Read Online Liars & Thieves by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Coonts
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery & Detective, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, Virginia, Spy fiction; American, Massacres, Suspense stories; American
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after she pushed the button.
I kept a spare key in a magnetic box under the driver’s seat. I was sorely tempted to jump in the Benz and boogie. With the key in hand, I stood beside the car for a few seconds thinking about it.
Kelly Erlanger was a ditz—stealing my car proved that. The last thing I wanted to do was play white knight to some dingdong airhead who thought I might be a hit man.
I could always call the guy in Staunton and tell him where his heap was, mail him the key.
Of course, the guys who smacked all those people this morning were still running around loose, and the people who sent them were going to get aggravated at me before too long.
The light was on in Erlanger’s living room. I saw no heads looking out. The daffy broad was probably calling the damned cops.
I muttered a four-letter word that I thought summarized the situation and transferred the submachine gun to the rental heap. My clothes and some burglary tools were in the trunk of the Benz, so I transferred them, too. God knew when I’d see this heap again—and the Benz was completely paid for. I spotted my emergency roll of duct tape, pocketed that. I closed the Benz’s trunk, made sure it latched, then selected a pick as I walked up to her front door.
I could hear something going on in there—music or a voice.
Five dollars against a doughnut she was talking to the 911 operator.
I twisted the knob on her door, made sure it was locked, then inserted the pick.
The thought occurred to me that I was going to be in big, big trouble if she had a gun. She had struck me as a politically correct academic, which meant feminist, pro-life, anti-gun, and all the rest of the chorus, but what the hell, these days you never knew. Maybe she carried a shooter in her purse just in case. Please God, don’t let her shoot me!
I raked the pick while maintaining pressure on the knob. I felt one of the tumblers go up. I raked the pick savagely, releasing and reapplying subtle pressure to the knob, trying to make all the tumblers pop up at once and catch them there.
After six or eight rakes, the door opened. Yes!
She was on the phone, staring at me wild-eyed, screaming, “He’s coming through the door now!” I must have been a fearsome sight—it had been a long day and I had seen too many dead people, some of whom I killed myself.
I bounded across the room and popped her once on the jaw before she had time to rabbit. She went down like a sack of potatoes.
The suitcase full of paper was right there on the floor by the coffee table. She had been going through the contents when I showed up.
I shoved everything into the suitcase and tried to close it. Had to put it on the floor and use a knee on it to get the latches snapped. Then I threw her over my shoulder. Out on the porch I put the suitcase down and closed the door until it latched. I must not have been thinking too clearly, because I took the time to wipe off the doorknob. As if they didn’t know who I was.
The suitcase went in the trunk of the heap. She went in the passenger seat.
Out on the street I glanced at my watch. How much time did I have?
I drove toward the subdivision exit as far from her house as I could get and still see her driveway, which was only about seventy yards due to the way the street curved. There was a house sitting there with black windows and a FOR SALE sign in the yard, so I backed into the driveway and killed the engine. Then I used the duct tape on her wrists and mouth, then taped the seat belt to her arms so she couldn’t pull them out of the belt. She was moaning and starting to come around as I snapped the seat belt in place to hold her. I checked her jaw—didn’t seem to be broken, although the bruise was turning yellow and purple and swelling up right before my eyes.
She came to slowly, began thrashing as she realized she was restrained, eyed me wildly.
“Did you call 911?”
A look of defiance crossed her face.
“We’ll just sit here and see who
I kept a spare key in a magnetic box under the driver’s seat. I was sorely tempted to jump in the Benz and boogie. With the key in hand, I stood beside the car for a few seconds thinking about it.
Kelly Erlanger was a ditz—stealing my car proved that. The last thing I wanted to do was play white knight to some dingdong airhead who thought I might be a hit man.
I could always call the guy in Staunton and tell him where his heap was, mail him the key.
Of course, the guys who smacked all those people this morning were still running around loose, and the people who sent them were going to get aggravated at me before too long.
The light was on in Erlanger’s living room. I saw no heads looking out. The daffy broad was probably calling the damned cops.
I muttered a four-letter word that I thought summarized the situation and transferred the submachine gun to the rental heap. My clothes and some burglary tools were in the trunk of the Benz, so I transferred them, too. God knew when I’d see this heap again—and the Benz was completely paid for. I spotted my emergency roll of duct tape, pocketed that. I closed the Benz’s trunk, made sure it latched, then selected a pick as I walked up to her front door.
I could hear something going on in there—music or a voice.
Five dollars against a doughnut she was talking to the 911 operator.
I twisted the knob on her door, made sure it was locked, then inserted the pick.
The thought occurred to me that I was going to be in big, big trouble if she had a gun. She had struck me as a politically correct academic, which meant feminist, pro-life, anti-gun, and all the rest of the chorus, but what the hell, these days you never knew. Maybe she carried a shooter in her purse just in case. Please God, don’t let her shoot me!
I raked the pick while maintaining pressure on the knob. I felt one of the tumblers go up. I raked the pick savagely, releasing and reapplying subtle pressure to the knob, trying to make all the tumblers pop up at once and catch them there.
After six or eight rakes, the door opened. Yes!
She was on the phone, staring at me wild-eyed, screaming, “He’s coming through the door now!” I must have been a fearsome sight—it had been a long day and I had seen too many dead people, some of whom I killed myself.
I bounded across the room and popped her once on the jaw before she had time to rabbit. She went down like a sack of potatoes.
The suitcase full of paper was right there on the floor by the coffee table. She had been going through the contents when I showed up.
I shoved everything into the suitcase and tried to close it. Had to put it on the floor and use a knee on it to get the latches snapped. Then I threw her over my shoulder. Out on the porch I put the suitcase down and closed the door until it latched. I must not have been thinking too clearly, because I took the time to wipe off the doorknob. As if they didn’t know who I was.
The suitcase went in the trunk of the heap. She went in the passenger seat.
Out on the street I glanced at my watch. How much time did I have?
I drove toward the subdivision exit as far from her house as I could get and still see her driveway, which was only about seventy yards due to the way the street curved. There was a house sitting there with black windows and a FOR SALE sign in the yard, so I backed into the driveway and killed the engine. Then I used the duct tape on her wrists and mouth, then taped the seat belt to her arms so she couldn’t pull them out of the belt. She was moaning and starting to come around as I snapped the seat belt in place to hold her. I checked her jaw—didn’t seem to be broken, although the bruise was turning yellow and purple and swelling up right before my eyes.
She came to slowly, began thrashing as she realized she was restrained, eyed me wildly.
“Did you call 911?”
A look of defiance crossed her face.
“We’ll just sit here and see who
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