Page 42 of Live Love Steal
“Don’t get killed.”
“Trying not to.” Risks like this weren’t normal. Usually, we had numbers during direct confrontations. But there wasn’t time to call for reinforcements. Isobel was out there somewhere, probably scared to death, and it was a crap shoot whether Victor or us would find her first.
Not to mention, Bear would kick my ass if I lost her before we were assured she wouldn’t talk.
I strolled down the sidewalk like it was a Sunday morning on the river walk Sprout helped build in Skilletsville.
Sure enough, Victor spotted me and shouted something. He pointed me out to his buddy driving, and they did an illegal U-turn to come at me fast. Victor pulled out a gun.
So much for talking.
I ducked down a path that led behind the buildings and sprinted toward the dumpsters clustered on the far end of the restaurant’s parking lot. They were tucked against a brick wall that blocked access to the alley behind it.
The glow of headlights filled the lot, and my shadow lengthened. I dove behind the bin and pulled my gun.
Victor and his buddy popped out of Isobel’s car.
I took aim and shouted at him. “Hands where I can see them.”
“Fuck you.” Victor reached behind his back. I laid down a line of three shots, only one of them actually catching my quarry in the leg. But he fell anyway.
He fired on the dumpster, and bullets pounded the steel hard before pinging off to chip away at the brick wall. His buddy joined in, the shrapnel from both guns now dusting me with debris.
Then boom, boom, and one more. Whoosh.
I peeked out to see if he’d killed them.
Victor wasn’t moving. Damn it. And the other? Shit. He wouldn’t ever move again.
“You didn’t have to kill them both.”
He shrugged. “Habit. I blame Sprout, you know.”
“How are we going to find Isobel now?” And shit, there’d be no finding her if the police were called.
Something large rustled in the dumpster beside me. I spun, holding my gun ready so I could shoot the giant rat I imagined in it. Maybe it was a raccoon? Or bigger? A bear?
That was crazy, but from the noise, it was something.
“What the fuck? Is someone in there?” Whoosh pointed his gun at the dumpster.
“Help! Get me out of here.”
That sounded like Isobel. I flipped open the lid.
There she was.
Looking beautiful, despite also looking worse than a proverbial drowned rat. There was something stuck in her hair. And her white shirt was stained brownish pink. Was that blood? She stuck out a hand.
There was indistinguishable goop on it. Something hung from it. She flicked it off and held her hand out again.
“Gross. Was that a noodle?” Whoosh took a step back and gagged. “I’m never eating spaghetti again.”
“You and me both.” Isobel grabbed onto the hand I held out. But she was slimy, and her grip slipped. She fell on her ass. The garbage bag she’d landed on broke open and sent a wave of pungent rotted cheese and meat odor through the alley.
This time, I grabbed her by the collar and pulled her out.
She stood, dripping something greasy and holding both hands out like she was afraid to touch anything. “Disgusting doesn’t describe this.” She ran to a patch of grass and threw up.
