Page 37 of Femme Fatale
Spade led the way, clearing corners with a blade in her fist. The front door was still open, but as we hit the exit, the overhead fluorescents kicked on, flooding the hall with ugly, surgical light.
Jack Smalls was waiting in the lobby, a pistol aimed right at my chest.
He looked smaller in person—balding, sweat-stained, hunched in a cheap suit. But his eyes were wolf yellow, and he had a cop’s confidence in his grip.
"I've been waiting for you," he said, voice like dry ice on a wound. "Selene, they said you were smarter than this."
I raised my Glock, leveled it at his head. "Drop it or eat a hollow point."
He grinned, showing a mouthful of fake teeth. "You know how this ends."
Zeke stepped in front of me, blocking my line of sight. "Don’t," he said, voice thick. "This is my mess."
Jack sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger.
The sound was apocalyptic, the air splitting in half. The bullet hit Zeke square in the chest. I saw it before I heard it, the way his body bucked and twisted but stayed upright.
He stumbled forward, arms wide, and Jack shot him again, this time lower, catching him in the gut. The money bag slipped from Zeke’s hand and hit the tile with a wet thud.
I screamed. The sound ripped out of me, primal and raw. Joker was on Jack in a blink, but Jack fired again, catching her in the thigh. She went down, hissing, but managed to drag herself behind the counter.
I grabbed Zeke as he fell. He was impossibly heavy, and his blood poured over my hands, hot and sticky and real. I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t work. He looked at me, eyes already glassy, and said, "Run."
I didn’t move.
He grabbed my collar, pulled me close. "Run, goddammit."
Joker fired from the counter, bullets punching through the drywall. Jack ducked, gave up on the pistol, and sprinted for the back. I ignored him. All I could see was Zeke, bleeding out in my lap.
Glitz and Nines hustled the bags out the door, Tempest dragging Joker with one arm and covering the retreat with the other. Spade tried to pull me away, but I held tight to Zeke.
"You can’t," she said. "He’s gone."
I shook my head, sobbing. "No. No, he—"
Spade pried my fingers off his chest. "If we stay, we all die."
The last thing I saw before she yanked me out was Zeke’s face, still, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling.
The next minute was a blur of gunfire, shouts, and the thunder of bikes. I barely felt my own body as I ran, the world collapsing into flashes of light and the sound of my own heart trying to hammer through my ribs.
Aces had the bikes lined up. The duffels were loaded. Tempest slung Joker over the back of the Harley, blood running down her leg. Spade shoved me onto my own, then fired a shot into the air.
"Go!" she screamed.
I kicked the engine to life, the machine roaring under me. I followed the others, my hands numb, my arms soaked in Zeke’s blood. The money bag thumped against my hip, a cruel reminder.
As we tore out of the lot, the first police cruiser skidded into view, lights painting the world in red and blue. Aces veered left, Spade right. I followed Tempest straight down the canal path, dirt and trash exploding in our wake.
Behind us, the warehouse burned. Maybe it was the thermite, maybe it was just luck. I watched the smoke rise in the side mirror, blacker than night, and knew the whole city would see it.
We didn’t stop for miles.
When we finally pulled off the highway, out by the dry lakebed where nothing ever lived, I dropped the bike and fell to my knees. The rest of the crew watched me, silent. Nobody said a word about the money. Nobody even touched the bags.
I stared at my hands, slick with blood. The wind dried it to a sticky film, but I could still smell it—Zeke, everywhere, all over me.
Joker limped over, sat next to me, and lit a cigarette. She passed it my way, her hand shaking.
