She's Got the Guns (The Suite #45 Series Book 1)

by M. O. Mack

  “Hey, man. I just want my money back,” stuttered Rick.

  “Thr—”

  Rick dropped his arm and scurried back to his SUV.

  Emily rushed inside the office, away from Rick and toward Mr. Cold Eyes, and shut the door. She bent over for a moment to catch her breath. When she stood up straight again, the man with the scratchy voice looked at her and scowled.

  “Your face,” he said.

  He had to be referring to the red welt on her cheek. “Compliments of Rick. At least he kept his hand open, though. A true gentleman.” She pressed her palm over the spot. It didn’t hurt, but the skin was hot. “I’ll be okay. I’ve had worse.” All that mattered was she was safe. For now, at least.

  Mr. Cold Eyes remained silent on the matter. At least in the context of words. His body, on the other hand, was saying all sorts of things. The tendons flexed in his muscular arms, and a vein pulsed in his thick strong neck.

  Rick’s engine roared to life outside, and she could hear the vehicle pulling away.

  “You wait here,” Cold Eyes snarled. “I want to talk to you when I come back.” He took the safety off his gun and charged out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  Emily suddenly heard noises—glass cracking and a grunt. Then she heard the SUV leaving.

  After a few moments, Emily went to the door, cracked it open, and peeked outside at the parking lot. What the…?

  Both men were gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emily stayed put at her desk all morning, shivering in her black running shorts and asking herself two questions: What were the consequences of staying? What were the consequences of leaving town?

  There was no doubt in her mind that Rick was dead, because she knew perfectly well what kind of “rats” this “exterminator” man dealt with. If it talks like a hit man, looks like a hit man, and walks like a hit man, it sure as hell isn’t a duck.

  That was just the sort of thing her late father, Big Carl, would say if he were here now. He had been a simple man who loved his fishing boat and the sea, which was why her aunt Mary had raised her. Her dad would come ashore every few months for a weekend here or there, and when he did, every minute together felt magical. He would tell her stories of sea monsters and brave sailors. He would make her laugh with ridiculous jokes about fish or whales. Then he’d leave, and she’d miss him all over again until the missing turned into the excitement of knowing he’d soon be home.

  Then came the day she’d found out the missing would never stop.

  She had been twelve when the ocean claimed her dad’s life somewhere off the coast of Maine. The devastation nearly killed her. She couldn’t eat, sleep, or stop crying. It was Aunt Mary who helped her through the grief: “Just picture your dad smiling up at the waves, his arms wide open as they took him home for good.” It was no secret to anyone that the place he loved most in this world was on his boat. It was why Emily’s mother left when she was little. Aunt Mary said that every time Dad went out to sea, her mother would spiral into a depression, unable to cope with being abandoned. As to how or why that would make her mother leave and do the very same thing to Emily, no one would ever know.

  Luckily, Aunt Mary had been a great mother. The best. She was always there to help with homework and cheer her on in gymnastics. Aunt Mary taught her how to ride a bike and drive a car. Mary put blonde highlights in Emily’s red hair and curled it for her first high school dance. The only part of her Emily hated was how she’d left. Cancer. Mary died five years after Big Carl, when Emily was just seventeen. A group home was the only option for those gruelingly sad six months until she’d reached eighteen and finished high school.

  After that, the bad decisions started, and the life Emily once had, peppered with happy memories between the hard ones, ended.

  Bad decision number one: moving to Atlantic City with two other girls who’d also just turned eighteen from the group home. It was a road that would eventually lead to Ed.

  If only she had stopped to think, really think about her choices back then. If she had been patient and planned her moves, things would have played out differently. Of course, that was hindsight. The question was, could that thinking save her now?

  Stay.

  Or go.

  Sitting at her desk, Emily nervously tapped the point of her pen on the pad of paper. Rick was no longer a threat, so that was a plus. On the other hand, the exterminator had told her to stay put. What did he want with her?

  Maybe it was better to run and not find out, but she didn’t have any money to start all over again. Of course she’d do it if there was no other option to protect herself, but if Mr. Cold Eyes had wanted to hurt her, he would’ve done it by now. Or he would’ve let Rick take care of me. Instead, Cold Eyes had defended her and…

  And I can’t even think about it. Was another human being really dead because of her?

  She heard a car pull up just outside the door. The exterminator was back.

  She waited anxiously as footsteps approached outside, but when the door opened, it wasn’t him.

  A petite woman with dark hair, wearing sunglasses and a blue baseball cap, came inside. “Hi. Umm…I’m looking for Mr. Sampson? I made an appointment a couple of weeks ago.”

  “He’s not here, but I can take a message.” Emily noticed the woman’s hands were shaking and there was a black eye hidden under those sunglasses. Emily’s heart twisted in her chest.

  “When will he be back?” The woman’s voice cracked with worry.

  “I’m really sorry; I don’t know. But I promise to give him your message.” Emily slid the pad of paper toward the woman and set the pencil down next to it.

  The woman stared at the paper. “Um, it’s just—I don’t know when I can come back, and it’s not safe for him to call me.”

  Emily pushed back her urge to tell the woman to run or fight or do anything other than return to the person who was hurting her. “If you’re having a pest issue, I’m sure Sampson can help,” she said, with a firm tone. “Just leave your message.”

  What am I doing? Why am I getting involved? She knew that Sampson was nowhere to be found, but she couldn’t simply turn the woman away. Not when Emily knew all too well about her situation.

  The lady bobbed her head nervously. “O-okay. Okay.” She leaned over and started writing. “This is the address. Eight tonight is the only window for a while—I’ll be at my mother’s.”

  Tonight? Oh no… The chances of Sampson miraculously showing up today were probably zero—it was anyone’s guess where he was. Or if he was still alive. Well, someone was paying me. On the other hand, there was such a thing as automatic payments. Bottom line, she just didn’t know what was up with him.

  The woman reached into her brown leather purse and handed Emily six bundles of cash. “Mr. Sampson said if I wanted it done quickly, I had to pay an extra ten.”

  Emily closed her hand around the thick stack. “I’ll be sure the message is passed along.”

  “Thank you.” The woman rushed out, nearly in tears.

  Emily hissed out a breath. What was she going to do? Clearly this woman was terrified and needed help. She herself had been there so many times—the fear, the desperation—but she had never been brave enough to take action. Ed knew all the men who did “pest control” work in their city. Word would have gotten back to him if she’d gone that route. And, of course, she’d been too afraid to call the police on Ed, but that had more to do with the fact that Ed was an FBI agent and his brother was a cop. Both of them were as corrupt as hell, something she’d learned far too late into the marriage.

  Emily listened for the car to leave, and slid the bundles in the drawer. She rapped her nails on the metal desk, the worry in the pit of her stomach spiraling. What if the job didn’t get done because Sampson was nowhere to be found? She sure as hell hadn’t seen the man, and it had been over one week since she’d started “working” here. Bottom line, if she left the money and the note in the desk drawer, they could sit t
here forever.

  That poor woman. Emily’s stomach churned harder as she thought about that lady coming home tonight, seeing the husband—boyfriend—whatever—standing there, ready for his routine. Maybe it was a liter of whisky first. Maybe he liked to go out and play poker all night, her fate resting on whether he won or lost.

  Emily’s heart pounded, the harsh memories triggering her panic. Suddenly, all she could think of was helping that woman. Nothing else mattered. And thankfully, the solution was straightforward: Emily was there to take and give messages, so that was exactly what she’d do.

  As for the reason Mr. Cold Eyes wanted her to stay? Who knew? She’d have to wing it and see what was what.

  A short while later, heavy footsteps approached the door. In stepped Mr. Cold Eyes looking agitated—flat lips, tight unshaved jaw, menacing blaze in his eyes—like he was in no mood for bullshit.

  “Oh. You’re back,” she said, putting on her calmest face. She was not about to mention Rick or ask what happened. She could guess. What she didn’t know was why he’d decided to kill Rick, but it was the sort of question she didn’t want an answer to. What if Rick had just rubbed him the wrong way? What if he didn’t like the fact that Rick saw his face? “By the way, you just missed Mr. Sampson. He left a message for you.”

  Mr. Cold Eyes lifted a dark brow, those unnerving gray orbs sharply focused on her.

  “What?” she said defensively, hiding the fact that when he looked at her like that, her bladder quivered.

  “Sampson was here? Just now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why isn’t he answering his phone?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Not sure. He just mentioned something about having to lie low. Said he’d check in or call in a few days.”

  The man let out a low growl and ran his hand through his dark short mane. “Son of a bitch. Probably started messing around with Rose again,” he muttered.

  “Who’s Rose?”

  He gave her a look. “Didn’t Sampson tell you the rule about questions?”

  “Yes. And you just broke it. Several times, in fact.” She stared up at him defiantly, wanting to show him she wasn’t going to be talked down to, that she was part of this team. Sampson, after all, had hired her. “Here’s the address of the infestation. Eight o’clock is ideal since the customer will be out of the house.” She pulled the cash bundles from the drawer, slapped them on the desk, and pushed them forward.

  “I’m already booked.” He didn’t bother looking at the money.

  Dammit. Sampson would have known this guy’s schedule and taken that into consideration. “Sampson said to make it work. There’s an inconvenience fee included, of course.”

  The man stared at her for a moment, sending a wave of shivers down her spine. “All right. But I get an extra ten for the other job he already booked me on.”

  “Another ten,” she repeated, her throat tight. Where would she come up with another ten? “If that’s the deal you have with Sampson…” She shrugged, as if she couldn’t give a damn because it had nothing to do with her. Of course, that wasn’t true. “Was that all? You’d said you wanted to discuss something right before you left.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I wanted you to pass another message to Sampson. Tell him client forty-three went smoothly—no more rats—but I guess he already knew that since the money is here waiting. I’ll be back in the morning for my hundred and twenty, so don’t be late. I’ve got those jobs in Chicago, and my flight leaves at noon tomorrow.” He grabbed the cash.

  Wait. What? Hundred and twenty? Emily sat frozen, trying to figure out why the man wanted so much money.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. It suddenly dawned on her; he only got paid after the job was done. He thought the money she’d just handed him was for a job he did last night. Tomorrow, he would want to be paid for two more jobs. Plus overtime. How was she going to come up with that much cash?

  At least that woman would have her pest-control issue taken care of.

  Yeah, then I’ll be next on the pest list.

  “Sure. Got it. I’ll pass on the message,” she said confidently.

  Mr. Cold Eyes turned those wide shoulders and went for the door, stopping just shy of it. “Oh, and by the way, you dropped the key outside.” He pulled something from his jeans pocket and tossed it toward her. The key landed with a clank directly in front of her on the desk. “I’d be careful not to lose it because you sure as hell won’t be getting inside here without it.”

  She stared blankly, having no clue what he meant.

  “Didn’t Sampson mention that this place is like Fort Knox?”

  This dump looked like it couldn’t keep a fart safe. “No. He didn’t.”

  “The door and windows are made with tempered security glass.” He jerked his head toward the AC unit. “And I wouldn’t mess with that if I were you. Not unless you want ten thousand volts of electricity running through you.”

  She glanced at the unit grinding away. It’s a booby trap? “But who would want to break in here? There’s nothing to steal.”

  He lifted a brow. “See you tomorrow morning.”

  Why hadn’t Sampson warned her the unit was rigged? Well, that explains why it’s hardwired to run nonstop. What it didn’t explain was why this place was fortified.

  Maybe there’s something inside the cabinets? She got up and poked the one on the right with her finger. Who knew what else might be rigged?

  Nothing happened, so she went in for a bold knock. A hollow echo answered back. It sounded empty. She moved to the cabinet in the middle, jarring it against the wall. Nothing rattled, and it felt fairly light.

  She stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what was so dang valuable in this office. Not that she intended to steal anything; snooping was just her thing. It also proved useful from time to time. It was how she’d learned the details of what Ed really did for a living.

  Staring at the cabinets, she noticed something crawl up from behind them. “Eww…” Another roach. She took her running shoe off and smashed the thing.

  “Wait.” That sounded weird. She rapped her knuckles against the bubbling yellow wallpaper. The wall produced a faint vibration, almost as if there was some sort of thick metal underneath, not sheetrock. Curious to test another wall, she put her shoe back on and walked over to that god-awful coffee pot on the other side of the room.

  She knocked on the wall behind it. Hollow. Like regular sheetrock. She looked over her shoulder, eyeing the space behind the filing cabinets where the dead roach sat immortalized, one with the wallpaper. Her guess was that if this office had something to protect, it was behind that wall. Maybe a safe room?

  She started looking around the office for a way in—a lever, button, or remote under her desk, under her chair, under the sink. She looked up at the water-stained ceiling made up of those industrial panels with little holes. The one over by the counter was slightly askew.

  She tested the yellow Formica with her weight. It seemed sturdy enough. She climbed up, being careful not to knock the Mr. Coffee to the floor.

  She cautiously poked the ceiling tile, wondering what might happen. Nothing. She gave it another poke.

  Suddenly, a big spider skittered out and dropped on her face.

  “Gah!” She swiped it away and turned to hop down, her foot clipping the coffee carafe. The thing crashed to the floor, glass going everywhere.

  A metal key lay right there amongst the shards.

  Interesting. She hopped off the counter, being cautious to avoid the glass with her fingers. Emily held up the key and inspected it closely. Honestly, it looked like a regular old house key.

  She pivoted around the room, searching for a place to use it. Well, we know the AC unit isn’t it. She did another lap around the room. There were no other locks aside from the one in the front door. And the filing cabinets. She glanced over at the three metal boxes. The one in the middle had a lock that looked worn. The ones on the edges looked like they’d never been touched.


  No. That would be way too easy. She walked over to try it out anyway. She slid the key inside the cabinet’s lock and heard a pop to her left.

  Just beside the cabinets, a little panel in the wall swung inward.

  Seriously? She tiptoed over and pushed the door, keeping her body a few feet from whatever was inside the dark space. Probably a roach garden or spider amusement park. But she couldn’t see anything.

  She went for her purse, grabbed her phone, and turned on the flashlight function. She held it out in front of her and returned to the opening in the wall, pushing carefully on the wallpapered panel. Still, she couldn’t see a thing.

  Cautiously, she stepped closer and poked her head inside. There was a glowing light switch on the right. She flipped it on and gasped.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Abandoned strip mall, my ass. She had never seen anything like this except maybe in the movies. (And not the nice ones about nice people.) This was straight out of a hardcore narco flick, minus the bricks of cocaine.

  The first room, which was made of cinder-block walls and concrete floors, contained over a hundred guns—rifles, handguns, and all the other stuff she didn’t know how to use. Her husband had only owned “standard issue” FBI revolvers, which, she’d learned, weren’t so standard issue after all. Ed had had to file a special request to carry one. Why a revolver? She’d once heard him and his gang of vile, rapey bastards talking about how only a “dumb motherfucker who wanted to get caught” would use anything else.

  Bottom line: Evidence was the devil. A revolver kept the casings inside until the shooter ejected them, preferably at a time and place of their choosing. Those other handguns with the magazines spit the casings out, and if one was in a hurry, it was a little difficult to pick them up.

  Her eyes glided over the rows and rows of guns hung along the cinder-block wall, like tiny soldiers waiting to be called into action.

  God, I hate guns. They reminded her of everything violent in the world.