"My guess is there's a couple more outside the front door."
"That leaves one more and, the senator," I whispered.
"Yeah, I'd feel better if I knew where he was," Woody said. He rubbed his chin, then took the gun from my hand. "You even know how to use one of these?"
"No," I admitted. "But I would have figured out how if I had to."
He didn't look convinced. He checked the gun before putting it into his pocket. "Don't worry, I put the safety on," he said. "I'm not going to shoot myself in the balls."
"Shame," I said teasingly.
Even in the darkness I saw his eyes roll.
"We need to find the last asshole before he finds us," Woody said.
Footsteps followed his words. They headed out of a side room, the flush of a toilet following behind.
Ironic. This situation was giving me the shits too.
I didn't need to say it was too late to find him first; we could both hear him approaching. He moved like someone who was just starting to sense something was wrong. He didn't know what yet, but something was amiss.
He called out, "Cuthbert?"
The man Woody killed was named Cuthbert? He didn't look like a Cuthbert. He looked more like a Paul. Maybe a Robert. I didn't suppose it mattered anymore. His name might have been Engelbert Pumpernickel, and he'd still be just as dead.
The thug put the light on his phone and shone it around the apartment. Slowly he turned around, scanning the space.
As he moved, we stepped in the opposite direction, staying in the dark, always behind him. Mimicking his speed and the angle of his rotation
I walked on my toes, trying to keep my heels from making a sound. I didn't even dare to breathe.
Finally, the goon illuminated Cuthbert and the open door beside him.
Before he could say a word, Woody had the gun back out, and pressed against the back of his head.
"I suggest you don't move," he whispered. His voice was harsh in the near silence. Almost enough to give me chills.
"Sable."
While the thug stood still, I took his gun too.
"Do you want this one as well?" I pictured Woody doing cartwheels and leaping around the apartment, a gun in each hand, like Lara Croft fromTomb Raider,without the long hair and big breasts.
Was it really possible to do cartwheels and flips with guns in your hands? I didn't know, but I'd pay to see that.
Less important, but as compelling was the question, was it possible to do cartwheels with breasts that large? She must have one hell of a sports bra.
"Hold on to it," Woody said with a grunt. "We need to take care of our friend here."
I didn't like the sound of that.
Woody placed a hand on his back and pushed him toward the kitchen.
On the countertop was a knife block. Five or six blades of different sizes hung downward, their blades obscured until Woody grabbed one. It looked long and sharp, reflecting the city light from the window a couple of feet away.
"Please I…" the thug started to say, before Woody sliced the knife across his throat, and let him slump to the floor.
"Stay here," Woody said gesturing in my direction with the bloodied knife.