Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(101)

"What's her problem?" a big, swag-bellied biker type asked him.

Connor shrugged helplessly. "He owes her money."

Pop, crash, crunch, the mayhem went on and on, until Erin's anxious voice penetrated the noise. "Mom? Mom! Listen to me, Mom!"

Barbara looked up, tears streaming down her face. "That son of a bitch hit my baby!"

"I know he did, Mom, but she's going to be OK. And the guys beat him up for you already, didn't you see?"

"Good," Barbara said viciously. Erin winced and covered her ears as the cane whistled down and shattered the back window. She put her arms around her mother's shoulders and hurried her back toward the car. Barbara went along without argument, the forgotten cane dragging behind her. The black rubber tip bumped over the asphalt.

Miles grinned through his gore. "You're a goddess, Mrs. Riggs!"

"I'm sure this is all very therapeutic, but can we leave?" Sean asked.

"Yeah, let's move. You and Miles come to my house," Davy said. "We need to clean that kid up. Hey, Con. I slipped one of Seth's beacons into Billy's cigarettes while your mother-in-law was trashing the Jag. We can track him down tomorrow, so take it easy tonight. If you can." Davy's sympathetic eyes flicked over to Connor's car, packed chock full of problematic Riggs females. "Good luck with them. And watch your back with Erin's mom. The woman is not to be f*cked with."

"Yeah. Believe me, I've noticed," Connor grumbled.

This time Connor pried the cane out of Barbara's clammy grip with his own hands, closed the car door on her, and threw the cane into the trunk where it could do no more damage.

He pulled the car out onto the street and braced himself for absolutely anything.

"Mom?" Cindy quavered. "Are you wigging out on me?"

Barbara pulled Cindy into her arms. "Oh, no, baby. Not at all."

"I think you're going to be just fine, Mrs. Riggs," he said. "You certainly seem to have no problems expressing your anger."

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror. "You'd better start calling me Barbara, Connor," she said coolly. "I might as well get used to it."

"Gee. Thanks so much," he muttered.

"I really do feel much better," Barbara said, in a wondering voice. "Better than I have in ages."

"Oh, sure you do," Connor grunted. "Nothing like a little reckless destruction of private property to brighten up your mood."

Barbara blinked rapidly. "Oh, my. Do you think he might prosecute me? Oh dear. Wouldn't that be funny? If I had to send Eddie a letter… sorry, honey, but I can't make it in to see you on visiting day… I'm in jail, too! I'm a p-p-public menace!"

"That's not funny, Mom." Erin's voice sounded strangled.

"I know it's not, sweetie pie. So why are we laughing?"

All three of the women started laughing. Then they started bawling. Then it was a terrible mess. Connor just kept his head down, and his mouth shut, and drove the goddamn car.



This contract made Rolf Hauer very uneasy.

There was nothing wrong with the business end of things. The pay was excellent, the contact had been discreet and professional, the down payment had been delivered to Marseilles in American dollars, as promised. No problems at all there. Everything was in perfect order.

It was the details of this hit that bothered him. A list of nitpicking, grisly details, any of which, if not followed to the letter, rendered the contract null and void. Rolf prided himself on his professionalism, but if there was one thing this business had taught him, it was that there were always surprises. An artist needed room to improvise. There was no room in this job for improvisation. This one was skintight.

So was his hiding place in the goddamn garage closet. He'd been here for hours, and he was stiff and bored. He glanced at his watch. The targets should be arriving soon, if things went as the contact had assured him that they would. The explosives were in place. The list of instructions had the feel of a code. Not that he wanted to decipher it. The less he knew, the happier he was. He was only a pen, writing a message with fire and blood. He was paid to keep that ink flowing.

Ah, at last. The garage door rumbled up. Headlights glared into the garage under the secluded house. Adrenaline squirted into Rolf's body. He shifted into combat readiness, cracked the closet door, peered out. In his black ski mask, he was just another shadow in the dark.

The door of the van cracked open. Voices. A light flipped on. A man turned around, tall, round-shouldered, wearing a felt cap. He lit a cigarette. Yes. Double chin, big nose. Matthieu Rousse. His first target.

The passenger door opened, and a big, chunky woman got out. Helmet of gray hair. He didn't even need her to step into the light to identify that big jaw. She was the second target, Ingrid Nagy. She said something sharp to the man, in a guttural language Rolf didn't recognize. The man replied, sulkily, dropped his cigarette, and crushed it out. They went to the back of the Volvo van and opened the doors.

Rousse reappeared, carrying a limp, blanket-wrapped figure in his arms. Rolf caught sight of a slack, sallow face, balding brown hair. Target number three, the comatose man with no name.

Rousse carried him easily. The inert figure was as slight as a boy. Rolf watched silently as Nagy grabbed a metal valise and followed Rousse and Coma Boy into the house, bitching all the way.