Read Online Shoot the Woman First by Wallace Stroby - Free Book Online Page B

“You must be psychic.”
    Crissa handed it to her. “Bathroom?”
    â€œUpstairs. Second door on the right.” The woman looked at her more closely. “Honey, you look like you’ve had a rough night.”
    Crissa went by her and up the carpeted staircase. In the hallway, three people stood outside the closed bathroom door. At the end of the corridor a door was half open, light on inside.
    She went in, and it was what she hoped. A bedroom, coats laid out on the bedspread. She eased the door shut behind her, started going through pockets. There was a set of Hyundai keys in the second coat she searched. She pocketed them, caught a glimpse of herself in a wall mirror. Her hair was matted and tangled, her face scratched in half a dozen places.
    She went back into the hallway, forced a smile for the trio outside the bathroom, caught a whiff of marijuana from inside.
    Back downstairs, the woman in black watching her now. Crissa nodded at her, went through the kitchen and out the side door.
    On the street, she got out the keys, pressed the UNLOCK button. A half block down, a white Elantra beeped and flashed its lights.
    She walked to it, got behind the wheel, started the engine. As she pulled away from the curb, she looked back at the house. No one had come out after her.
    She waited a block until she popped on the headlights. Then she made a left, followed by another left, headed back the way she’d come.
    *   *   *
    There was a single fire truck outside the house, sending a stream of water into an upstairs window. No flames now, but gray smoke still billowing up. A Detroit Metro SUV was parked behind the fire truck, rollers on, their light reflected in the runoff water coursing down the gutter. Two uniformed officers stood beside it, looking up at the house, bored. They turned to watch her as she drove past.
    She went up two blocks, then doubled back on a parallel street, headlights off, and drove back to the garage. The padlock on the front gate was intact. There was no sign anyone else had been there.
    She parked on the sidewalk, left the engine running, got out. The air smelled of smoke.
    There was a spare-tire kit in the trunk, a short-handled tire iron. She carried it to the gate, slipped the shaft into the rusty chain, wedged one end against a crossbar, then pulled hard with both hands. On the third pull, a link snapped, and the chain rattled loose. She threaded it through the gate, tossed it aside.
    The hinges were rusty, squealing as she shouldered the gate open. The duffel was where she’d left it. She pulled it out of the drum, and for the first time noticed the hole on one side of the bag, a larger one on the other. A bullet had gone straight through.
    She slung the strap over her shoulder, looked at the bay door. He’s gone, she thought. And it could have played out another way just as easily, you lying dead in there, or back in the house. But he’d gotten her out of there, just as he’d gotten Wayne out of that car in Houston.
    She went back through the gate, put the duffel and tire iron in the trunk, shut it. Low thunder sounded in the west. She pulled back onto the street and drove away.
    *   *   *
    On the edge of the city, she found a phone booth outside a convenience store, called 911. She gave the location of the garage as best she could, said she’d seen men inside, heard gunshots. The operator was still asking questions when Crissa hung up. It had been risky to call, but she couldn’t leave him there, forgotten, alone.
    At the airport, she parked the Elantra in a long-term lot, caught a shuttle bus to her hotel. She carried the duffel up to her room, left it on the bed.
    The tremors were on her now. She undressed, showered in water as hot as she could stand, then sat in the tub, let the spray rain down on her. She closed her eyes, all of it running through her mind again. The punch of the AK round into her back. Gunshots in