Simple enough, Rusty thought. He’d go down the short hallway between the kitchen and the front door, re-enter the living room at the other end of the couch, behind the guy’s head, and slide the bag out that way. Once he got his fingers on the bag, if worse came to worst, he could just grab it and run, back into the kitchen and out of the house the way he’d gotten in. The big guy wouldn’t stand a chance, blundering around in a strange house in total darkness, and he’d be lucky not to run straight into a wall. Rusty would be off, across the basement, out through the storm doors, and into the street before the guy knew what had happened.
The only remaining hitch, of course, was if the bag did not contain cash after all but, instead, the Irish prick’s dirty underwear. Rusty had considered and dismissed that—who goes into somebody’s house and puts a bag of dirty laundry in the middle of their coffee table?
No. Thom, that smug, entitled asshole, had sent Aubrey a bag of cash to have during the blackout, and he’d sent Paddy McDaniel here to keep an eye on it.
But now the big Mick was asleep, Rusty was wide awake and sober, and this shit was about to get handled.
Rusty moved silently down the hallway between the kitchen and front door. It seemed to take forever. Finally, he reached the other end of the living room, the one nearest the front door. He moved slowly, coming around the pillar to where he could see into the room. From this side, he’d be looking over the big guy’s head from behind him, and it was just a matter of stealing in, grabbing the bag, and getting the hell out of there.
Except the couch was empty now.
The blanket had been tossed to the side, the pillow had a big melon-size dent in it, and the fucking guy was gone.
Rusty stopped, staring for a moment, trying to wrap his head around it, and then heard the click of the gun behind him.
He tried to gasp, but no air came out of his chest. He felt the hard nub of the M&P Scandium, Brady’s spare gun, pressing into the base of his skull.
How the hell did he do that? The guy was ten feet tall and a thousand pounds—how did he manage to get up, slip into the kitchen, and sneak up behind Rusty without being heard? What kind of scumbag does that to a person?
“Raise your arms slowly,” Brady said in a quiet voice.
Damn, it was worse than Rusty had even thought, the guy sounded awake. Like, not only was he not surprised; he wasn’t even asleep. Rusty had been screwed from the moment he walked into the house; he just hadn’t known it. He did as he was told, raising his arms ’til his hands were even with his shoulders. He looked down and could see the guy’s feet behind him. Fucker even had his shoes on.
“Slide your feet forward on the floor, left foot first,” Brady whispered.
“Where are we going?” Rusty asked, a bit louder.
“Outside. For a chat. Do not make a sound.”
Rusty froze, trying to think.
“Move,” Brady said, lifting the barrel of the gun from the back of Rusty’s head and tapping it down on the crown of his skull, hard enough to hurt.
Rusty whimpered and moved. He had no plan whatsoever. All the cards were face-up now, and he was looking at garbage, a 2-7 off suit. He’d lost, again, cleaned out, no shot at all. He did as he was told.
When they reached the front door, Brady told him, in that same soft, commanding voice, to unlock and open it. Rusty did. Brady told him to open the screen no more than two feet. Rusty did. Together, they stepped outside, Rusty still with his hands up, staring straight ahead, mindlessly following orders. A beaten dog, once again.
As they stepped outside, he heard the front door close behind them with a click, then the same for the screen. The gun barrel tapped him on the top of his skull again and he winced.
“Could you please fucking stop that?” he said, but he kept moving, no choice but to follow orders at this point. How could he possibly have gone as far as he did with a ridiculously simplistic plan like this? So he was broke, so what? So he owed money and Zielinski might yank one of his teeth, who gives a shit? He had other teeth. Why in Christ’s name did he risk everything like this?
“Stop on the grass,” Brady said.
Rusty did.
“OK,” the big guy told him. “Now we are going to discuss how you will never, ever return to this house. Take a step away from me and turn around, slowly.”
It was when Rusty started to take an obedient step forward that he saw the lights flash at the corner. It was a sedan, barreling down the cross street at at least sixty miles per hour, with the strobing red lights of a police car just behind it. The fleeing car banged hard on a pothole in the middle of the intersection, scraping and sending sparks flying in all directions.