Page 14 of Puck
“Well fuck,” I growled, clamping the cigar between my molars, “that complicates things somewhat.”
Just then we heard two shots close together—BANGBANG!—and then a brief pause, and two more quick shots—BANGBANG!
“Shit,” I growled. “That’s probably Layla having fun without me.”
I took off like a rocket toward the alley’s mouth, skidding to a halt as I hit the road. Glancing to my right, I discovered Layla standing beside a nondescript white panel van. A man’s body was on the ground at her feet, his lower half still partially inside the passenger seat of the van. As I arrived, she was hauling him out and dragging him toward the alley. I jogged toward her and grabbed the dead guy’s leg, and we carried him into the alley and deposited him behind a dumpster.
“Thanks,” Layla said. “Found these assholes watching the alley.” She gestured at the van. “Still gotta get rid of the driver.”
Layla had been smart about the way she’d taken the two guys out. One in the passenger seat, one in the driver’s seat—she’d taken out the passenger first, so the blood spray and mess hit the driver rather than bathing the whole interior of the van, and then she’d shot the driver second, so the mess from him went mostly out the open window. A car passed, slowed down, the occupants rubbernecking as they sidled past, eyeing the van and the blood on the sidewalk and the obviously dead dude in the driver’s seat. They took one look at me and my handgun and Layla and her weapon, both right out in the open, and the driver floored it, tires barking as they peeled out and vanished down the road.
Layla and I hauled the second corpse into the alley and tossed him on top of the other one, behind the dumpster and out of immediate view from the main road.
Layla indicated the van. “Figured the van might be a good way to move around less conspicuously,” she said.
“Good thinking.” I hopped behind the wheel and started the engine. We drove the short distance to our hideout, and I pulled into the alley.
Layla hopped out and opened the rear doors to hustle in the crowd of uneasy, bored, and scared women, making sure Lola, Kyrie, Temple, and Colbie were nearest the front. Once everyone was loaded into the open space—squashed and crowded and uncomfortable, by the looks of it, but out of view, I pulled away from the alley, where we’d been sitting for too long anyway. Not having any idea where to go, I just kind of drove at random while Colbie fiddled with the phone, setting it up.
Finally, she handed it to me. “It’s ready. Call whoever you have to call.”
One of the few advantages of not being reliant on a cell phone is that I still memorize phone numbers; I dialed Harris. It rang exactly twice before he answered.
“Puck. Thank fuck.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and glared at it. “How the hell’d you know it was me?”
“Because there are exactly eight people on the planet who have this phone number: Roth, Kyrie, Layla, Duke, Thresh, Anselm, Lear . . . and you.” He paused, and I heard a number of familiar voices in the background. “All of those people are currently sitting around me except Kyrie, Layla, and you, and Cain’s soon-to-be-dead fuckers have the girls, so I assumed it was you.”
“Well, boss, I got good news and I got bad news.”
“Hit me,” Harris said.
I held out the phone toward Kyrie and Layla. “Say hi to Harris, girls.”
Layla took the phone from me. “BABY!” she shrieked. “I swear to Christ, Nicholas Harris, if you don’t get your ass over here and take me home, I won’t suck your cock for an entire month . . . yes, I’m fine, they barely touched me . . . I think Puck said Kiev . . . I love you too, Nicky baby. Okay, yeah—Valentine, hi—okay, yeah. Here she is.”
Kyrie took the phone from Layla. “Hey, honey. I’m fine too.” She sniffled hard. “How’s—how’s my baby girl? Sasha and Alexei are both with her? Good. No, they just . . . it happened so fast, I couldn’t do anything. You know I like you to stay out of things, but this time, honey, I think you need to get personally involved. Whoever this Cain asshole is, he needs to pay. My daughter saw me getkidnapped.” Kyrie’s voice, normally warm and even and soft, went hard and cold and sharp as a razor. “Hepays, Valentine.”
She handed the phone off to me, and I took it. “Mr. Roth?” I asked.
I heard his distinct voice on the other side, vaguely English, deep, smooth, cultured. “Mr. Lawson. You have the situation in hand, I hope?”
“Getting there, sir. You have my personal guarantee of Kyrie’s safety, that much I can say.”
“What will you need?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, sir, the situation is a little complicated, tactically speaking. It’s not just Kyrie and Layla—”
“Miss Kennedy and Dr. Reed,” he cut in, “yes, I’ve been informed.”
“Right, but there’s more.”
“More what, Mr. Lawson?”
“People, sir. Women.”
A significant, pregnant pause. “Explain, please.” There was a muffled sound, and then his voice more distant. “You’re on speakerphone, Mr. Lawson.”