Joe Victim: A Thriller

“There are going to be a lot of people down there,” she says. “People will figure out the police may use the back entrance. The police may panic and have a couple of cars escort it. But no matter how many there are, there’s still only going to be one van. One Joe. And he’ll be covering the same ground his standin just covered.”


Raphael gets onto his feet. He picks up the gun case and sits it on the plank he was lying on a moment earlier. Melissa uses duct tape to put the hole she cut in the curtain back into place. Then she switches her cell-phone light back on. Raphael starts taking apart the gun and putting it away. The magazine is empty. There is a mostly empty packet of bullets in the gun case—it’s the last of their supply. There are only two bullets left inside it. Plus the bullet she had to order especially. That one she hands to Raphael.

“This one goes at the top of the magazine,” she says.

He hefts it in his hand, checking the weight, as if it would make a difference.

“This is the armor-piercing bullet?” he asks.

“Don’t miss with it. It’s our only one.”

“I won’t,” he says.

He puts the round into the case, jamming it downward into the foam to separate it from everything else.

“Try not to use the other two rounds,” she says. “The longer you stay up here, the higher chance of getting caught. We need this done in one round. More rounds also means more people being put at risk.”

“It’ll get done in one.”

Melissa climbs up onto the platform and gets to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Raphael asks.

She reaches up and pushes a ceiling panel aside.

“Safer for us if the gun stays here,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think it’ll look good on Monday morning if you have to carry it in here. We hide it up here, you use it, then you put it back up there. The police are going to figure out where the shot came from, but there’s no reason for them to think the gun will still be here. And even if they do somehow get lucky, it’s going to be clean.”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Here, let me get it.”

They swap positions. He reaches up and puts the case into the ceiling. She hands him the bag with his police uniform in it. “We keep this here too,” she says.

He slides the panel back into place then climbs down.

“So you won’t be back here,” he says.

She shakes her head. “No reason to,” she says, because she’s going to be down among all the action, among the cops and the protesters, right in the middle of the tension and the chanting and the screamed insults. Raphael is the shooter. She is the collector. No reason to pretend any different.

“We’re not going to practice anymore?”

She shakes her head. She tucks aside the curtain and looks out the window at the van as it starts to pull away. The only difference in the layout between now and Monday is there will be an ambulance there too. There’ll be a few of them scattered around the streets near the courthouse.

There’ll need to be because the protesting is a powder keg ready to explode.

That’s why she got her hand on a paramedic’s uniform months ago. After all, she’s the one who’s playing the collector.





Chapter Forty-One