“I see that. Can you stop?”
“If you kill me, my dad will track you down.” She drops back into her seat and looks at me again. “He'll track you down and kill you back.”
Great, I picked up Liam Neeson's daughter.
“Yeah, I'm not worried about your dad, 'kay? Just be quiet.”
“What's your name?”
In the eight years I've been doing this, I've never had such an inquisitive victim. Normal kids freak out. I just drug the adults. They're too difficult to move otherwise.
I'm not exactly built for hauling around people against their will. When I learned what I would spend the rest of my life doing, I tried to pack on a few pounds. I was fifteen, and the job description didn't make pumping iron a thrill.
So I traded in the weights for a couple of guns and a supply of benzodiazepines. I won't use the benzos on the kiddies, though. Too dangerous.
I turn onto a dirt road, and the car bounces along. Hondas get great mileage, but they aren't designed with this terrain in mind.
Not a big deal. When the Accord finally gives out, Karl will have another vehicle waiting for me. Whatever I need, I get. It's not as exciting as it sounds, especially since I can't draw attention to myself.
No fancy rides, no fawning ladies. Just a nondescript car and all the ammo and tranqs a guy could want.
Up ahead looms solid metal gates set in a twenty-foot high brick wall.
My passenger goes quiet. I have stopped making sense of her words a while ago. The gates roll to either side, and she sits forward into the dash.
“Wow.” Her voice is a soft breath.
For a moment, she has forgotten she's going to die.
Wait, held for ransom. That's the story, and I'm sticking to it. I might believe it with enough whiskey. As soon as this delivery is over, I'm heading straight to the bar. The trip back from the mansion is the worst part, though. The silence. The thinking.
I press on the gas and drive up the long carport. On either side, the landscaping is like a mirage. Tall arching trees. Manicured hedges whose maintenance alone cost more than the upkeep on my car. A pond that would look impressive if I didn't know there really is a pool with a waterfall on the other side of the estate. And the pool is nothing compared to the tennis court, the ten-car garage, and the empty horse stable.
The mansion itself stands three stories high and sprawls so far I sometimes wonder if anyone has ever walked it end to end. There's at least a dozen covered patios with stone archways. I can't even guess how many balconies.
Uniformed men bust through one of the four sets of double-doors and head straight for my car. My passenger screams. This time, it is real terror.
The men yank open the side door and drag her out. Not so much as a nod at me. They carry her back the direction they had come, disappearing into the mansion.
Silence.
I will never see her again.
The stuffed bunny is still on the floorboard. I lean over to pick it up and toss it into the glove compartment.
During the drive back to the city, I sing The Song That Never Ends to drown out my thoughts.
***
Kocktail Kittens sits right off the freeway. It's a dive bar, and it really should have been named Kocktail Kougars. Not my thing, but I'm not exactly looking for takeout, anyway. Just enough booze 'til I need a cab and assistance remembering how my front door opens.
I slide up to the bar and throw Leo Hartz's credit card on the counter. “Tab, whiskey shot and a J?gerbomb to start.”
The bartender—a wrinkled woman with fading dark hair pulled into a bun and thin red lips—snags the card with Freddy Krueger nails. She winks.
“Sure thing, hon.” Her voice is phlegmy.
She sashays off to pour the drinks.
I turn and scope out the room. A few small tables sit to one side, and a neglected karaoke machine to the other. Next to the karaoke machine is a pool table, where the handful of other patrons are gathered around.
They all look like they have been living this lifestyle for a few centuries. Probably regulars. I wouldn't know for sure, because I'm not. The last thing I need is someone to notice how often I switch names on credit cards. Or to be able to identify me.
Like my car, I'm rather nondescript. Average height, brown eyes, dirty-blond hair that usually could do for a trim. Sometimes I shave. Today is not one of those days.
Maude leans forward as she pushes my drinks toward me. Her neckline plunges so low it looks like she forgot to button up.
I drop the J?ger into the beer and chug it. Does anyone with taste buds actually like this crap? The whiskey chases after, burning my throat.
I thud the shot glass back to the bar. “Another, please.”
“Long day?” Her claws tap on the counter. Those things should be registered weapons. “You seem tense.”
I hope this routine is a bucket list entry for her. She's terrible at it.
“Nah, won the lottery and cured cancer.” I nudge the empty glasses toward her. “Please.”