Terrapin Sky Tango

Chapter 7

7

It’s too late.

Lou is lying on his back, his feet right beneath the big sedan’s front bumper.

One of the gunbunny’s rounds cut through his neck, right where it meets the body. The hole is big enough for a golf ball and glints with shards of shattered collarbone.

I didn’t even notice he’d been shot.

That ridiculous hat lies a few feet away.

His wide pupils can stare at the sun all they want now.

Thanks to the sun-heated concrete, the pool of red blood is already drying at the edges.

Despair crashes in on me.

Father was dead. Probably stupidly.

I couldn’t have changed that—but I’d never know, because I hadn’t been there.

Never mind that he probably would have killed me if I’d stayed.

But Lou. Lou was my responsibility. My problem.

Behind me, Stabbity Joe says something.

The job broker had asked me to take Lou along. See if the guy could hack it. He must have seen potential in the guy. And Lou had done okay for his first time out. Not great, but decent.

He’d tried to tell me his last name.

And I didn’t even have time to arrange a burial. Someone would find him lying here and report him to the Scottsdale police. The machinery of state would take over. He’d go into a pauper’s grave.

Anywhere else, my eyes would have misted up a little. In Infernal Scottsdale, tears evaporate before they can hit my eye.

“Beaks?” Deke says in my earpiece.

“Yeah?” My voice shakes a little. I need to shake the rest of myself. This little act isn’t over. “Lou—he’s out. Permanently.”

“s**t,” Deke says. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah.”

The pause tells me Deke can hear the lie. A breath later he says, “Finish this up, babe, and y’all can tell me all about it.”

That sounds like the best offer I’m going to get.

But I can’t leave Lou staring at the sun.

His ridiculous hat has fallen a few feet away.

I gently place it over his face. Sorry. It’s the best I’ve got right now.

Then I turn to face Stabbity Joe.

Joe’s standing near his pristine white van. He has a knife in each hand. An ignorant observer would think that he’s amusing himself by flipping them end-over-end and catching them by the handle.

He’s not showing off.

It’s a threat.

The box of bearer bonds is gone.

Candy’s rear end and legs are disappearing into the white van.

Stabbity Joe tosses the knife in his left hand up. It does one and a half spins on its way up and the same as it comes back down, sunlight flashing off the blade at every turn. He catches the blade between thumb and forefinger.

Now he’s showing off.

And he’s telling me he’s ready to use it. Not a threat, a statement. He’s got the money.

His right thumb and forefinger keep their relaxed grip on his other knife.

My breath comes smooth. I’ll break down and have a good sob later, but I need to take charge of this right now.

Stabbity Joe must see my expression as I approach. “Sorry, Beaks. Losing people is never easy.”

The unexpected sympathy softens something inside. I compensate by hardening my voice. “He knew the risks. And we’re not done.”

Stabbity Joe shakes his head. “I fear these bastards shot the Duke before we did the exchange. That’s how it goes sometimes.”

“They didn’t shoot the cello,” I say. “My sniper did.”