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Authors: Duane Swierczynski
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and her expression changed completely. From pain to revulsion.
“Oh God, your chest…,” she said.
Hardie was halfway through the motion of looking down at his chest when he realized he was being an idiot.
But by then it was too late, because she had already shoved the palm of her free hand up into his jaw.
Lane always thought it was funny that she became known for the action movies. It had all started with that stupid remake Dead by Dawn. A woman-on-the-run story, and that summer, she’d been the face du jour. EW and Vanity Fair and everybody else had made a big deal about her first shoot-’em-up, having previously dismissed her as the sweet-but-dippy friend of the hero’s girlfriend in a trilogy of vapid preteen comedies. But after Dead, the only scripts she saw were actioners, and she found herself in what seemed like an endless succession of grueling mixed-martial-arts sessions. It felt like she spent more time being thrown around onto vinyl mats than on a stage actually acting. She used to run lines in her sleep; now boyfriends complained about being kicked and rabbit-punched in their sleep. Enrico used to work her hard.
The move she pulled on this asshole now came from a heist thriller called Your Kiss Might Kill Me, where she’d had to (believably) overpower a former Navy SEAL/bank guard who had at least two hundred pounds on her.
Funny how it came back to her so easily.
Hardie’s head snapped back, his teeth smashing together so hard it sent jagged bolts of pain through his skull. She’d gotten him good. He staggered back on his heels, instantly aware of the mic stand she’d dropped on the floor. If she stooped down, picked it up, and rammed it through his guts, well, then he’d die a ridiculously stupid death.
Fortunately she opted for kicking the living shit out of him instead, throwing a rapid succession of punches, chops, and kicks at his face, torso, balls. She clearly had training, but the coke and whatever else buzzing around in her bloodstream made her hits sloppy and unfocused.
Hardie absorbed the blows, waited for his moment, and then lunged, wrapped his thick arms around her, and squeezed. The girl struggled and opened her mouth to scream—which was the moment Hardie flipped her to the floor, blasting the air out of her lungs. While she was still stunned, he straddled her, pinning her arms under his thighs.
“You finished?” Hardie asked.
“G-Get off me!”
“Shhhh. I’m two hundred forty pounds. You’re not going anywhere.”
The girl struggled a bit more, as if she could summon the adrenaline to prove him wrong. But then she stopped and looked up at Hardie defiantly.
“So, what now?” she said.
“What now? Well, for starters, how about you tell me where your boyfriend took my rental car? It’s not that I give a damn about the car. But I’ve got a bag inside that means a lot to me, and if I don’t get it back, I’m going to track him down and beat the living fuck out of him.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Beat who?”
“Your boyfriend.”
She huffed.
“Boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend, husband, accomplice, whatever… whoever took my fucking car.”
“Don’t you get it? They took your car… your own people … so whatever this is, what are you waiting for? Just do it already. Do it!”
Hardie could feel her body start to shiver. Her lips trembled, too, and her eyes slid to the corners.
“Hey.”
Hardie gently touched her chin and moved it slightly. Her eyes found his again. He’d seen plenty of overdoses back in the job. She wasn’t quite there, but whatever she’d shot herself up with, she’d flirted with the edge.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, okay? I’m not Them, there is no Them. ” Now she focused on him again. Narrowed her eyes.
“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“I have no idea. You kind of look like this actress, what the hell’s her name…?”
“Lane Madden.”
That was it. Now Hardie understood why she’d looked familiar.
“Oh God, your chest…,” she said.
Hardie was halfway through the motion of looking down at his chest when he realized he was being an idiot.
But by then it was too late, because she had already shoved the palm of her free hand up into his jaw.
Lane always thought it was funny that she became known for the action movies. It had all started with that stupid remake Dead by Dawn. A woman-on-the-run story, and that summer, she’d been the face du jour. EW and Vanity Fair and everybody else had made a big deal about her first shoot-’em-up, having previously dismissed her as the sweet-but-dippy friend of the hero’s girlfriend in a trilogy of vapid preteen comedies. But after Dead, the only scripts she saw were actioners, and she found herself in what seemed like an endless succession of grueling mixed-martial-arts sessions. It felt like she spent more time being thrown around onto vinyl mats than on a stage actually acting. She used to run lines in her sleep; now boyfriends complained about being kicked and rabbit-punched in their sleep. Enrico used to work her hard.
The move she pulled on this asshole now came from a heist thriller called Your Kiss Might Kill Me, where she’d had to (believably) overpower a former Navy SEAL/bank guard who had at least two hundred pounds on her.
Funny how it came back to her so easily.
Hardie’s head snapped back, his teeth smashing together so hard it sent jagged bolts of pain through his skull. She’d gotten him good. He staggered back on his heels, instantly aware of the mic stand she’d dropped on the floor. If she stooped down, picked it up, and rammed it through his guts, well, then he’d die a ridiculously stupid death.
Fortunately she opted for kicking the living shit out of him instead, throwing a rapid succession of punches, chops, and kicks at his face, torso, balls. She clearly had training, but the coke and whatever else buzzing around in her bloodstream made her hits sloppy and unfocused.
Hardie absorbed the blows, waited for his moment, and then lunged, wrapped his thick arms around her, and squeezed. The girl struggled and opened her mouth to scream—which was the moment Hardie flipped her to the floor, blasting the air out of her lungs. While she was still stunned, he straddled her, pinning her arms under his thighs.
“You finished?” Hardie asked.
“G-Get off me!”
“Shhhh. I’m two hundred forty pounds. You’re not going anywhere.”
The girl struggled a bit more, as if she could summon the adrenaline to prove him wrong. But then she stopped and looked up at Hardie defiantly.
“So, what now?” she said.
“What now? Well, for starters, how about you tell me where your boyfriend took my rental car? It’s not that I give a damn about the car. But I’ve got a bag inside that means a lot to me, and if I don’t get it back, I’m going to track him down and beat the living fuck out of him.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Beat who?”
“Your boyfriend.”
She huffed.
“Boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend, husband, accomplice, whatever… whoever took my fucking car.”
“Don’t you get it? They took your car… your own people … so whatever this is, what are you waiting for? Just do it already. Do it!”
Hardie could feel her body start to shiver. Her lips trembled, too, and her eyes slid to the corners.
“Hey.”
Hardie gently touched her chin and moved it slightly. Her eyes found his again. He’d seen plenty of overdoses back in the job. She wasn’t quite there, but whatever she’d shot herself up with, she’d flirted with the edge.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, okay? I’m not Them, there is no Them. ” Now she focused on him again. Narrowed her eyes.
“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“I have no idea. You kind of look like this actress, what the hell’s her name…?”
“Lane Madden.”
That was it. Now Hardie understood why she’d looked familiar.
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