Hellbent

He lowered his hands to his lap. “You have location services turned off on that phone, right?”

“Of course.”

“Power it off anyway. Just to be safe.”

She did. Then she tossed it back onto the worn network of threads that passed for a carpet. “When you said they could pick me up on the surveillance cameras at the train station, I thought you were being paranoid. But it’s not paranoid when you’re right, is it?”

“I need to get you far away from here before we put you on any kind of public transportation. I’m talking multiple states away.”

“What about the headquarters?” She tapped the phone. “I mean, we’re forty minutes away. You drive me to Idaho and come back, they’ll be cleared out by then.”

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

She just looked at him.

“No. No way.”

“Give me your gun.”

She stared him down, unblinking. Finally he unholstered the skinny ARES and handed it to her. She regarded the slender 1911 with amusement, turning it this way and that. “Nice gun. They make it in pink?”

“Only if you special order it.”

“It goes well with your hips.”

“Thanks.”

“You should accessorize it with, like, a clutch purse. Maybe a string of pearls.”

“Are you done?”

“Just about.”

He waited.

She said, “If you pull the trigger, does a little flame come out the end? Or a flag that says ‘Bang’?”

“Joey.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Go to the lamp.”

He rose and walked over to the table lamp.

“Turn it off, count five seconds, then turn it back on.”

He pulled the chain, the room falling into darkness. A five count passed, and he turned the light back on.

The 1911 rested in front of her crossed legs. It had been fieldstripped. Frame, slide, bushing, barrel, guide rod, recoil spring, spring plug, and slide stop. In a nice touch, she’d stacked the remaining four rounds on end on the magazine.

Her gaze held steel. “Again,” she said.

He tugged the chain once more, counted to five, clicked the lamp on.

The pistol, reassembled.

She had a tiny dimple in her right cheek even when she wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t smiling now.

“You can be my lookout,” he said. “But only because it’s safer for you to be near me than on your own.”

“Gee,” she said. “Thanks.”

She stood, twirled the gun on her palm, and presented him with the grip. He took the ARES and clicked it home in his high-guard Kydex holster.

“What if they’re expecting you?” she asked.

“Even if they are,” he said, “it won’t help them.”

21

Quick and Easy

Central Eastside was an industrial district checkered with low-rent housing. Evan coasted in the stolen Subaru with the switched rear license plate, watching a parade of radiator shops, commercial laundries, and wholesale construction-supply joints march by. The streets were pothole-intensive, shimmering with broken glass. A few spots had been taken over by brewpubs and distilleries, gentrification doing its cheery best, but they were out ahead of the curve here and — from the looks of the clientele and graffiti — in over their heads.

Joey took in the streets and seemed not uneasy in the least.

She wore a half squint, her taut cheeks striking, the youthful fullness of her face turned to something hard and focused. Evan found himself admiring her. She was a medley of contradictions, surprises.

They drove for a time in silence.

“I need a shotgun,” Evan said.

“I’m sure we could rustle one up in these here parts.”

“Last thing we need is to go down the rabbit hole dealing with local criminals and wind up with a rusty Marlin Goose Gun. We need something well maintained, and we need it quick and easy.”

“Where you gonna find a shotgun like that on no notice?”

“The police.”

“Of course. Quick and easy.” She cast a glance across the console, did a double take. “You’re not joking, are you?”

Evan pulled over beneath the green cross of a marijuana dispensary, fished out his RoamZone, and dialed 911.

* * *

The cruiser pulled up, and two venerable cops emerged, slamming the doors behind them. The driver hit the key fob, the car putting out a chirp-chirp as it locked.

Joey sat on the steps of the dispensary, holding Evan’s phone and pretending to text. Her dark wavy hair fell across her face, blocking one eye, an artful dishevelment.

“What are you doing here?” the officer said. He had a dewlapped face, eyes gone weary from seeing too much shit for too many nights.

“My pops works here,” Joey said.

The second cop, a tough-looking redhead with sun-beaten skin, stood over Joey. “We had an anonymous report of shots fired on this block.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You hear anything?”

“All the time.”

An annoyance passed between the cops. “Care to elaborate?”