How much stabbing is enough stabbing?
Jacob and his patched-up pug angled toward a parked car, and Tiff yanked her clutch from the glovebox. It’d have to be the gun. Efficient but also very poetic. Using the gun B had given her to avenge his murder would be just like the movies.
But it was too late. Jacob and the dog were in their car. They were driving off.
Oh no you don’t.
The gun went on the seat, and the key went in the ignition. She wasn’t to be denied. The next place he stopped, she’d shoot him. Even if it was right outside a police station or on the steps of a church, she was going to kill him where he stood. Repercussions (mortal or eternal) be damned.
And she’d have something clever to say right before she pulled the trigger, something that’d do her Baby B right, something that someone would say in a movie, except all she could think of right then was “Fuck you,” and that wouldn’t do.
~
Jacob pulled into a spot at the far end of the Days Inn lot and sat for a moment, hands on the wheel. The red hatchback was the only car back there. Most guests didn’t park all the way opposite the entrance, but most guests didn’t have the cartel gunning for them, and he suspected the extra space could prove useful in a pinch.
That was how he had to think of the world now. Threats and escape routes.
He stared at the field of prairie grass next to the hotel, littered with empty cardboard boxes that’d blown from the Cub Foods’ dumpsters. Swallows swooped and dipped through the air, catching small insects.
He knew he shouldn’t be going out. But those capps were amazingly addictive. He’d been craving one all morning, right until the point he’d seen that woman at the counter, waving and swinging her arms with furious animation. Even from the sidewalk, Jacob (and the elderly couple) caught the tone of the woman’s utterances. Nothing but venom and vigor.
The older gentleman, seeing Jacob’s hesitation, had said, “Not so sure we want to venture in there either.”
“How long she been doing that?” Jacob asked.
His wife answered, “She was hollering when we walked up.”
“We’ve only been here a minute,” the man added.
The high-heeled woman knocked a stack of paper cups from the counter.
The woman nudged her husband. “Okay. Let’s come back a little later.”
He grunted, and they were gone.
Inside the coffee shop, the surly spectacle continued. Coffee bags flew from a shelf. The woman pointed to the seating area. She slapped the closest table. Patrons, even those with earbuds, were looking up from their laptops and notepads. Two college-age girls started packing up, jamming things into their backpacks.
The woman towering over Emmelia wasn’t pissed over a poorly made latte; this had something to do with him. Her words reached Jacob muffled and garbled, but he imagined they were “He was here” and “You’re hiding him.”
That was enough. He untied Quincy and took off back the way they’d come.
He’d been searching his phone for Officer Breeland’s number when the woman from the shop nearly barreled over Quincy. She continued on without looking at him. Thank God.
When Breeland didn’t answer, he dialed 911, informed the operator of what he’d seen, and got out of there.
Now, as the swallows circled and dove, each dip another insect’s demise, Jacob caught sight of a gray Chrysler 300 pulling into the lot in his rearview mirror. It looked like nothing, but he really should’ve watched the car. He could’ve prepared himself a bit better. Instead, when the driver’s-side window next to his face shattered into a thousand shards, he nearly shit himself.
Quincy did. He took a crap right on the seat as he bellowed and clambered against the passenger door in a vain attempt to escape.
Despite all that had happened to him, Jacob’s first thought (hope) was that some asshole kid had thrown a rock. But no. The woman who’d been having the fit inside the Coffee Princess was standing there, her feet spread in a firing stance, grinning psychotically, pointing a gun.
“Die, asshole.” She pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked, but no bullet fired. Her grin fell away. Click, click, click.
Jacob scrambled over the center console to the passenger seat, slipping through Quincy’s brown mess.
“Die, asshole,” the sicario kept saying. Click, click, click.
Shoving Quincy aside, smearing him with his own foul concoction, Jacob grappled with the door, certain the harmless clicking would turn into a gunshot at any moment, and he’d get a hot slug right in the back.
“Freeze!”
Jacob popped his head over the seatback.
The pale security guy Tina had hired stood with outstretched arms, gripping a can of pepper spray. He screamed, “Freeze!”
The sicario spun around.
“Freeze.”
The woman raised her gun, and it went click, click, click.
Gregory fumbled at the canister’s safety clip. “Freeze. Freeze,” he pleaded as he finally flicked the plastic aside.
The sicario’s defective gun (click, click) went off. Pop!
Gregory clutched his arm, dropping the pepper spray. The canister tumbled and bounced off the pavement. A brief but potent peppery squirt sailed out and hit Gregory in the face. He howled like a stuck pig and fell in a heap.
Jacob got the car door open. He crawled out as Quincy bounced over his back and absconded into the field, disappearing into a half-collapsed Pampers box. Seeing no diaper boxes large enough for him, Jacob dropped to his stomach, held his breath, and watched the sicario’s black heels from under the car.
The shoes turned to the Honda, turned to the field, turned back.
He had the element of surprise. Just like on the balcony. So without hesitation, Jacob went for another air attack. He scrambled atop the car and launched himself, arms spread wide, at the sicario.
He hit her like a community-center wrestler (no grace and crotch to the face). Down she went, hard on her back. One of her heels shot off into the bushes against the hotel to be found the next day.
With a groan, Jacob rolled aside, his balls hurting like hell.
The sicario lay motionless for a second, then came back with a bolt, staring, examining the bits of glass on the ground. She let out a scream and scrambled to her feet.
From the field, Quincy barked and came racing out of the Pampers box to help.
The sicario grabbed her gun. Click. Click.
The pepper spray! Jacob had his own pepper spray. As he fumbled at his pockets, Quincy raced past. “No! Quincy!”
The sicario threw her defective gun at the incoming pug, but it only careened off the pavement and sailed over his head. Quincy leapt with a determined ferocity the likes of which Jacob had never seen, and the sicario crouched low, bracing herself.
Somehow, the woman grabbed the dog midair, and the pug’s courage died with his momentum. His paws dangled, swiping for solid ground as the sicario clutched him by the scruff and the rump.
Jacob found his pepper spray, removed the safety without issue, and ordered, “Put him down.”
The sicario clenched her jaw and squeezed Quincy hard. The dog whined and looked to Jacob for help with his one good eye.
Jacob shook the canister. “Put him down.”
Behind the sicario, Gregory was emitting a series of pained blubbers. Off to the side, a small crowd had emerged from the hotel. A thick gym rat was talking on his phone while a pony-tailed man recorded the standoff.
Of all the thoughts in Jacob’s head, the one that found its way to the forefront at that moment was: At least Tina will have something to post this time.
The sicario gave a frustrated shout, and Jacob, thinking he’d bested her twice now, smirked. There was no balcony for her to jump from this time. He only had to keep her from hurting Quincy until the police arrived.
“Put him down.” Jacob took a step forward. The pug dangled from the sicario’s hands like a dead fish. “Put Quin
cy down.”
The sicario lifted Quincy into her arms. Either the dog or the sicario was growling. The woman gave Jacob a death stare, kicked her remaining high heel at him (surprisingly accurately), then took off back to her car.
“No! Stop!” Jacob gripped the canister, but he couldn’t bring himself to press the lever. The pepper spray would kill Quincy. Pugs could barely breathe as it was. And his eye infection. What would the spray do to that raw bulbous protrusion? His head would explode.
The sicario heaved Quincy into the Chrysler, jumped in behind him, and tore out of the lot.
Jacob scrambled into his own car, but by the time he swerved to avoid Gregory and got to the street, the Chrysler was nearly out of sight. When he reached the highway, he’d lost her.
XVI.
Day Thirteen, Still Tuesday
Three Dead
A squad car was blocking the entrance to the parking lot, so Jacob left his little hatchback with its shattered window by the main entrance and walked around. An officer, a tall woman he didn’t recognize from any of his previous interactions with the DPD, was tending to Gregory’s wound. It appeared to be nothing more than a nick, but nevertheless, he was still whining like the dickens.
“Careful,” Gregory sniveled as the officer dabbed his arm with disinfectant. He buried his face in the wet towel someone had brought him to counter the pepper spray.
Jacob circled around to the officer’s sightline.
Without looking up from her work, the officer motioned to the cluster of people near the hotel. “Sir, do you mind standing over there?”
Jacob said, “Sure,” but then he explained the urgency of the dognapping.
“Units are checking the area,” she assured him.
“Quincy’s disabled.” Jacob pointed to his eye. “He’s got an infection.”
“Sir,” the officer said, “we’re looking for the suspect.”
Gregory groaned into his towel.
Seeing as he wasn’t going to get more than that from the officer, Jacob went inside. The lobby, more of a community room, something akin to what you’d find in a retirement home, provided Jacob some solace. Its subdued collection of faded couches, frayed chairs in random spots, scratched coffee tables, and stacks of ancient puzzles hinted at a level of permanence and privacy.
He flopped into a yellowed chair and took a moment to consider how to break the news to Missy that Quincy was currently riding shotgun with some bare-footed sicario. And to make matters worse, Missy hadn’t even wanted Quincy to go out with him that morning. She’d said it looked like Quincy’s eye was bothering him, and he should just stay in.
But Jacob wanted his little buddy to go with and had argued, “It’s only going to be a short trip. In and out and back with the coffee.” Only there’d been no coffee, and now there was no pug.
On the wall, a TV turned to ESPN had some analysts mocking a player for blaming the refs on a blowout loss. Jacob watched it for a moment, trying to let his head clear by focusing on someone else’s problems.
“We all know refs make mistakes,” the excited suit bellowed, “but even if they did make a mistake here, which I’m not saying they did, but even if they did, you, as a player, can’t make those kinds of statements. Anywhere. To anyone.”
Nope. Not helping.
The place also smelled too much like decay, so back outside he went, standing beside the main doors where his car still sat. He closed his eyes, raised his chin to the sky, and inhaled.
What the hell I am going to tell Missy?
When he’d been tied up in Tijuana, he’d promised himself that if he got out of there, he’d change his last name, he and Missy would move to another city, and he’d shave his head (maybe his eyebrows too). Then he’d just live a quiet life. Maybe he’d publish the story under a pseudonym—the story needed to be told; the world had to know what the cartel was doing down there—but he’d stay off the radar.
Except then Simon’s email had arrived, and then Tina had come on board, and that whole quiet-life plan went out the window.
Even if he’d wanted to, he doubted he could go back to anonymity now. According to Tina, he was an influencer, and influencers couldn’t just drop off the map, certainly not when others’ success was tied to their own. That wouldn’t be allowed. Too many people were now invested in his story. The train was going full steam ahead.
So he stood, eyes closed, face to the sun, thinking about all this until a hand slapped him on the back.
“That was a rush, huh, JW?” Gregory said.
Jacob side-eyed him. The world-class security expert had wiped the snot and tears from his face, but his eyes were still puffed and pink.
Gregory lifted his sleeve, exposing a neatly applied bandage. “Needed a few stitches. I should get a bonus or something. Took a bullet for you.”
Jacob closed his eyes, hoping Gregory would just go away. When he didn’t, Jacob turned to him. “How’d you screw that up so bad?”
Gregory gave a dignified look. “Just not in my nature. Hard to do that to a woman.”
“So chivalrous,” Jacob mocked. “She got away because of you.”
“I got shot. What’d you want me to do?”
“Use your friggin’ pepper spray.”
“Well, nothing we can do now.”
“Moron.”
Jacob pulled out his phone and scoured Airbnb for a new place to stay in town. Despite the recent attack, he wasn’t done with Duluth (the police had been quick to respond, and he expected they’d be more vigilant than ever now), but this was it for the Days Inn. And hotels.
“Want me to find your dog?” Gregory asked, giving Jacob another pat. “It’s no problem.”
Jacob let the offer hang while he found a reasonably priced house and booked it.
Gregory busied himself by checking his own phone. He read something with particular interest, smirked, then put the phone away and repeated the question.
“The police are looking,” Jacob muttered.
“They’re looking for that lady, not your dog. It’s different. I’ll find him. But when I do, you think you could do a finder’s fee?”
“You’re a jackass.”
“But if I find Quincy?”
“Whatever.” If Gregory found Quincy, he’d make Tina pay for it. She’d hired the doofus.
“Good enough for me.” Gregory handed him a business card that looked like it’d come out of a desktop printer. It showed nothing but his name, Gregory L. Johnson, and his phone number. “You get a call from that number, answer it, ’cause I’ll be bringing your dog home.”
Jacob stuffed the paper in his pocket and went back to his phone, plugging the newly booked Airbnb into the map.
“Got yourself a new place to stay?”
Jacob thought he’d been holding the phone out of Gregory’s line of sight, but the guy apparently had a neck like a snake to get the right angle to see the screen. Jacob put the phone away. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah, me too. Hey, which way did that lady head?” Gregory stared out at the highway, tapping the bandage on his arm.
Jacob pointed, then went inside.
~
Before taking a bullet for his VIP client (“You’re welcome, Tina.”), Gregory had been following Jacob back from the Coffee Princess. As he drove, Tiffany had called. Her precise words had been “I got the asshole. You’re fired.” He’d tried to ask for some clarification on that, since she clearly hadn’t—Jacob was right in front of him in his Honda—but Tiffany had hung up.
Partly because he was still attempting to sort out that strange exchange but also partly because he didn’t think the dolled-up woman (heavy makeup, curled hair, and heels) was her, he hadn’t reacted when she’d arrived. Perhaps, if he still believed her forlorn wife story, he would’ve, but based on his latest research, he was certain Tiffany was connected with the cartel, and the woman who’d rolled up in the Chrysler was no cartel associate.
Of course, he was proven wrong when she op
ened fire, but the reason for his sluggish response was valid.
She wasn’t the most adept cartel killer out there, though, was she? Stumbling and flopping around like a newborn fawn in the parking lot like that.
The whole situation was truly bizarre, so with great curiosity, Gregory now dialed her number. When she answered, he said, “What’d you take the pug for?”
Tiffany stammered for a moment, then asked, “How the fuck you hear about that?”
He spelled it out for her.
“You? You were going to mace me,” she yelled.
He deferred back to the cheating husband routine. “You were going to kill him. I couldn’t let you do that.”
“I wasn’t going to kill him. I wasn’t even going to hurt him.”
“But it’s okay to shoot me?”
Tiffany offered a half apology, then added, “Shouldn’t have come at me with mace.” The sound of the blinker came on for a few seconds, then quit. “What happened? After I left?” she asked.
“After I got stitched up?”
“I said I was sorry.”
That sounded genuine, somewhat. “The police came. Talked with me. Talked with Jacob.”
“You talked to the police?”
“I gave them my account of the incident, yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Like about our arrangement?” Gregory said. “No, that’s confidential. Client-patient confidentiality and all.”
“Better be,” she grumbled. “So where’s Jacob now?”
“Don’t know. He bolted.”
Tiffany was quiet.
Gregory wasn’t sure (it might have been the car engine), but if he tried to really listen, it sounded like there was a dog mewling nearby. He hoped it was the pug. Means she hasn’t killed him already. Means the finder’s fee is still up for grabs. “So where are you?”
Painkiller, Princess Page 16