need to jump on this info. We’ve got half an hour until the next cycle. Call me ten minutes after that, and I’ll see if I want to meet.”
“You’ll want to,” Naseem said, now a forlorn and shaken prophet.
Seventeen
C aitlin summed the situation up in a matter of seconds. Tony held the gun. She knew him through Britt. He was the real deal, not a garden-variety Vegas lightweight like Paolo. She stood far enough away that it wasn’t an automatic kill shot like she was sure he hoped for. Professional killers like to control everything. Until she was square to him and closer, he would probably try to bluff her into thinking he would shoot. In fact, she knew he would shoot as soon as he got the chance.
She faced death or something seriously worse if she didn’t take some action. She imagined stupid, greedy, horny Paolo was going to die too, though he was probably too numb and dumb to see it. Or maybe he would die, and she would go for a ride. She preferred death to that. She could play it safe, but that got her nowhere. It was time for psycho. Not much of a jump at this moment.
“You motherfucker,” she screamed, like a coked-out demon, jumping hard on his instep with her high heel and smashing her large Coach purse against his head. She grabbed his head by the hair and started pulling, scraping, hitting, and kicking and put the bag in a position where she could grab her pepper spray.
Tony ran toward the pair, trying to break up the fight instead of shooting them both multiple times, probably what he should have done. Paolo didn’t know what hit him, and he remained off-balance, trying to avoid bruising her. That would likely be Britt’s job. She shoved his sorry ass toward Tony, and he lowered his gun. This unexpected move gave her a chance to get what she wanted. She gripped the spray in her hand. She turned to find the front door, not the garage door, and looked to see what stood between her and the door. She would have to make one corner, but that was it. She hit Tony with the bag, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and sprayed those sonsofbitches with her pepper spray. She sprayed them and kept spraying until there was enough to subdue dozens of men. They coughed, yelped, and gasped as they both fell to their knees, or so it sounded. Then she turned and ran for the door. She slowed just before she hit it, grabbed for the lock, turned the deadbolt, and shut it behind her.
Caitlin opened her eyes and blew the air out of her mouth. She took off her heels and sprinted. She figured she had two minutes tops, maybe less. She could make the end of the block in thirty seconds, go deeper into the subdivision, and then try to find a house or something. She hit that corner and saw what she wanted to see. A young husband and wife were out in their yard, probably home for lunch.
“Help me! Help me!” She screamed.
This was Vegas. You could see their skepticism.
“Please let me inside. He’s going to try it again.”
Their eyes darted. This looked serious. The woman looked ten shades of wary, but the man took over. He grabbed her by the arm, and the three headed inside. He locked the door behind them.
“He … tried … to rape me …” she said, tears from the spray pouring down her cheeks.
“Why didn’t you …?” the woman began, mad that her husband had brought some shoeless slut in off the street.
“He’s a cop. I can’t.”
“What do you need?”
She took a deep breath. “All I need is for your wife to take me to Harrah’s.”
This seemed to mollify the woman somewhat.
“Please.” She opened her bag to show that there were no weapons. “I’m going to be dead if I don’t get out of here. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Let’s all go,” the husband said. His wife glared at him. He looked down the block again and then turned, resolute.
They went in their garage, put Caitlin in the floorboards, for the second time that day, and backed out of their
“You’ll want to,” Naseem said, now a forlorn and shaken prophet.
Seventeen
C aitlin summed the situation up in a matter of seconds. Tony held the gun. She knew him through Britt. He was the real deal, not a garden-variety Vegas lightweight like Paolo. She stood far enough away that it wasn’t an automatic kill shot like she was sure he hoped for. Professional killers like to control everything. Until she was square to him and closer, he would probably try to bluff her into thinking he would shoot. In fact, she knew he would shoot as soon as he got the chance.
She faced death or something seriously worse if she didn’t take some action. She imagined stupid, greedy, horny Paolo was going to die too, though he was probably too numb and dumb to see it. Or maybe he would die, and she would go for a ride. She preferred death to that. She could play it safe, but that got her nowhere. It was time for psycho. Not much of a jump at this moment.
“You motherfucker,” she screamed, like a coked-out demon, jumping hard on his instep with her high heel and smashing her large Coach purse against his head. She grabbed his head by the hair and started pulling, scraping, hitting, and kicking and put the bag in a position where she could grab her pepper spray.
Tony ran toward the pair, trying to break up the fight instead of shooting them both multiple times, probably what he should have done. Paolo didn’t know what hit him, and he remained off-balance, trying to avoid bruising her. That would likely be Britt’s job. She shoved his sorry ass toward Tony, and he lowered his gun. This unexpected move gave her a chance to get what she wanted. She gripped the spray in her hand. She turned to find the front door, not the garage door, and looked to see what stood between her and the door. She would have to make one corner, but that was it. She hit Tony with the bag, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and sprayed those sonsofbitches with her pepper spray. She sprayed them and kept spraying until there was enough to subdue dozens of men. They coughed, yelped, and gasped as they both fell to their knees, or so it sounded. Then she turned and ran for the door. She slowed just before she hit it, grabbed for the lock, turned the deadbolt, and shut it behind her.
Caitlin opened her eyes and blew the air out of her mouth. She took off her heels and sprinted. She figured she had two minutes tops, maybe less. She could make the end of the block in thirty seconds, go deeper into the subdivision, and then try to find a house or something. She hit that corner and saw what she wanted to see. A young husband and wife were out in their yard, probably home for lunch.
“Help me! Help me!” She screamed.
This was Vegas. You could see their skepticism.
“Please let me inside. He’s going to try it again.”
Their eyes darted. This looked serious. The woman looked ten shades of wary, but the man took over. He grabbed her by the arm, and the three headed inside. He locked the door behind them.
“He … tried … to rape me …” she said, tears from the spray pouring down her cheeks.
“Why didn’t you …?” the woman began, mad that her husband had brought some shoeless slut in off the street.
“He’s a cop. I can’t.”
“What do you need?”
She took a deep breath. “All I need is for your wife to take me to Harrah’s.”
This seemed to mollify the woman somewhat.
“Please.” She opened her bag to show that there were no weapons. “I’m going to be dead if I don’t get out of here. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Let’s all go,” the husband said. His wife glared at him. He looked down the block again and then turned, resolute.
They went in their garage, put Caitlin in the floorboards, for the second time that day, and backed out of their
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