Long Road to Mercy (Atlee Pine, #1)(47)

Pine yawned, stretched, and popped her neck as she followed Blum into the ladies’ room.

As soon as the door closed behind them it was pushed open again.

Three men came in.

They were all tall and lean and good-looking and appeared to be in their very early twenties. They were all fashionably dressed in clothes that were expensive but made to look like they weren’t. Two wore khaki shorts, revealing tanned, muscular legs, and colorful Robert Graham short-sleeved shirts and docksiders. The third wore soft, baggy, faded jeans, a white long-sleeved shirt untucked, and Gucci loafers.

One of them crumpled up a beer and threw it into an empty stall. Then they stood there staring at the two women.

Blum turned around and eyed them. “You have the wrong restroom. Men’s is the other door.”

The man in the jeans stepped forward. He glanced at his friends and grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. “No, this is definitely the place we want because you’re here.”

“You have got to be shitting me,” said an incredulous Pine. “Did you guys just come from a frat party, or what?”

The man smiled at her and produced a bottle of Maker’s Mark from his back pocket. “Operative word being party, ladies.”

Blum eyed Pine, who was gazing at the half-empty bottle. “That is not happening,” Blum said to him.

“Come on, we’ve been looking for someone just like you two,” said the man. “Mature women, what could be better? And trust me, you’ll like what you’re going to get.”

He unscrewed the cap on the Maker’s and took a swig before passing it to his friends, who each took a drink.

Pine studied each of them. “Is this really the only way you can get laid?”

“Hell, we can have anyone we want. I can lay on the charm like nobody’s business. And my family’s rich.” He hooked a finger at his two companions. “These guys too.”

“So why lie in wait outside a ladies’ bathroom waiting for a target?”

The man grinned. “Because we can and we want to.”

“Not with us, you can’t,” retorted Blum.

The man’s grin slowly faded. “I don’t think you have much choice.”

Pine said, “Then I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

The man pulled a small knife from his pocket and opened it.

“I don’t like to do it this way, but whatever works. Now, you just do what we say and nobody gets hurt.”

“Oh, somebody’s definitely going to get hurt,” replied Pine.

She marched forward and disarmed the man by breaking his wrist. When he howled in pain and doubled over, she grabbed the back of his neck, jerked him downward, and knocked out his two perfect front teeth with a vicious uppercut delivered with her knee. Then, using his bulk against him, Pine flipped him into the mirrored wall over the sinks, shattering it. He fell onto the porcelain, caught his face on a faucet, rolled off, and hit the floor. He lay there bloody and stunned, groaning in pain.

“Hey, hey!” yelled one of the other men. He launched himself at Pine before reeling backward after Pine planted the bottom of her boot into his throat. He slammed against the wall and fell to his butt, gagging for breath.

She walked over and finished him off by bouncing his head off the tiled wall with a forearm strike. He slumped to the floor unconscious.

The last man snarled, “You’re dead, bitch. I’ve got a black belt.”

He stopped snarling and leapt back when Pine pulled out her gun and pointed it at him.

With her other hand, she took out her FBI shield. “And I’ve got this, Mister Moron.”

“Aw, shit!” exclaimed the man. “Son of a bitch!”

“Get on the floor facedown,” ordered Pine. “Do it!”

The man did as he was told and then blurted out, “Hey, if you had a damn gun why didn’t you just pull it? Why’d you have to kick their asses?”

Blum said, “Because she can and she wanted to.”

Pine took out zip ties from her jacket pocket and bound all three men together, legs and hands, back to back, so they were totally immobile. After Pine and Blum used the restroom and finished washing up at the sinks, Pine dialed 911, told the dispatcher what had happened, gave her location and added, “I can’t stay to press charges, but just hold them for a few years on account of being stupid.”

When Pine slid behind the wheel of the Mustang, Blum said, “You were quite impressive back there.”

“I was incentivized.”

“Well, I get that. We were being threatened.”

“No, I mean I had to use the bathroom really bad.”

Later on, Pine turned onto Interstate 81 North and punched the gas.

This stretch of asphalt was known as the Trucker’s Highway as it wove through the mountains, and they passed many a big rig along the way. They stopped for takeout at a twenty-four-hour diner near Roanoke, Virginia. As they drove on, Pine cradled greasy fries in her lap and munched on a double cheeseburger, while Blum nibbled on hers and only occasionally ventured to pick up a fry.

“You don’t like burgers and fries?” asked Pine.

“Oh, I do. But at my age, they don’t like me like they used to. In that regard, they’re sort of like men.” A few minutes later she lay back against the seat and fell asleep.