streaming down her flushed cheeks, she nodded.
“Awesome. Sit tight.” Nash bolted into the hall, but then slowed, not wanting to tip Mildred and Harvey off to the fact that they were in on their twisted con.
Nash was all manner of pissed—not only with himself, but them. How much was the bounty Vicente had placed on their heads?
He didn’t have a long wait to find out. At the end of the hall, he overheard them softy talking.
“Fifty. Thousand. Dollars.” Mildred giggled. The tone creeped Nash the hell out. “Can you imagine? Of course, we want to put in the pool, but do you think we could manage a new boat, too?”
“I don’t see why not? At least one that’ll be new to us,” Harvey added with his usual chuckle.
The greedy duo turned Nash’s stomach.
As did the thought that while poor Maisey was in pain, they were counting the coins they stood to make from her suffering—not that they were responsible for her labor pains, but they sure as hell would be for whatever twisted scenario Vicente would subject her to.
A right turn veered Nash toward a homey living room.
Sofa. Two chairs. TV.
Since he couldn’t pop off Santa and Mrs. Claus, he at least needed something to restrain the soon to be not-so-happy couple. Eyeing multiple electronics’ cords tangled behind the TV, Nash used his favorite knife to slice clean through from the backs of a VCR, DVD, sound bar, and the TV. Once they’d all been cut from the respective sources, he yanked them from a power strip.
Hearing Maisey moan from the bedroom propelled Nash forward at an ever-increasing speed. If Mildred and Harvey’s road was anything like most of the others around here, there were dozens of isolated off-shoots where he could hide the truck he’d soon borrow from their hosts long enough for Maisey to have her baby, then rocket her to a Miami hospital. Honestly, he feared they’d need to go that far to escape Vicente’s apparently considerable influence.
While Mildred and Harvey chatted about going on a nice, long Caribbean cruise, Nash shredded a pink-striped throw pillow into strips long enough to serve as excellent gags.
He stowed his knife, then slipped the cords through belt loops and shoved the rags into his front pocket. He crept behind Harvey—still out of view from his wife—mentally preparing himself for taking down the senior citizen who probably had been a decent guy until being faced with a moral decision in which the prospect of easy, tax-free cash had won out over following the Golden Rule.
Lightning fast, Nash reached his forearm around Harvey’s neck, squeezing him in a rear naked choke that in ten seconds temporarily cut off blood flow from the carotid arteries to the brain.
While Harvey slumped lifeless in his chair, Mildred screamed.
“You killed him!” she said on the heels of a wail. “After all we did for you and your hussy, you killed him!”
“He’ll come out of this fine. You, on the other hand . . .” While restraining Harvey to his kitchen table chair, then gagging him, Nash gave her the special smile he usually reserved for Al Qaeda.
“Oh, God . . .” She shrunk against the kitchen counter. “Please, don’t kill me! We have a daughter in Boca!”
“Lady, you’ve got about three seconds to tell me how long it’ll be before Vicente or one of his men show up.”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gripped the yellow laminate counter so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Lie.” Nash stepped toward her, holding out the cords.
“He came by this morning—said a man kidnapped his poor, pregnant wife. Well, me and Harvey have heard enough gossip over the years to know Vicente’s no saint, but he gives a lot of money to the community and keeps mostly to himself and never did hurt anyone, so—”
Nash snapped the cords. “Skip to the highlight reel. How long till he shows up?”
She gulped, then darted her gaze to a digital clock built into the back of the stove. “I’m
“Awesome. Sit tight.” Nash bolted into the hall, but then slowed, not wanting to tip Mildred and Harvey off to the fact that they were in on their twisted con.
Nash was all manner of pissed—not only with himself, but them. How much was the bounty Vicente had placed on their heads?
He didn’t have a long wait to find out. At the end of the hall, he overheard them softy talking.
“Fifty. Thousand. Dollars.” Mildred giggled. The tone creeped Nash the hell out. “Can you imagine? Of course, we want to put in the pool, but do you think we could manage a new boat, too?”
“I don’t see why not? At least one that’ll be new to us,” Harvey added with his usual chuckle.
The greedy duo turned Nash’s stomach.
As did the thought that while poor Maisey was in pain, they were counting the coins they stood to make from her suffering—not that they were responsible for her labor pains, but they sure as hell would be for whatever twisted scenario Vicente would subject her to.
A right turn veered Nash toward a homey living room.
Sofa. Two chairs. TV.
Since he couldn’t pop off Santa and Mrs. Claus, he at least needed something to restrain the soon to be not-so-happy couple. Eyeing multiple electronics’ cords tangled behind the TV, Nash used his favorite knife to slice clean through from the backs of a VCR, DVD, sound bar, and the TV. Once they’d all been cut from the respective sources, he yanked them from a power strip.
Hearing Maisey moan from the bedroom propelled Nash forward at an ever-increasing speed. If Mildred and Harvey’s road was anything like most of the others around here, there were dozens of isolated off-shoots where he could hide the truck he’d soon borrow from their hosts long enough for Maisey to have her baby, then rocket her to a Miami hospital. Honestly, he feared they’d need to go that far to escape Vicente’s apparently considerable influence.
While Mildred and Harvey chatted about going on a nice, long Caribbean cruise, Nash shredded a pink-striped throw pillow into strips long enough to serve as excellent gags.
He stowed his knife, then slipped the cords through belt loops and shoved the rags into his front pocket. He crept behind Harvey—still out of view from his wife—mentally preparing himself for taking down the senior citizen who probably had been a decent guy until being faced with a moral decision in which the prospect of easy, tax-free cash had won out over following the Golden Rule.
Lightning fast, Nash reached his forearm around Harvey’s neck, squeezing him in a rear naked choke that in ten seconds temporarily cut off blood flow from the carotid arteries to the brain.
While Harvey slumped lifeless in his chair, Mildred screamed.
“You killed him!” she said on the heels of a wail. “After all we did for you and your hussy, you killed him!”
“He’ll come out of this fine. You, on the other hand . . .” While restraining Harvey to his kitchen table chair, then gagging him, Nash gave her the special smile he usually reserved for Al Qaeda.
“Oh, God . . .” She shrunk against the kitchen counter. “Please, don’t kill me! We have a daughter in Boca!”
“Lady, you’ve got about three seconds to tell me how long it’ll be before Vicente or one of his men show up.”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gripped the yellow laminate counter so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Lie.” Nash stepped toward her, holding out the cords.
“He came by this morning—said a man kidnapped his poor, pregnant wife. Well, me and Harvey have heard enough gossip over the years to know Vicente’s no saint, but he gives a lot of money to the community and keeps mostly to himself and never did hurt anyone, so—”
Nash snapped the cords. “Skip to the highlight reel. How long till he shows up?”
She gulped, then darted her gaze to a digital clock built into the back of the stove. “I’m
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