ONE
There are times I think fate is out for a taste of my blood. Then there are times I damn well know it. The night of the Murphy job was one of the latter.
Normally, I don’t do live extractions. They’re too complicated, and clients tend to get cross if their merchandise isn’t returned in mint condition. But I had my eye on a sweet set of high-performance night vision goggles—complete with hands-free headgear or optional helmet mount—and the fee from this one job would pay for them outright, including rush delivery.
Every girl has her weaknesses, and hi-tech toys are one of mine. Breaking skulls is another, and the chance to combine my two loves proved more than enough motivation for me to break my own rule. Which is how I wound up behind the wheel of Rusty, my ‘68 GTO, slung sideways across the dead-end road in front of Memphis Custom Plastics. At two in the morning.
Aware that I was probably being watched, I glanced around the car as if I were disoriented, then let my head flop forward to rest on the steering wheel. With a groan, I sat up and grabbed a brown-bagged bottle of Jose Cuervo from the front passenger seat. I twisted the top off and took a swig, swishing the alcohol in my mouth for good measure. When the tingling in my tongue progressed from pins-and-needles to mouth-aflame, I swallowed and took one more hit for the hell of it. I was gonna need it.
“Easy money my ass,” I mumbled, staring at the moonlit metal building as I slid the bottle back into its bag.
Crickets chirruped as I opened the car door, watching the factory for any sign of movement through the two lit windows. I swung my legs out onto the road, “remembered” I was barefoot, then glanced around the car in faux confusion before spotting my sandals on the floorboard and slipping them clumsily onto my feet.
Leaning forward, I jerked on the release lever beneath the dash, and the hood bounced up two inches before catching on the manual stop.
As I stood, I glanced longingly at the passenger seat. My Ruger and my ass-kicking boots lay on the torn upholstery, where they would have to remain to keep from ruining my disguise, consisting mostly of absurdly high heeled sandals and a sheer white tank top. Those, plus the tequila breath, transformed me from Lex Walker, freelance retrieval specialist, to Lexie Hotpants, apparently intoxicated bimbo.
Unfortunately, the guise was both tried and true.
Gravel crunched beneath my heels as I stepped back and slammed the door. Wobbling intentionally, I steadied myself with one hand on the roof of the car, using the opportunity to sneak another peek at the factory. A dark silhouette appeared behind the glass door, no doubt drawn by the squeal of tires as I’d “lost” control of my car moments earlier.
Someone was coming out to investigate. Perfect.
I’d taken three steps toward the front of the car when a growl rumbled across my skin, making my hair stand up.Creepy-ass dog, I thought, resisting the urge to rub my arms.
But then the growl seemed to roll across the sky, as well as across my flesh. That wasn’t a guard dog. Was it…thunder? There was no rain in the forecast, and when I’d scouted the place half an hour earlier, the sky had been clear, the three-quarter moon shining among a bright panorama of stars.
None of which were still visible, I realized as I stared at the black expanse above. Lightening flashed, briefly illuminating a thick covering of clouds, and when a second rumble of thunder followed, I was convinced. It was going to rain.
No, it was going topour.
Wonderful. And me without my bra. The assholes squatting in what remained of Memphis Custom Plastics were going to get more of a peep show than I’d intended.
I stumbled my way to the front of the car, balanced on the narrow line between “nice touch” and “overkill.” Bending at the hips to tempt silhouette-man into view, I felt beneath the hood, pretending to have trouble finding the release mechanism.
Based on the client’s information, I knew only that three goons of indeterminate species were holding one Cari Murphy, age nineteen, in the unused plastics plant. The factory had closed three years earlier, yet it was obviously occupied. And dressed up like a fucking fortress. Flood lights at the corners, security cameras over the doors, a motion sensitive barb-topped chain link fence, and some G.I. Jerk-off patrolling the perimeter every quarter of an hour—a rent-a-goon if I’d ever seen one. The cocky stance, black jeans, and too-big-not-to-notice gun were dead giveaways.
On top of all that, there was at least one guard dog, whose deep growl—not to be confused with actual thunder—raised goose bumps all over my arms. The very fact that I could hear him from outside the building put me on edge. That shouldn’t have been possible.
Nothing about this job made sense. And since the client hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the details—a fact I was willing to overlook because she’d paid half upfront, in cash—I was going in without several vital details. Like the goons’ species. All I really knew was that the opposition was male. But with any luck, that would be plenty.
Experience had taught me that a plunging neckline can be just as dangerous as a gun. All I had to do was load my ammo.
As I pretended to search for the hood release, my backside aimed at the factory, I reached into my halter through the neckline and scooped up first my left breast, then my right, settling them into place a little higher in the snug confines of my top, so the entire upper curve of each was visible. Voila! Instant cleavage.
Tequila breath and a tight white shirt would make it much easier for the goons in question to trust their eyes, rather than whatever gut instincts they may possess, and the late-October chill, not to mention the impending rain, guaranteed that they would have a good view at what lay beneath the thin cotton.
When the heavy factory door creaked open behind me, I thumbed the release lever. The hood squealed as it rose, my gaze following its ascent as if I were mesmerized by the gravity-defying magic. In reality, I was soothed by the familiar scent of engine oil.
“This is private property, sweetheart,” a deep voice croaked from behind me, accompanied by the vicious barking of the aforementioned guard dog.
I whirled around, eyes wide with surprise, and was careful to sway on my dangerously high heels. In the doorway, backlit by dim yellow light, stood the toy soldier I’d seen patrolling the perimeter fifteen minutes earlier. And blending into the outline of one shadowy hand was the prominent silhouette of his gun. A verybiggun.
With my nine mil still on my passenger’s seat, all I had was the blade strapped to my left shin, which would be impossible for him to see at a glance.
Smiling vacantly, I ran my fingers through straight, pale blond strands, mussing them instead of smoothing them out, for that drunk-and-available look guys love. My gaze raked over Rent-a-goon and I licked my lips, hiding my professional assessment of him behind a mask of eager helplessness.
Though very stocky, downright bulging with muscles in some places, Rent-a-goon’s head cleared the doorframe by more than two feet. Which put him around five feet even—below average height for a human man, but just about right for a goblin.
