I burn out of the hangar to the sounds of muffled thuds from the back of the car. The bodyguard’s not stupid. She’s heard the doors locking and knows something isn’t right. “Motherfucker! Open this up right now!”
Normally there’s an intercom in these cars, but this one’s different. Sal and I smashed the shit out of this car’s intercom with two lump hammers and ripped out the wiring. We also lined the roof with lead. The girls in the back aren’t striking up a conversation with us any time soon. And they aren’t making any phone calls to dear old Papa McLaughlin, either.
As I head back toward the city, the shouting from the back gets louder. It’s accompanied by the dull thudding of feet trying to smash out the privacy screen. Sal raps his knuckles against the glass, grinning again. “Bitch sounds crazy back there. I don’t think she likes the modifications we’ve made.”
I allow myself a small smile as we hit the George Washington Bridge, heading back toward North Manhattan. So far Operation: Kidnap Kaitlin has been a roaring success. Sal pulls out his cell and starts tapping into it with quick fingers. “Telling the old man we’re on our way?”
He nods. “Bastard better give us credit where credit’s due. He’s probably still organising his own fucking birthday party. Meanwhile, we have just successfully taken our mark hostage. We’re on the homeward stretch.”
The fucking homeward stretch.
The thing about saying you’re on the homeward stretch is that often it’s like waving a red flag at a bull. Fate must hear that phrase and decide to fuck over the poor schmuck who was dumb enough to utter it every single fucking time. It’s only seconds after Sal’s parted with those words that the electric window behind me—the bodyguard’s side window—shatters. We knew the bodyguard would be armed, but we didn’t expect anyone to be shooting out the damn side windows. An eruption of fragmented diamonds explodes sideways, spraying a bright yellow smart car with a million shards of glass. The sound of the firing gun is almost deafening.
“What the fuck?”
The smart car veers sideways, smashing into us; I press my foot to the floor, grinding my teeth at the sound of screeching metal and more hammering from the back as I swerve through the traffic. Sal twists in his seat, pulling his gun and pressing it to the glass of the privacy screen. His finger’s on the trigger. “She’s going fucking crazy. I’m gonna shoot the bitch.”
“Which one?”
Sal lifts one shoulder, scowling into the back. “I don’t know. Both of them. I need to shoot both of them.”
I careen over in the left hand lane, trying to find a clear path. We need to get back to the fucking restaurant. Now. This is really not fucking good. Risking a glance in the mirror behind me, I see my brother is right. Kaitlin appears to be crying, thick black streaks of makeup running down her face, her arrogance completely gone now. The bodyguard, on the other hand, is only half visible. She’s … she’s leaning out of the fucking window. I glance in the side mirror just in time to see her aiming her gun. She fires. The side mirror reports the muzzle flash, and then the whole thing is just … gone.
“Fuck!”
“That’s it. I’m shooting them.”
“DO NOT FUCKING SHOOT ANYONE, SAL!” If I can’t pull this car over or get the hell out of this traffic, my brother is gonna get trigger happy on these bitches and we’ll be carting two bodies back into our father’s kitchen. Sal gives me a frustrated look, his eyebrows spiking. A look of surprise washes over him.
“She’s gonna fucking shoot—” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. An ear-splitting crack rips through the air. Suddenly glass is raining down on me. Glass everywhere. The bitch in the back fires a second shot; this time the round travels straight through my broken window and shatters the windshield from the inside.
I can’t see a fucking thing.
Kaitlin starts screaming even louder.
I don’t have the car anymore. I don’t have this situation. I don’t have my fucking brother, either. I think he’s about to murder our collateral. My thoughts as the car hits the guardrail, as the car begins to flip: We’d better just fucking die. Because if we don’t fucking die … what the fuck are we gonna tell Roberto?
TWO
SCARLETT