“Can’t you go any faster?” Lefty barks at his brother, cocking his gun.
“Not unless you want the police on our tail before we get there.” He presses his foot against the gas pedal and the van picks up speed. “We’re right around the corner, anyway. Get ready. Even if they don’t have agents posted outside, we won’t have more than ten minutes before this whole area is swarming.”
I watch my neighborhood pass outside my window and wonder if it will be my last time ever seeing it. When the blue sign comes into view, feel my heart clench as I read the familiar words.
Merriweather Street
We barrel down the cul-de-sac, toward a sprawling blue Victorian with a wraparound porch. It’s the perfect house. Prettiest on the block by a mile. Any stranger seeing it from the outside would automatically assume the family dwelling inside it is equally perfect.
But looks, like life, are often deceiving.
Righty jerks the wheel violently and the van jolts up over the curb, onto my perfectly manicured lawn. He slams on the breaks so hard I get whiplash as we screech to a stop with the tires straddling my front walkway, just outside the front stairs.
“Go time!” Righty says, leaping out of the front seat. He’s holding a semi-automatic assault rifle, gesturing madly for us to follow as his eyes scan the street for threats. “Let’s move!”
Lefty throws open the door and drags me out of the van, up the steps, onto the porch. He holds me like a shied as he runs after his brother, arm banded tight around my shoulders.
“Keep moving, bitch,” he hisses in my ear. “Or things will goboombefore you can blink.”
I pick up my pace, heart thundering inside my chest.
When we catch up to Righty, I see he’s already bashed out my pretty bay window with the butt of his gun and is stepping over the sill, into my dining room. Lefty follows, dragging me inside after him. I feel my bare arms catch on broken shards of glass in the window frame. My feet receive similar treatment from the razor-sharp pieces scattered across the floor.
On a normal day, it would probably bring tears to my eyes. But I’m feeling strangely numb, in the face of my imminent death. I guess it’s just hard to get worked up about a bit of glass when there’s a bomb strapped to your chest and a crazed Russian holding the detonator.
Oh.
Right.
Did I not mention that, before?
* * *
It turns out,the Evanoffs reputation as expert bomb makers was not exaggerated in the slightest. The speed at which they rigged a vest full of plastic explosives was truly astonishing. They could do infomercials.
Dirty bombs in two hours or less or your money back!
Ignoring the weight of the bomb around my chest, I listen to Righty and Lefty tearing violently through the study. Drawers are overturned, furniture flipped over. A constant stream of angry Russian curses peppers the air.
“Do you see it?”
“It’s not here!”
I can’t help smiling a little.
Oh, boys. You got played even worse than I did. And that’s really saying something, since I’m about one sneeze away from triggering an accidental explosion.
My eyes slide to the window. I feel a thread of hope weave through me at the sight of the black SUVs pulling to a stop at the curb.
“We’ve got company!” Righty shouts. “Fuck, that was fast. Not even two minutes. How the hell do they already know we’re here?”
“Almost like they knew we were coming,” his brother hisses, grabbing me by the arm and jerking me around to face him. His skin is mottled purple with anger. “Listen, you little bitch. We need your fuckingpaperweight,” he spits the word. “Where is it? We’ve checked the desk.”
“Oh… Hmmm…” I stall.
“Don’t trifle with me, bitch! Or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I snap, fed up with his threats. “Blow me up? Please, if you’re going to… make sure to do it while I’m standing right next to you.”