Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(73)

I could try to get her gun before she shot Michael or me, but I had serious doubts. Her peaches and cream complexion was high with bright color and the grip she had on her weapon was as practiced as that of any three-time loser. Her eyes met mine with the same lighthearted cheer she’d shown since we’d picked her up. There were no reservations, no guilt, but worst of all . . . there was no fear. She didn’t care that someone might leave the restaurant and see her or that someone could drive by and call the police. Being utterly amoral and completely fearless . . . There was no deadlier combination.

“What do you want?” I asked neutrally. “My wallet? Fine. Take it.” There was a little less than seventy dollars in there. She was welcome to it. Slowly and carefully, I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and tossed it at her feet. I could’ve tried for my gun hidden under my shirt, but what then? Shoot a pregnant girl? Granted, she was a sociopathic, thieving pregnant girl, but that wouldn’t make pulling the trigger any easier.

“I love men who share,” she purred, discarding the bag of food to one side. “Albert, sweetie, pick that up and hand it to me real careful like. I’m not quite as limber as I used to be.”

I didn’t need to see the questioning look Michael gave me to know what he was thinking. With one touch, just one, a thousand or so cells would suicide and the gun would fall. It could potentially work; she certainly wouldn’t be expecting it. But it wasn’t worth it, putting Michael through that, not over less than a hundred bucks. It just wasn’t worth it to me, and not to him either, whether he knew it or not. I gave him a minute shake of my head. “Do as she says, kiddo. Exactly as she says.”

For a moment it seemed as if he would protest, but he didn’t. He only nodded, walked forward to retrieve the wallet, and placed it in her free hand. “Good boy. Such a good boy,” she cooed before shooing him backward. “All right, scar face, now lift up your shirt.”

So much for the specialty makeup I’d swiped under bright drugstore lights, but that was the least of my concerns. Losing my wallet and the money in it was nothing. Losing what was under my shirt would have much more serious consequences for my brother and me.

“Why?” I asked bluntly.

“You’re a shady one, Bubba.” A pink tongue touched cat quick to her upper lip and she winked. “I know my kin when I see them. And people like us have secrets we don’t keep in our wallets. Now get that shirt up before I turn it red, hear?”

I heard. Giving in to the bitter inevitable, I pulled up my shirt to chest height and revealed the money belt around my waist. It was there that I kept every penny I hadn’t paid to Saul. There was nearly fifty thousand dollars along with all of my fake ID in that belt. I couldn’t keep it in the car. I’d stolen our transportation easily enough; there was no guarantee someone else might not do the same.

“Jackpot,” she breathed, eyes locked on my waist with naked avarice. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes. And it looks like he’s going to get them, a whole store’s worth.” Waggling the revolver, she ordered, “Fork it over. Now.”

There was only one way out of this that didn’t involve gunfire and blood, and it sucked. It sucked thoroughly, but I didn’t see a way around it—not one I was willing to involve Michael in at any rate. Gritting my teeth against a cold rush of anger, I released the buckle on the belt and held it out to her. Her gun unwavering, she took a step forward and snatched the thick strip of nylon out of the air as it swung back and forth. As she did so, I heard an excited barking. It was Blossom. She was riding in the back of a pickup with her front paws propped up on the tailgate in true time-honored country style. The truck pulled up not quite ten feet from us, stopping just behind Fisher. The pickup itself was a dusty reddish brown or brownish red; it was hard to tell. Either red with brown mud or vice versa, it was completely nondescript. And so was the guy behind the wheel.

Dirty blond hair under a baseball hat, denim jacket, and a two-day beard, he could’ve been any good old boy in a two-hundred-mile radius. The deer rifle pointed at my head was the only false note. Through the open window the man showed white teeth any Gulf shark would be proud of. He didn’t take good care of his truck, but he loved his teeth. Or he loved his meth and those were dentures. “You think good thoughts, fella.” Calling to Fisher, he added, “You ’bout ready, honey?”

Here was the boyfriend who had supposedly left a pregnant girl high and dry on a lonesome road. In reality he was her partner in crime, although I had the feeling she would wear the pants in any relationship. They might be maternity pants, but she was the boss. On that front I had no doubts.

“Coming, doll baby.” She hefted the money belt to feel the weight. Her eyes were brilliant with pleasure. “Boys, boys, you’ve been so good to me. Better than even Gramma Lilly.”

Gramma Lilly, my ass. Her lies had been consummate, her acting flawless. She’d put Meryl Streep out of business. There was no Lilly. But if there were, I would’ve hoped she didn’t have life insurance naming her grand-daughter as beneficiary. The old lady wouldn’t have been long for this world if that were the case. I remembered with perfect clarity how Fisher had pointed out the restaurant for its great food. That the gun-toting boyfriend would be meeting her here was only a bonus to the best barbecue in the tri-state area. Who knew how many times before they’d pulled a stunt like this. Who knew how many people out there were as stupid as I was.