The Retirement Plan

Chapter 30

Click. Elana squeezed the trigger again. Click.

Click.

Click.

A few feet away, DeShawn stood watching her, cornrows tight, grin loose. "Baby, that gun's as empty as your heart." Elana repeatedly pulled the trigger, to no avail. "Word to the wise, you decide to hold a clandestine meeting in your house, make damn sure no-one's home."

Eyes blazing, pistol not, Elana stared at DeShawn, fury clouding her judgment.

"I emptied the clip last night when you were deep in a Valium dream," DeShawn said. "Figured you might not be keen on leaving breathing witnesses."

Reggie pushed himself upright using the bonnet as leverage. "If you emptied the clip, you mind telling me how I got this great big hole in me?"

DeShawn looked over, sheepishly. "Forgot about the one in the chamber."

"Ricky," Reggie said, voice straining. "Shoot this dumb asshole."

Ricky, bending down to pick up his piece, said: "Soon as I'm done killing this crazy bitch." Moving far faster than a man of his girth had any right to, DeShawn was on top of Ricky. Had his semiautomatic poking Ricky's ear before the other man's fingers were in touching distance of the Sig on the ground. "Don't make me get stupid, boy."

Ricky raised his head enough to catch sight of Elana's shapely pins disappearing behind the frame of the Jag. He inched his fingers closer to the platinum grip of the P226, gleaming against the sandy dirt.

"Temptation kill a man quicker'n any disease," DeShawn said, pressing the cold muzzle hard against Ricky's soft lobe.

"That's our money," Ricky said, spittle flying from his lips.

The Jag door slammed shut.

"Wrong, son. That's mister Diamonds paper."

A motor started up.

"Something tells me she ain't planning on returning it to him," Ricky said, straightening up slowly.

"Do you believe in karma?" DeShawn said.

Clutching his shoulder, Reggie said, "Karma? Motherfucker, if somebody don't get me to a damn hospital soon, I'mma come back as a dog, and take a steaming dump on all y'alls graves."

At the same time as Reggie was cursing out his companions, Leland was driving down a country road two miles away. He clocked the dilapidated farmhouse, red-tiled roof half caved in, looming over the overgrown hedgerow to his left. He took his foot off the gas, let the speed drop to thirty. His thick hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckling. Grindhouse-style revenge fantasies playing in the theater of his mind.

He had to check himself, keep his focus on the road.

If the directions Elana had given him were correct, he should see an old corrugated tin barn soon.

Leland spotted the rusted arched structure with its loose, broken sheets. Why hadn't those knuckleheads thought to leave Vic there? By the looks of it, the place had not seen a human being in many years.

Leland pulled in, got out of the car. Followed the hedgerow, on foot, until he found the gap opening on to the trail. Tire tracks were visible in the dried-up mud, thin, made by a dirt bike. He imagined the local teens came up to here to race in the hills. The nearest village was a couple of miles from here. He had counted three pubs, a bank, and a church as he drove through it. The kind of small-town he and Margery had envisioned settling down in back in the States. Somewhere they could raise their daughter in, away from the hotbed of drugs and temptation that is urban life.