Girls Just Wanna Have Guns

by Toni McGee Causey

  “That’s at least your fourth time around the place,” she commented when he passed her again.

  “Tenth,” Trevor said absently from across the room. She looked up, since he seemed amused. He tapped the huge window that overlooked Lake Charles—its dark, still surface reflecting the moon; the bright lights from the casino boat undulated, hypnotic in the light breeze coming off the water. “Do all of your friends and family automatically install bulletproof glass?”

  “Yeah. They ask for the Bobbie Faye ‘cranky nutcase’ discount.”

  “Good to know.”

  Trevor kept moving, and he reminded her of a panther—lethal, sinewy, graceful, strong. He was also sending text messages via his fancy cell phone—encoded, he’d explained—to his field office, getting updates, updating them. She wasn’t using hers anymore since he said it was being traced.

  “Won’t they trace us from your phone?” It was something she should have thought of earlier, but she was so tired, so utterly wired and exhausted at the same time, she wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “They think so.”

  “You’re not being a good agent and giving them an accurate signal, are you?” He shrugged. “So just out of curiosity, if we were where the signal said we were, where would we be?”

  “Cut Off.”

  She laughed. Cut Off was a little town near the southernmost tip of habitable Louisiana land that wasn’t a barrier reef island, down at the toe of the boot. She appreciated his irony.

  His phone rang as he joined her at the table and his expression clicked into impassive as he answered. “Yeah.”

  “I want her here,” Emile shouted, so loud she could hear him five feet away from the phone. “She destroyed Marie’s house. Clearly, you can’t control her. I want her where I can watch her.”

  “You want her alive so she can find the diamonds?” Trevor asked, and Bobbie Faye stilled. Emile sputtered something incomprehensible and Trevor waited ’til he was done. “She didn’t blow up the house—someone else went after her. So if you want to terminate the contract, that’s fine with me. She’s a royal fucking pain to control”—she stuck her tongue out at him and he grinned—“and I don’t know who the hell else I’m up against. I’d just as soon cut this one loose. But she’ll be dead five minutes after I move her, I promise you that.”

  “Do you think she has them?”

  “I think she’s closing in on finding them.”

  Emile fumed, but finally said, “I want reports. She so much as twitches an eyelash, I want a report.”

  Trevor hung up and said, “Try not to twitch an eyelash.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  What do you mean, we don’t have any trace of where Nina lives? How could we have a gap in our records like that?

  * * *

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  I don’t know, but it’s a serious concern. First, the best friend happens to be in Italy . . . where the buyer’s located. Now, we can’t find BF because she’s staying at the home of said friend, who doesn’t exist in any of our records.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  They went to high school together. She existed.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  We have a record of a Nina McVey—starting at age 7. Her grandma’s name is Rhoda McVey, and her life seems to begin right there, same year. Working on a home location for Nina. High priority.

  * * *

  Aiden handed Sean the binoculars; they lay belly down on a rooftop across from the loft where Bobbie Faye was holed up with some guy no one knew—just that he seemed to be helping the woman and, from the number of times he “casually” brushed her arm, rubbed a shoulder, or watched her when she was studying the junk laid out on the table, he was pretty fucking interested.

  “You take the first shift,” Sean instructed, handing Aiden the binoculars back. “An’ wake Mollie up in a couple of hours to replace you.”

  Aiden nodded as Sean picked himself up and headed down the back fire escape to where the box truck was parked and where Robbie was probably still monitoring the GPS tracking bug. When Aiden focused the sights again on the woman, he felt a twinge of sorrow. She looked to be about dead on her feet, worry etched across her pretty face. He knew that Sean intended on taking her along with the diamonds—if she disappeared the same time as the stones, the world would think she’d taken off with them, and none the wiser that Sean had lifted them for himself from her before escorting her back to Ireland. Sean would enjoy breaking her—the more stubborn they were, the more fun Sean had.

  He let the twinge of guilt go. The team had made a lot of money together with Sean’s leadership. They were wanted everywhere, and this was the heist they needed to ensure their freedom. Enough money to buy off officials or purchase a private island. Sean had gotten them this far, from their days on the streets, juggling for coins. Aiden wasn’t about to second-guess the man now.

  “How many do we have out there?” Trevor asked his man, Dave, as he spoke into his phone, looking out of the expansive kitchen window. Bobbie Faye worked in the dining area, but in here, he had turned off the interior lights and could now see the buildings across the street. Nina’s loft had fantastic views in both front, back, and on the south side—only the north side was taken up by the wall of the adjoining building on this block, and that building she’d converted into a gym and garage.

  “Two groups, that we can see,” Dave answered. Trevor had Dave positioned on Nina’s roof and two other agents running surveillance—one in the building across the street, second story; one on the ground. “Looks like group number three from this morning is over on the roof opposite you, as you expected.” Trevor had numbered the groups in the order of their abductions of Bobbie Faye earlier just to keep it simple over the airwaves. “Number two clocked in down on the street, still in their SUV. You were right about them.”

  Homeland Security. He knew he was being lied to by his boss. He was also pretty sure he knew why.

  “And group number one? The buyer?”

  “No idea. I’ll keep you posted if anyone else shows.”

  They hung up and Trevor stood still in the dark, focused across the street. He didn’t have his night-vision goggles with him, or he’d have gotten a better look at the prick. As it was, he could see an outline where the man had huddled against the low wall surrounding the roof, his own binoculars trained on the dining room window. If Trevor craned his view down and to the left, he could see the SUV parked on the street; someone’s cell phone lit up briefly as a call came in.

  Bobbie Faye’s eyes blurred from going over the piles of paper she had on the table. There were mailers that someone had produced for a couple of events showing off Marie’s brand-new line of accessories, a newspaper article about the charity auction of one of her art pieces, an invitation to an awards benefit, a couple of lunches, a flurry of notes about pedicures and manicures and hair stylists and fittings—clearly Marie was planning on a big event or a trip somewhere and needed to be in top form. Next to all of that was the one clue Bobbie Faye understood that she was pretty sure no one else had thought to pursue: the rice hulls.

  Her attention suddenly riveted up to the doorway to the kitchen; she didn’t know how long he’d been watching her, but Trevor leaned against that archway with a simple elegance that made her think of every spy movie she’d ever seen, his biceps bulging in arms crossed over his chest, and when she was finally able to tear her eyes away from that gorgeous sight and move upward, he had a huge smile. Smile? Huh?

  “Did you know,” he asked, “that you were in here singing the Oscar Mayer Weiner song?”

  Oh, shit, that was out loud? Quick. What do crazy people usually do when caught?

  “Shut up,” she said, and when he raised a brow,
realized she’d said it instead of thinking it. “Um, not you. The shut-up part. Inside my head. Very noisy in there right now.”

  “Out here, too.”

  “Was not.”

  “The neighbors called. Wondered what cat we were killing and were we going to be through anytime soon.”

  “Fine. Keep it up and I’m going to serenade you with my version of the Sesame Street song.”

  “Dear God, no. I don’t get hazard pay.”

  “Didn’t you have phone calls or something productive you were supposed to be doing instead of leaning against the doorways looking sexy?” He grinned. Jesus Christ, but her brain was tired, skidding straight through Self-Preservation without even bothering to brake until she reached Abject Humiliation. At this rate, she should just get nekkid and dance. (And the Hormones said Amen.) “Stop it,” she said to his smile. “Phone calls?”

  “Yeah, a couple. The originating agent’s having an orgasm because all of the players appeared.”

  “Oh, well, yipfuckingwhee. Tell him—”

  “Her.”

  “Her—next time, she can be the one looking into those weird amber eyes.”

  Trevor stopped all movement. “You saw the Irish guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I saw you fall out of the truck and you rolled away from me. I couldn’t see you well until you stood again. You were pulling something off—”

  “The gag. They didn’t cover my head like the other two.”

  The pause and his cast-iron expression made her glad she was sitting. She pulled her knees to her chest, curling into a tight ball. Trevor stepped in front of the chair and squatted, eyes level with hers. “He has a medium build, shorter than me, scary looks but has a charming smile in spite of the barbed-wire scar?”

  She shuddered. “Yep, that’s him. Well, he didn’t smile much until the end, and he kept calling me Ally or something, but yeah.”

  “Álainn. Which means beautiful.”

  “Great, because that makes being kidnapped all warm and fuzzy.”

  “And he let you see him,” he continued, ignoring her. “You didn’t just work off a blindfold or something?”

  “Hi,” she waved at him, “already scared stupid here, thank you.” Panic was threatening a coup and Bravery was booking the next flight out to Tahiti.

  He caught her expression and his own softened. “That’s Sean MacGreggor. As you’ve no doubt guessed from his accent, he’s Irish.” Trevor stood, and she felt, more than saw, him reigning in control of his demeanor. “He’s a butcher, essentially. Started out his career in simple theft when he was a kid in the slums of Dublin, graduated to B & E, mostly to get enough money to get off the streets. Took a liking to it. Interpol and the British police are itching to get their hands on him. Our file on him is a foot thick. I’ve heard Interpol’s is easily double that.” He traced her hands fisted together in front of her knees. If she could have pulled her legs in tighter, she would have, but he didn’t let up. “He’s been suspected as the mastermind behind several heists and money-laundering deals in Europe and the UK, and he never leaves behind a witness.”

  “Um, never?”

  “Never.”

  “Can we go back in time and pretend like I’m a dainty-flower kinda girl who faints at bad news?”

  “You’re my partner, Sundance, and you need to know this stuff.”

  “Let’s take a vote: all for denial, raise your hand.” She raised both.

  “If he didn’t mind that you saw him, then he’s got some sort of strategy where you seeing him doesn’t matter to him.”

  “Great. I didn’t feel like there was enough challenge yet, thank you.”

  “Sean knows our procedures enough to know the Bureau would be following you as soon as word got out that you might be able to find the diamonds, and he doesn’t care if you see him or report that he’s here,” he continued, tapping her on the forehead to make her pay attention. “And that means he’s got an escape plan.”

  “You don’t sound surprised he’s here.”

  “Rumor had it that he was trying to lift the diamonds when Emile snagged them out from under him. Two of MacGreggor’s original gang were dead when it was done and MacGreggor disappeared. He’s been vapor ever since, and there’d been no word from Homeland Security, who was supposed to be tracking him, that he’d entered the U.S.”

  “But you had a feeling,” she guessed from his expression.

  “Let’s just say it was a hunch that he’d show up. The diamonds are worth millions. And MacGreggor’s big on revenge, so he’ll want to pay back Emile. Don’t let the charm fool you—MacGreggor’s deadly. He didn’t come to play.”

  “Gee, Trevor, maybe I can find some kittens for you to terrorize next.”

  “If it helps any,” his voice rumbled low as he braced himself on the arms of her chair and leaned in, “I didn’t come to play, either.”

  Was she drooling? She was probably drooling. She’d heard drooling was unattractive, but damned if she could shut her mouth. The tan and the biceps and the long hair falling forward over incorrigible blue eyes and that wicked, wicked smile were all right there, and she was pretty sure smoke just spurted out her ears from all of the brain gears grinding to a halt.

  “You’re exhausted,” he pronounced. Yeah, that’s what every girl wants to hear. “We need to get you to bed.”

  “Bed?” Was that her voice that squeaked? Bed was much better than exhausted.

  “For sleep.”

  The likelihood of sleep happening was about as great a possibility as Bobbie Faye getting the Pulitzer for astrophysics, but he seemed intent on steering her to the spare bedroom and all of her Hormones were so eager, they threatened a massive stroke if she opened her mouth and ruined the moment. Like with the yawning.

  Geez, she was yawning. There were the abs, for crying out loud, and she yawned. “It’s not you,” she said, and then yawned again.

  “I know.”

  “We really have to work on that low self-esteem you have there, Trevor.”

  “Oh, we will. Later. But right now, you’re going to sleep.”

  He placed his SIG on the nightstand within easy reach, and he pushed a little snub-nosed .38 she hadn’t seen before underneath his pillow. He climbed in and patted the covers, and she knew sleeping next to him wasn’t going to work. He tucked her into his chest, his right hand near the snub-nose, the SIG near his left, and after settling in and yawning again, she said, “God, you smell good.” And then, “Dammit, did I just say that out loud?” He chuckled and held her and she was dimly aware that he talked to her, stories about growing up with three sisters and maybe there was something else in there and then something about baseball and something else about pretty cars and she drifted off. As her body felt liquid and languid and safe, she remembered she’d forgotten to tell him what the rice husks meant, but it was too hard to force words back up to the surface and so she thought: tomorrow.

  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.

  Fourteen

  Bobbie Faye sensed someone stirring and she woke with a start, then realized she was still in Trevor’s arms the way they’d lain together the night before. She relaxed back into his embrace as he grinned against her temple. The glowing red numbers on the bedside clock indicated it was nearing six
-thirty in the morning. They’d gotten about four hours of sleep—a Godsend. She stretched against the length of him, too aware he still had on jeans and she still had on pjs. Dammit.

  Trevor quietly stroked her hair, moved it away from her face, and she wished on everything holy that this day could officially not start so she wouldn’t have to get out of bed. He ran his hand over her shoulder and down the curve of her hip and the heat of his touch electrified the rest of her body and it struck her with such a force that she wanted this man. So very much. Not just that she was lonely, or cranked up on lust, or that he was revenge, but choice. The way he held her, talked to her like an equal, looked at her, teased her. It was stupid and insane. She didn’t know enough about him. Not really, not beyond the few stories she could barely remember he’d lulled her to sleep with.

  She must be certifiable, because right then, she didn’t really care.

  He shifted as if he sensed what she was thinking. Of course, her running a hand across his chest may have given him a clue.

  “We don’t have time,” he murmured.

  “It’s not even seven A.M.” Plenty of freaking time.

  “When I start on your body, I’d like us to have a few hours. And a lot less . . .” he hesitated, as she slid her hand up and over his chest, “. . . audience.”