Page 95 of Reaper
“Exactly.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“If you’re going to be driving, yes, I fucking would.”
“No more playing around,” Tank says, as he helps Mrs. Eng toward the limo while Diesel keeps watch on our unconscious Russians. Adriana leans against me, her breathing shallow but steady. The blood has slowed, but she needs medical attention soon.
"You sure you're okay?" I ask her quietly.
"I'll live. But we need to get out of here now. If the cops pick us up and put us anywhere in jail, there’s no telling what connections Volkov has, and I am not fucking dying by shiv.”
Mayhem yanks open the driver's door and slides behind the wheel. The engine turns over with a purr that sounds almost apologetic for what we're about to put it through. Tank helps Mrs. Eng into the back while Diesel and I get Adriana settled beside her.
"Everyone in?" Mayhem calls back. “Ready for some fun?”
"Go," Tank says, slamming the door behind him.
The limo lurches forward with a grinding sound that makes my teeth ache. The flat tires thump against the asphalt in an uneven rhythm, but Mayhem keeps us moving. We wobble out of the parking lot like a wounded animal, sparks flying from the rims as they scrape concrete. I cast a look through the rear window, sighing in relief at the total absence of flashing lights.
We just might make it out of here.
There’s a click as Mayhem turns the radio on. Pop music — Adele — begins blaring from the speakers. Mrs. Eng lets out a pleased ‘ooh.’ Mayhem cackles and lets out a whoop.
"You want to know what’s a great way to come down from almost being murdered?” He says to an unwilling audience — except for Mrs. Eng. When no one answers, Mayhem turns, takes his eyes completely off the road, and stares right at Tank. “Well?”
“Don’t you fucking say it,” Tank says.
“Is it karaoke?” Mrs. Eng says.
Mayhem cranks up the radio. “Winner winner chicken dinner.”
Chapter Forty-One
Adriana
The knife wound to my torso isn’t deep, it’s clean, and looks like it’ll heal with minimal scarring, but that’s about the only good that can be said for it; a knife wound is still a knife wound, and they hurt like a bitch. And this one, every twitch, every breath — and god help me if I fucking sneeze — reminds me that a Russian knifed me in the bathroom of a dirty karaoke bar in Sacramento; I could have happily gone my entire life without having those words in my autobiography.
I just hope the damn blade wasn’t dirty. If I get infected from that knife, I will track that Russian down at the morgue and make sure he suffers in the afterlife. I won’t need to do any voodoo or witchcraft to do it, either — I’ll just record Mayhem and Mrs. Eng singing karaoke and play it on a loop next to his rotting corpse.
I lean over in my seat, an act which hurts like hell, and bring my lips to Reaper’s ear. “Can you make him stop?”
He frowns, then clears his throat before whispering in my ear. "Trust me, if I could make Mayhem stop singing, I would've done it years ago. But interrupting him mid-song is like poking a bear. A drunk bear who has more explosives on him than you would believe."
“You think he’s got explosives on him now?”
Mayhem pauses mid-note, turns, and looks me right in the eye. “Oh, I definitely have explosives on me.” His eyes go back tothe road, and he sings that old Johnny Cash lyric from ‘Folsom Prison Blues,’ “And I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.”
Which is disturbing enough as it is, and it’s even more disturbing because he’s signing it along to Britney Spears’ ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time.’
Before I can reach for the door handle and self-eject from this limo ride to hell, Mayhem swings the wheel abruptly and then slams on the brakes. Tires squeal and the wheel rims throw up a shower of sparks while Mrs. Eng claps and cheers like we’ve just stepped off a roller coaster at Disneyland.
“We’re back,” Mayhem says.
“Thank fuck,” Tank says. “I could not last another fucking second.”
Diesel murmurs something inaudible, but which has the distinct tone of a prayer meant for Satan’s ears.
