by Ginny Aiken
Glory grabs my arm. “I’ve had it with you.” She drags me out with surprising strength. “We’re doing this my way, and you’re getting those stones. If I have to let you go to Miss Mona’s because it’s going to take the cop time to get the sapphires back, then so be it. But if you even think of blabbing, to him or anybody else, it’s goodbye Aunt Weeby.”
I gasp. “She’s done nothing to you. As scummy as you are, do you really want things to get worse? Why would you hurt an innocent old lady?”
Her smile looks more like a sneer. “Because you care. That’s how I know you’ll do what you have to do.”
With everything in me, I fight the trembling her words set off. “Fine. I’ll give it a try, but I doubt it’ll work. Chief Clark might not be Einstein, but he’s not Cro-Magnon man either.” Since it looks as though I have nothing to lose, I add, “Just for kicks, you may as well tell me what your deal’s all about.”
She pulls on me again. “Life takes money. That’s what it’s all about. And your Miss Mona doesn’t even begin to pay what I’m worth. A girl’s got needs.”
I stumble. My need for help is a big one right now. “How’d you get from running a camera to stealing stones?”
“I know a friend of a friend of a friend. She hooked me up with the job opening here. We knew there was a fortune just sitting around in the studio’s vault.”
A friend of a friend of a friend. A super-hazy, vague memory flits through my head. And then it comes to me. The first time I saw Glory wasn’t when she first started her job. It was the day a murder took place at the S.T.U.D. about a year ago. She’d said she’d come for a job interview.
Coincidence? I don’t think so. I venture a guess. “Your friend wouldn’t happen to be vacationing behind bars in New York, would he . . . or she?”
“That’s none of your business.”
But her answer comes too late. I notice the flare of her nostrils, the widening of her eyes. “You’ve got problems, girl,” I say with a chuckle. “Roger and Tiffany can’t do a thing for you from behind bars. He can’t fence the stones. And she never could do anything but kill.”
“Who said anything about Roger?” She laughs. “He had his uses, but you’re right. There’s none now that he’s locked up. The guy sure does know a lot of people, though.”
People? What people? “Tiffany’s in worse shape than he is. She doesn’t have the cash to help you with your ‘needs,’ and it sure won’t help her ‘needs’ for you to wind up with all the ill-gotten gain for yourself. When’s she going to share in the bounty? She’s doing time for murder one. Looooots of time behind bars.”
As I bide my time, I let Glory drag me through the rough weeds to the driver’s side of the Hummer. I climb up into the awkward vehicle, my phone clutched in the hand I hold to my side as though injured.
“You want me to drive?” I ask, surprised.
“No. I want you to scoot over into your seat. Did you think I was going to leave you to do your thing while I run around the car?”
She’s not so dumb, after all. Not that thieves are mental whizzes, either. But . . . “Don’t know what I can do without a key, Glory.”
She leaps up and ignores my comment.
My rampant curiosity makes me try again. “So how does Roger connect to the guys at the Kashmir mines?”
“Roger doesn’t,” she says between her teeth. “That’s the friend-of-a-friend connection.”
“And Xheng Xhi and Farooq?”
“They were just messengers, if that. Farooq was supposed to have given the stones to Robert in Srinagar, but something went wrong. And then I caught the slug trying to steal Allison’s and my stuff.”
A chill runs through me. “So you killed him.”
“It was self-defense.”
“Yeah, right. The guy’s after your wallet, and you defended your cash.”
“Something like that.”
“So you got rid of Farooq and Robert.”
“Robert wasn’t supposed to wind up in jail.” Frustration creeps into her voice. “He should have gone to the mines with you guys. He’s much more capable than that clumsy Xheng Xhi. All he wanted was to follow you around.”
“And you needed the stones.”
“I still need the stones.” She starts up the mechanical behemoth. As it roars away, she steers with only one hand. If I can somehow manage to distract her, I’m sure I can take the gun. After all, it’s still pointed right at me. What’s the difference between dying now while trying to get away or a half hour later when she realizes I can’t get the stones?
“How do you intend for me to get the sapphires from the authorities? They don’t generally fork over evidence just because you ask.”
“That’s your business.” Her voice is deadly cold. “You might want to give it some thought instead of talking me to death. After all, your sainted aunt’s life depends on your success.”
“How about you drive me to the PD? I spoke to Chief Clark a little while ago. I’m sure he’s still there.”
“You think I’m going to turn you down, right?” Her smile is one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen. “Well, guess what? I know how much you love that aunt of yours. I’m not the one watching her—I’m here, watching you. I’m not alone in this gig. You blow it, and I make sure she gets blown up right where she is.”
I suck in another harsh breath. “Let’s get it over with.”
To my amazement, she intends to walk into the cop shop with me. How much of a sucker does she think I am? I know Aunt Weeby’s being watched, but if I can overpower Glory, she won’t be able to alert her pal.
Then her accomplice’s identity occurs to me. I feel sick. “Allison’s waiting to hear from you, isn’t she?”
“Allison? That religious nut? No way.”
The relief makes me weak in the knees—weaker, at any rate. “Fine. Keep your secrets, but I know Miss Mona’s not your pal, and at this point, I doubt Max has the crooked gene.”
She pulls into the parking lot outside the headquarters. “Let’s go.”
I see my glimmer of hope—and I take it. “Which way do you want me to go? Are you going to shoot me just for opening my door? Or do you want me to climb into your lap to get out?”
She pauses a moment to consider her dilemma. Then she takes a deep breath. “I’ll get out, but the gun’s going to be on you the whole time.”
As she slips out of the car, I flip open my phone and hit the speed-dial button I’d programmed for 911 the day I got the device. I slowly slide toward the door, and as soon as the dispatcher answers, I know I have to talk over her voice.
“You’re going to have to help me, Glory. I hurt my legs and my arm when you crashed my car off the road.”
“I’m not stupid. You’re not going to make me put down my gun so you can jump me. Come on. I don’t have all night.”
“Honest. I can’t get out by myself. And if you keep wasting time, a cop’s going to walk out here sooner or later. We’re in the PD parking lot, you know. That’s who’ll overpower you if you just stand there waiting with that gun in your hand.”
“You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” She climbs back up onto the running board. “Here.”
I grab the hand she holds out. “Thanks. I really do need the help. I did get hurt when you rammed my car off the road. You don’t need to keep the gun on me the whole time. I’m not going anywhere on my own. What I need is a knight in shining armor to rescue me—911 isn’t an option, since you’re running this show with a gun.”
A car’s headlights illuminate the Hummer’s cab, and I wince. “Ouch!” I click my phone shut, and hope my cry of pain covers the sound. “I think I might’ve wound up with a concussion from the crash. The lights hurt.”
“I wouldn’t worry about a concussion. You won’t be feeling anything soon.”
I gulp. “Let’s get it over and done with.”
As I slip out of the Hummer, I drop my phone onto the driver’s seat. Hopefully, the 91
1 dispatcher who answered my call realized this wasn’t a prank but a kidnapping in progress. A weird one, true, since we’re at police headquarters, but a kidnapping no matter how you look at it.
We head for the entryway, and then I hear a voice that, while it brings me hope, also chills me to the bone.
“Andie!” Max cries out. “I swung back around when you never caught up with me, and I saw your car out in that field. How come you didn’t call 911? How’d you get here—”
“Shut up, Max,” Glory says. “One more stupid word from you, and she dies. Right here.”
But despite the bravado she stuffs into her words, I realize that Mr. Magnificent has just given me my best shot to get us all out of this. Hopefully, alive.
“So which one of us are you going to take out first?” I ask her, playing for time. There is that dispatcher. I hope she’s done her job, and someone’s on the way to help. We’re at the cop shop, for goodness’ sake. Where are they when you need them?
I go on playing for precious seconds. “Look, Glory. You can’t aim at us both, you can’t shoot us both, and whichever one’s left isn’t going to let you get away with killing the other.”
A shrewd gleam brightens her eyes. “You wanna make a bet? Just watch.”
She presses the barrel tight against my head again. “Okay, Max. Either you leave like a good boy, or she bites the dust.”
I hear Max’s indrawn breath, feel his hesitation. “Don’t listen to her, Max,” I urge. “She can’t kill us both, and she knows she’ll have a swarm of cops out here if that thing goes off.”
“Shows you how much you know,” he counters. “That thick thing attached to the barrel’s a silencer. They won’t hear a thing.”
“Hmm . . .” Glory says, edging me forward. “Not so dumb, are you, Max? Tell her to get in there and get the sapphires.”
His eyes widen. “You’re still after those stupid things? Now, when the authorities have them? Talk about dumb. And here I thought you were smarter than Andie. Seems you have less smarts than even she does. Bad news for a would-be international gem thief.”
She falters. “I’m smarter than you think. So far, no one’s got a thing on me—”
I duck, then dive for her knees. “Max—RUN!”
But he doesn’t take direction well. He goes for Glory too.
The gun blasts off a shot with a muffled “hiss.”
The three of us land in a tangle of arms and legs, roll around on the blacktop, and I never stop screaming at the top of my lungs.
I grab Glory’s gun hand. And scream.
She fights back, flailing the arm with the gun. She’s more dangerous now than when she’d aimed. I let out another scream.
Dirt grinds into my bare arms, my cheekbone.
She smashes Max’s head with the gun.
He grunts.
I scream. My throat aches from the nonstop screaming, but I don’t let up. Glory bangs my head against the ground.
Max thrashes his large body down between us and keeps wrestling her for the gun.
I scream some more.
Then, with my last ounce of strength, I launch myself over Max and land on top of Glory, use my body to pin her to the ground, fist my fingers in her sleek, dark hair, and hold on for dear life.
That’s when the swarm of cops I’d predicted shows up. One officer picks me up as if I were no more than a fly. Another drops down next to Max, and minutes later, they’ve collared Glory. Silver flashes when handcuffs catch the glow of the streetlights nearby. Before I know it, the officer leads her into the building, those brand-new bracelets shackling Glory into submission.
I collapse. The cop kneels at my side. “Are you hurt? Did she shoot you?”
My teeth chatter, my throat tightens, my vocal cords refuse to work. I shake my head.
Max comes to my side. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, and then he does the most unexpected thing. He picks me up in those muscular arms of his, presses me tight against his chest, and whispers a prayer.
“Thank you, Father. She’s still alive.” He glances down and lets a smile curve his lips. “And she’s finally shut up.”
I shudder. “You . . . you—”
“See?” he tells the cop. “She’s going to be fine. Lead the way. We have a ton of questions to answer, don’t we?”
With both fists, I pummel my knight in gravel-encrusted summer-wear. The blows don’t even begin to faze him. “Put me down, you great big jerk.”
What does the great big jerk do? Put me down and help me inside? No. Not Max. He stuns the breath out of me. Again.
He laughs. And then he kisses me.
Long and hard.
On the lips.
Oh, my . . .
Ginny Aiken, a former newspaper reporter, lives in Pennsylvania with her engineer husband and their three youngest sons—the oldest is married and has flown the coop. Born in Havana, Cuba, and raised in Valencia and Caracas, Venezuela, Ginny discovered books at an early age. She wrote her first novel at age fifteen while she trained with the Ballets de Caracas, later to be known as the Venezuelan National Ballet. She burned that tome when she turned a “mature” sixteen. An eclectic list of jobs—including stints as reporter, paralegal, choreographer, language teacher, retail salesperson, wife, mother of four boys, and herder of their numerous and assorted friends, including soccer teams and the 135 members of first the Crossmen and then the Bluecoats Drum and Bugle Corps—brought her back to books in search of her sanity. She is now the author of twenty-seven published works, but she hasn’t caught up with that elusive sanity yet.
Stunning jewels, endless shopping,
exotic travel—
what woman could resist?
“Ginny Aiken’s gift: masterful storytelling, witty dialogue,
and characters you will never forget.”
—Lori Copeland, author of Simple Gifts pm
Available wherever books are sold