicking its idiot partners, Run and Scream, who’d been seriously falling down on the job.

  The van turned right. Huh? She knew from memory that the street they’d just turned on was not the path to take if they were trying to rush away from the city with her. They seemed to be . . . going around the block.

  “Non, no about il vostra fratello—ah, your, brother, non. This is about the diamante,” the Italian voice supplied.

  “The diamonds?” she asked, struggling with the jerk holding her arms as the van made another right-hand turn. “You have got to be kidding me.” She hadn’t been helping Francesca fifteen whole minutes and dealing with the repercussions of assisting her family was already about to get her killed.

  “We know your idiot cousin,” Raspy explained, “asked you to help find those diamonds. And we’re telling you, you don’t wanna find them.”

  “Gee, if you know me that well, you know I just love having a big strong guy boss me around.” She tried to kick out, and someone sat on her legs while the guy behind her wrenched her arm. Damn, that was gonna bruise.

  “Magnifico,” the Italian said, clearly losing something in the translation. “Tell her you are . . . finished . . . sì? That you no want to help her!”

  He was obviously overjoyed. Idiot. “I’ve told her that ever since seventh grade. In our family, we do Stubborn like other people do Olympics.”

  “We do it better,” Raspy said. “We’re here for the buyers. The diamonds belong to us, and everything is set. You interfere? You’re dead. Come down with the flu. Convince her you’re out.”

  “Gee, I’m feeling positively queasy as we speak.”

  “Good girl,” Raspy said, and she wanted to deck him for the girl crap. What the hell was it with people? She wasn’t twelve.

  “So, and not that this is anything like a brainstorming session, but why kidnap me to tell me to not find the diamonds when you already had a sniper trying to take me out?”

  There was a distinct hesitation before the Italian said, “Ah, sì, the . . . sniper, he is good, non?”

  “No,” she said, realizing what had been bothering her at a gut level about the shots aimed into Ce Ce’s. Well, other than the whole “being shot at” thing. “He kinda sucked.”

  They made another right-hand turn, which, by her calculations meant . . . clearly her brain was leaking out her ears, because holy crap. They’d made the block?

  “The buyer,” the Italian said, “he want to no kill you, first chance.”

  “A warning,” Raspy supplied. “You get one warning. They said they’re not cold-blooded.”

  “Well, gee, they’re practically nominees for the Nobel Peace Prize.”

  “They may not be cold-blooded,” Raspy laughed, “but I am. You don’t listen? We start killing your family.”

  The van stopped abruptly and they shoved her out, leaving the sack on her head. She struggled for a moment to pull it off, and as she looked up, she realized she was in essentially the same spot she’d been in before being grabbed. The brilliant cousins pulled up in a gleaming yellow Hummer, which stunned her senses with its brightness. Not exactly a stealthy, anonymous choice for oh, say, finding diamonds or following hijackers.

  She was probably lucky Francesca hadn’t decorated it with sparklers.

  When Bobbie Faye glanced over at Trevor’s original position, he was gone, and she tried not to make it obvious that she was disappointed or that she swept her gaze around, looking for him as she turned to go to her car . . . stepping out of the way of the black SUV . . . then realizing, too late, that it had swerved at her. She saw the door opening, the maw of darkness inside the vehicle obscuring faces as she turned to run, because damn, twice in one day?

  And then something light and soft covered her head and someone yanked her backward, hard, and she banged into the frame as someone hauled her into the backseat. Before she knew what had happened, her arms were zip-tied behind her back.

  She was sensing a theme.

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Got her.

  * * *

  “Bobbie Faye,” a woman’s silky voice caressed, almost as soft as the folds of material covering Bobbie Faye’s face, “we know your cousin planned to ask for your help finding the diamonds.”

  “Jesus. Did Francesca take out a freaking ad in the paper or something?” She felt the car drive slowly and then turn right.

  “Close. She let it be known that she thought you were the answer to her problems.”

  Great. Just flippin’ great. “Let me guess—you don’t want me to find the diamonds, either.”

  There was a hairsbreadth of a pause, and the woman chuckled. “Ah, so that’s what the last group wanted. Interesting that they let you live.”

  “Yeah, that was my favorite part.”

  “Well, now you are going to find the diamonds and bring them to us. And only us, or your life as you know it is over.”

  “Who the hell are you people?” Another right turn. What the hell? Were they going around the same block? Who knew the side exit of the store led to the Bermuda Triangle of Hijack-land?

  “We,” Silky said rather matter-of-factly, “are the people who can take away every single thing you ever had, ever loved, or ever wanted.”

  “Can I keep the lava lamp? Because I’m really fond of the lava lamp.” She felt a gun press into her check. “Fine. Geez. You can have the lava lamp.” They didn’t want her dead. Good. They could bite it.

  Someone clocked her on the side of the head. As they yanked her back, she swore she could feel a lump rising at the point of impact. Something sticky trickled down her chin and she was pretty sure that slam had cut her forehead. Maybe she should learn not to taunt the armed and crazy wackos.

  “Here’s how we’re going to handle this,” Silky said. “You’re going to find the diamonds and give them to us. At that point, if you’ve been a very good girl and haven’t pissed me off, we’ll give you a finder’s fee. An extremely large finder’s fee, which should help you with the previous cretins who threatened your family.”

  “Riiiiiiiigggggggghhhht. And I’ll bet I get a set of steak knives thrown in for free, too.” So much for shutting up. She really needed to practice that, she thought, as someone clocked her again, same spot. “Cut it out!”

  “You don’t have a lot of choice,” the woman laughed. “You really don’t want to see me displeased. We
’ll be watching, Bobbie Faye.”

  Someone cut the zip-ties that held her hands, and the SUV stopped abruptly, just as the van had. The door opened and she was tossed out onto the street. Bobbie Faye yanked off what turned out to be a pillowcase (high thread count, very nice) and stared after the vehicle as it sped away down the same block the van had taken. She looked around and Trevor was now across the street, on his bike, apparently having followed the SUV around the block. There was something incredibly—furious—about his tension, in spite of the poker face he held.

  She brushed her hands beneath her shirt and felt the small Band-Aid–sized patch Trevor had stuck on her. On the off-chance that it was a voice transmitter, she turned away from Francesca and the cousins as they gaped from the Hummer, and said, “Welcome to Bobbie Faye World where we don’t charge extra for all the crazies you can stand.”

  He cracked a smile, confirming he could hear her. The relief that washed over her as she turned back toward her own crappy car was palpable. He was here. Helping her. She didn’t know how or why. She’d missed him, missed their banter. The memory of his voice, talking to her until she was languid with comfort and sleep, flooded back to her. Which is why she wasn’t paying all that much attention to the big boxy moving-type truck until it slowed and she thought no way, not again . . . not even in my life, just as the back door scrolled up and open. She tried leaping out of their grasp, but it happened so fast, she tripped, dropping her purse, and fell straight into their grasp.

  She had always had lovely timing.

  When Bobbie Faye disappeared into the back of that truck, fury vibrated through Trevor as steadily as the hum of the Harley’s engine. This whole damned thing should never have happened. The Bureau could have alerted him sooner. If her name hadn’t popped up on the radar of his own personal contacts when it did, he wouldn’t have known to get here. He was too late to change the forward momentum when he’d first arrived, which gave him only option #2—infiltrate. Let her be used as bait, try to keep the Bureau’s mismanagement from getting her killed.

  He shoved the rage aside. Anger was a luxury that had no place in an op, even though this set of players in the moving van had not been on the Bureau’s radar. The first kidnapper: yes. They were the target—stop the buyers. The second had been rumored, and now he had his own suspicions, but this third hadn’t even appeared as a blip. At least not in the intel he’d been given, and his clearance was pretty fucking high. Which meant either the Bureau had been caught off guard or someone wasn’t playing well with others when it came to information. Trevor didn’t know what was worse—that Bobbie Faye was in a terrible position, or that she didn’t even know yet just how bad it was.

  He knew myriad ways of killing people, and at the rate of the threats to Bobbie Faye’s life, he might need every single one. That was fine, if it kept her safe. Or better yet, throw all of the assholes in a room and let her have at them. That would teach them.

  He amped up the volume in his earpiece and heard Bobbie Faye . . . and it sounded like a steady . . . growl. She knew he had miked her. She was letting him know she couldn’t talk.

  “We’re just checkin’ ye for wires, woman,” an odd Irish lilt spilled into his earpiece.

  Sonofabitch. He closed his distance to the truck. Exhaled. Thought through his options, stomping down the emotions. Two of his men were positioned across the vacant parking lot, “repairing” an old beat-up car, their “iPods” direct links to a mic of his own that he could key to alert them for fast response. He turned the bike, deciding to run counterclockwise to the van and face it; he wanted to get a look at the driver.

  They’d gagged her. Had she missed some freaking forecast somewhere? One hundred-percent chance of kidnapping today, with a fair-to-likely chance of morning bruises and bound hands?

  That was it. When this was over, assuming she lived (she was going to indulge in that pretty fantasy world for a moment), she was going to take karate again and get that black belt she’d been wanting. (Of course, there was the tiny little problem of the karate teacher not letting her back into his dojo after she accidentally shattered his nose last year, and the judo teacher broke out in hives when she’d tried to sign up at his studio. Maybe there was a jujitsu teacher somewhere who hadn’t heard of her. But by God, she was going to take something.)

  She noticed the hand of the asshole holding her arm—he was missing two fingers. The guy who appeared to be the boss knelt in front of her, patting her down. He had a SIG in a shoulder harness, another smaller gun in an ankle strap, a third at his waist, and a Ka-Bar knife strapped to his belt. All he needed was a bazooka strapped on his back. (Slacker.) He wore a relaxed expression of power, the kind people get when they know they can take a life as easily as let it be. She’d seen that kind of menace before in her ex-boyfriend Alex, who had turned out to be more than just bad-boy rebellious; he’d been a criminal, a gunrunner. Geez, she needed some sort of pill for her nagging case of “Dating the Worst Possible Guy, Stupid,” and while she was at it, maybe they had shots for “Wrong Place, Wrong Time, You Idiot.” Hell, she’d probably need a double dose.

  “She’s clear,” the Irish boss said, and she glared at him so she wouldn’t sigh in relief that he had missed the little microphone patch. He watched her with an intensity that scraped her raw nerves. “You’re quite the popular woman today. Now, you’re goin’ to follow my instructions, or you’re goin’ to die. Do you understand this? Nod if you do.” She nodded, noting they made another right turn. Maybe there was a per-mile charge in the Kidnappers’ Union?

  “I think it’s about time for the train to finish up, boss,” a small, hunch-shouldered guy called from the front passenger seat. “The cops are on the other side.”

  The boss continued, unconcerned. “We have seen the two other groups; we had intended on makin’ your acquaintance first, but there is always the advantage of lettin’ the amateurs have their go. I’d imagine they were quite emphatic about you findin’ the diamonds and deliverin’ only to them.”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, that is to be expected. I’m certain they made quite the elaborate threats against you, or your family, should you not comply.”

  She nodded again as the truck made another right turn. The sound of a motorcycle rumbled louder; Trevor had somehow circled around to approach the truck. For a brief moment, she thought he was going to play chicken with the driver, but he turned into a driveway as if that had been his intended destination.

  “Fine, this is fine,” the boss continued. “However, you should know that they are local . . . freelancers. They carry no real weight and either group could easily be bought off, should you want to eliminate their threat.” Okay, this wasn’t sounding so bad. “I, however, won’t be bought in any way. I’ll be having those diamonds, álainn, or many people will die.” He leaned closer. “An’ I’ll make sure the world knows they die as a result of your choices. Do you understand this? You may nod.” His voice rumbled low and soft, the Irish lilt giving it just the right amount of spring to imply that he had a bit of humor sprinkled on top of his psychotic murderous intent. Oh, goody, a happy murderer. Much better than a cranky one.

  She nodded, and felt them turn again.

  “Good. You’ll find the diamonds and you’ll wait for me. You should be aware I know exactly what they are, what they’re worth, and how many there are. You will not be able to fool me so do not try. You’ll not be smart enough.”

  She seethed and didn’t nod. Not smart enough. You bastard, I’ll show you not smart—and then he pulled his knife and used it to start slicing the front of her shirt.

  “I can get to you any time I want, álainn. Do you understand?”

  Six

  Trevor kept one eye on his high-tech monitor, which would have appeared to anyone else to be nothing more than a fancy cell phone. Fortunately, it was capable of more than even the Bureau understood. The number spiking in the corner of the handheld’s screen: Bobbie Faye’s heart rate. Dammit, he wanted h
er out of there. She didn’t whimper, didn’t give him a cue that he’d better move in, get her out now. No, this asshole didn’t want her dead. Yet. Just scared.

  Her heartbeat steadied, but hadn’t dropped back to normal.

  The phone vibrated. Trevor checked the caller ID and slapped off the phone, in spite of the fact that it was going to piss off his so-called “boss.” He already knew what the man wanted. Rather, who the man wanted.

  And she was in the truck, her heart rate high, unable to talk.

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Third player. Want me to pull her out?

  * * *

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  No. She’s expendable. Track the player.

  * * *

  Cam listened over his radio to the frustrated cops grousing about being forced to wait for the train to pass in order to reach Ce Ce’s. Two squad cars had peeled off to drive around the unusually long train; no one could tell him what was going on over there. Calls to Ce Ce’s snagged against a busy signal. Maybe the phone had been destroyed, or maybe someone was calling out, but it was killing him not to know if Bobbie Faye was okay. He looked in his rearview mirror to where Stacey sat buckled in, her face sticky with the ice cream he’d bought for her. His mom was going to kill him later when she had to deal with Stacey on a sugar high.

  “Uncle Cam, is people shootin’ at Aunt Bobbie Faye again?”

  Jesus Christ, where’d the kid learn to put stuff together. Five-year-olds weren’t supposed to be this sharp.