New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

She’d given the son of a bitch her best, too. More than her best. For Christ’s sake, she’d carried that sniveling brat of a kid in her belly for nine months. For Rich.

Train it, he’d said. Train it and sell it. Plenty of men like young meat, and plenty of them paid top dollar.

But he hadn’t been the one carting that weight around. He hadn’t been the one strung out for months, because drugs were off the menu.

He hadn’t wanted the kid coming out fucked up—damaged goods didn’t rate top dollar—so who’d paid that price?

Maybe it had been useful for a while, even though it cried half the goddamn day and night. Still, marks went even softer when you added a baby to the mix.

They’d made a good living running baby scams the first couple years. But then what had she gotten out of it? A whiny brat, that’s what.

Then a bloody lip when she’d found out Rich had been skimming the take and called him on it. But she’d played it right, hadn’t she? Going along, playing the game with the bastard and the brat until she’d pocketed a cool fifty large and walked.

Run maybe, because Rich would’ve beat the shit out of her if he’d caught her. Instead, he’d been stuck with the kid, and she had the take. Lived pretty damn well off it until it had run out.

She’d loved the cocksucker once.

Not like Isaac. Everything was different with Isaac. He treated her good—like Rich had in the beginning, and a couple others along the way. He appreciated her. He’d even sent her flowers. Imagine thinking of that when he was in prison.

And he told her she was beautiful, and sexy, and smart. He made plans with her.

Maybe they didn’t tear up the sheets as often as she wanted, but he had a lot on his mind right now. And what did she care if he banged the kid she’d found for him? The kid deserved it for being stupid.

And it put him in a really good mood. After he’d finished with the brat, they’d drink his fancy wine, she’d take a couple pops, and they’d talk and talk.

Big plans, big money, and they’d pay the cop back for screwing with him in the first place. Bitch would never have gotten the drop on her if she hadn’t been lucky.

Her luck was about to run out.

It burned her ass the way the cop had talked about Isaac, how that cunt had tried to turn her against him. They had a future, and they were going to build it using the cop’s blood for glue.

Isaac would make that bitch pay double now.

She slit her eyes open. The watchdog cop sat at the door, a big, burly lump of shit, in her eyes.

Whatever they’d done with her ribs helped her head. And so did the little dose of juice they’d finally given her. Better yet, when they’d taken her down to work on her, they’d had to loosen the restraints.

She hadn’t lost her touch, she thought, running her thumb over the laser scalpel she’d palmed while faking a seizure. Smooth as the Samaritan gambit she’d worked as a kid—and the scalpel was worth a hell of a lot more than some do-gooder’s wallet.

Time to make the move, she told herself. She didn’t believe that crap the Dallas bitch had spewed about closing in on Isaac. But she had to warn him, had to get to him. And he’d take care of her.

Maybe he’d buy her flowers again. Then they’d deal with Eve Dallas.

She moaned, tossed from side to side.

“Help.” She made her voice weak, putting herself into the part.

“Settle down,” the cop suggested.

“Something’s wrong. Please, can you get the nurse? Please, I think I’m going to be sick.”

He took his time, but he stepped over, pushed the call butto

n. A few seconds later, the nurse’s face came on screen.

“Problem?”

“She says she needs a nurse. Says she feels sick.”