41

Dust and gravel pelted his head as Jim exited the warehouse. It was dark. The limo was just starting, but the RV was already on the way out of the parking lot. Oscar fired at the moving limo. Jim didn’t dare fire blankly at any vehicles. No telling what he’d hit or which vehicle Erica was in. Oscar fired wildly at the limo. Rounds pelted the doors, windows, and ricocheted into the night.

Bulletproof.

It slowed but didn’t stop. “Use grenades. Stop the limo!” O shouted as he ran toward the car.

“Grenades?” Jim looked at his vest. Two smoke bombs hung off the right side. Grenades. Not smoke bombs. Shit. Grenades, hanging off his chest as he’d started a car fire. They’d been dangling there as the cars exploded. He yanked one off, pulled the pin with the action. O was getting an ass whooping when this was over for not informing him they were live grenades.

He was running as he threw it. Tossed high and long like a football pass. He hoped his throwing aim was better than his shooting aim. His intention was to land it just in front of the moving car, not on it.

Bull’s-eye. It blew. The limo met the percussive explosion and jerked up and to the right, hard enough to lift the front tires off the ground.

O was there when it landed. The front tires were lost to the grenade’s explosive pressure, leaving the limo stranded. The sunroof opened. Lake stood and leveled an MP5 at O. He held it too loosely, and the powerful kick sent the rounds far afield. He was no better than Jim with a gun. Comical, really. Bad guys who can’t shoot. But then again, the guy was a dry cleaner by day.

Then there was O. He fired once from the snubby, on the run, and created a new orifice on Lake’s face. He fell over the windshield, feet still in the sunroof.

Jim caught up, ran up on the trunk, pulled what was left of Lake out of the opening in the roof. O was there. It was quiet. Jim stood over the sunroof, looked in. Empty. He quickly stuck his head in enough to see that the windshield was blown out. The driver slumped to the side on the seat. Jim’s aim was better than he thought.

“They’re all in the RV,” Jim concluded. Which was well down the service road. Too far to chase on foot. A third explosion rocked the warehouse behind.

O smirked. “I think we can catch them.”

Jim was already on his way back into the building. “Get the door, would ya?”

“Of course.” O headed to the big rolling doors. Jim headed to the Aston Martin. He may never be an FBI agent, but he was about to play Bond, only the guy with the Double O moniker was going to be the passenger.

Holding his breath, he busted the steering column. Jim Bean did have some talents, and that hot little ride was purring in about twenty seconds. O got in. The bounty hunter looked like a caricature in the convertible car. A G.I. Joe action figure in a Lego car. He took possession of the gun tucked at his waist.

Vegas PD had to be getting close. “Miller will have convinced someone to come. Let’s just hope they bought his story and they arrest the right people.”

“If there’s anyone left to arrest.” Jim looked at O at that. His face was still veiled in hate. “You know he’ll still have power locked up. Even in the tightest security. That’s if he ever serves jail time. Fuck face owns this town, Bean. We need to end this tonight. Now.”

Alexis. That was why he needed Zant alive. Jim had been so wrapped up in the urgency of extraction, he hadn’t considered if Zant had set them up to be in that warehouse tonight, he’d known Jim was involved with Erica all along. Alexis was already in danger. Being hunted. There was no time to explain it to O.

Jim refocused on driving. “I need some info from Zant, O. I need him alive. Give me two minutes anyway.”

They caught the RV about two miles south of the Showgirl. O shot out the back tires. The lumbering RV swerved and skirted off the side of the road. Jim and O sped past as the tat-tat-tat-tata-tat of rapid fire left a hole or two in the Aston.

Jim slid the car around. They were now face-to-face with the RV. The Thin Man shot through his windshield from behind a huge steering wheel. The round shattered the front glass of the Aston Martin as well. O fired back.

They spun around again, like some kind of modern joust with automatic weapons and hollow-point bullets instead of wooden poles.

Jim saw a hint of blue lights in the distance. The cavalry. Once the cops got there, Jim would not be able to question Zant. “Shit. Take ’em all out. I don’t care. Give me one minute to question Zant.”

“I’ll try.”

Jim had stopped behind the RV, off to one side. There were no windows on it to give the asshats a good angle to fire from. “Three of them. Four girls. They’re gonna use the girls as shields.”

The side door opened toward Jim and O. “You can have your girls, Olsen.” It was Zant. The door blocked him, but Jim knew it was him. “Let us take the car. You keep the girls. I’ll forget this all ever happened. We’ll be all square.”

“I find that my trust level for you is low, Zant,” Oscar answered.

“Jim knows I keep my word. Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Considered their options. Girls in the RV. Guns in the RV. He needed the guns out.

Zant shouted, “She’s going to be a dead woman, Bean. I’ll find Alexis. You cross me and she’s dead.”

He mouthed the words trust me to O. His friend hesitated, then stepped to the side.

Jim emerged. “Look, fine. I got no beef past these two. Give me the girls. You take the car.”

“Drop your guns where I can see them.”

They did. Oscar looked none too happy. “You know he’s going to blow our heads off when he gets in the car,” O whispered.

“Won’t get that far.”

Zant and Mr. Dubai eased from the RV.

“Wait, boss. What do I do?” Keith, his skinny self, stuck his head out the door.

“I’ll get you out.” Zant and Dubai hustled toward the car, guns trained on Jim and O.

“You won’t make it long enough for that,” Oscar said, his voice silky and scary. He stepped toward the RV.

“You shut up.” Keith then fell, flailing for balance, out the door. Pushed from inside. Probably Erica. O acted. Retrieved a gun from the ground. Fired at the car. Hit Dubai in the chest. Keith regained his composure and tried to fire, but Jim threw his knife, penetrating the meaty part of his hand between his thumb and finger. Erica jumped down and kicked the gun away as he rolled.

Zant was trying to push a very wounded Mr. Dubai off the driver’s door of the Aston. Selfish bastard right to the end. Jim stalked up and took the little freak by the neck. “Is she being hunted?”

Zant shrugged. “Fuck you. I can still make this all you. I own the department. I own her.”

Jim was tired of this guy. Oscar had the right idea. Kill them and let the chips fall where they may. “Tell you what, Andrew.” Jim pulled the last grenade from his vest. Zant’s eyes got big, further exaggerating the fishy look of his little mouth. “I’m going to put an end to all this. Right now. I don’t give a shit about my pathetic life, and you know it. You used that fact to manipulate.”

“Now, Bean, I’m—we can negotiate this.” He was trying to back up, crawl away, but Jim had him by a good forty pounds. Used his good arm to press him harder into the car door.

“No. No more negotiating for you.” He pulled the pin with his teeth and pushed the grenade down Andrew Zant’s five-hundred-dollar slacks. He counted, “Three.”

Zant’s eye got huge. “She’s fine,” he stammered. “In the Keys, last I was told. Haven’t touched her. Too valuable. I swear. The boy’s my kid.”

“Two.” He lifted the man and pushed him back into the car and ran as fast as he could the opposite direction. He kept counting in his head.

”One!” He hit the ground and covered his head to protect himself from flying Aston Martin debris.