Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

She stilled, her elbow angled oddly against her injured torso—a little reminder of what was in store at county. If she was lucky. After getting bandaged up—no stitches needed—by the nurse, she’d spent the night on a cot in a single cell that reeked of puke and bleach. But it was better than the morgue.

The dark tinted windows allowed more for a feeling about the outside world as opposed to visual confirmation, and she could barely make out the city as they rolled through the neighborhood. They slowed down for an intersection, but instead of stopping at the traffic light, the driver gunned it.

“Yo, Anson. We got company coming up fast.”

“Oh fuck.” The guard hit the communications mic hooked to his shoulder. “We have 8-25 on prisoner transit. Officer requesting backup immediately.”

Drea pressed her face against the window. The warmth of the sun heated the tinted barrier but didn’t shed any light on what was happening outside.

Tires screeched. The bus veered to the left and slammed to a halt. Drea sailed forward and hit the high seat in front of her hard enough to rattle her teeth.

“Stay the fuck down,” the guard yelled.

Shouting outside. Slamming of doors.

Someone yanked open the bus driver’s door and hauled him out into the street by the shirt.

A second later a masked gunman in full body armor jumped into the seat and leveled a sawed off shotgun at the guard. “Anybody here worth your wife getting a flag at your funeral, fella?”

Without a word, the guard raised both hands in the air.

The gunman tapped the mic on his vest. “Go time.”

Someone pounded against the bus’s emergency exit.

The sound vibrated in Drea’s bones. She had nowhere to go. This was it. She’d be dead as soon as the door opened.

“Looks like your date is here, bitch.” A woman sitting a row up smiled and showed off teeth ravaged by meth. “Tell Tommy I said hi.”

The door swung open, and she squinted her eyes against the bright light flooding in. All she could pick out was a man with a gun outlined by the morning sun.

She blinked.

The man came into focus. Cam.

“Come on, babe. We gotta go.”

…

It killed Cam to see her hesitate in her seat.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice shook. “You can’t do this. You’ll go to jail—”

“It won’t be the first time.” He strolled up the aisle to her. With Lee in the driver’s seat and Roscoe acting as lookout, nothing unexpected would happen. “And it would be totally worth it. If it happened, but it won’t.”

He took her cuffed wrists in one hand and worked his lock pick with the other. The handcuffs around her wrists released, and he dropped the metal to the seat.

She rubbed her wrists. Her eyes never left Cam’s face. “This is nuts.”

“So I’ve been told.” He hustled her out of the bus and into his SUV. “But let’s chat out the details later. We’ve got to get to Fergus before Diamond Tommy does.”

They peeled away from the bus with its sliced tires. Police sirens wailed in the distance, closing fast.

“What happens back there?” She sat stiff, not looking at him, with her arms wrapped tightly around her body.

He checked the rearview mirror. Maltese Security’s newest agents were still on target at the bus. “Lee and Roscoe hang around until the cops get close to make sure the prisoners stay put, and then they get the hell out of there. Ryder’s manning the traffic cams and will give them the signal to blaze.”

The stolen SUV’s tires squealed as he made the sharp turn off Eightieth Street onto Evanston Avenue and floored it. They’d gotten this far, but they weren’t scot-free yet. That wouldn’t happen until they got Fergus to sing.