Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum 3)

I grabbed the leftovers bag and ran for the door, snagging my coat from the hall closet. “I swear I'm not doing anything dangerous,” I said. “I'll be perfectly safe.”

I let myself out and quickly walked to the Buick. I looked back just before sliding behind the wheel. My mother and grandmother were standing in the doorway, hands clasped in front, faces stern. Not convinced of my safety. My father stood behind them, peering over my grandmother's head.

“The car looks pretty good,” he said. “How's it running? You giving it high-test? You got any pings?”

“No pings,” I called back.

And then I was gone. On my way to Mo's store. Telling myself I was going to be smarter this time. I wasn't going to get knocked out, and I wasn't going to get faked out. I wasn't going to let Mo get the best of me with pepper spray. As soon as I saw him I was going to give him a snootful of the stuff. No questions asked.

I parked across the street from the store and stared into the black plate-glass window. No light. No activity. No light on in the second-floor apartment. I pulled out and circled surrounding blocks, looking for Ranger's BMW. I tried the alley behind the store and checked the garage. No car. I returned to Ferris. Still no sign of life in the store. I parked a block away on King. Maybe I should try Ranger again. I reached over for my pocketbook. No pocketbook. I closed my eyes in disbelief. In my haste to get away without my father, I'd left my pocketbook behind. No big deal. I'd go back and get it.

I put the car into gear and pulled onto Ferris. I glanced into the store windows one last time as I did a slow driveby. I saw a shadow move to the rear of the store.

Damn!

I angled the Buick into the curb two houses down and jumped out. I'd like the luxury of having a bag full of bounty hunter loot, like pepper spray and handcuffs, but I wasn't willing to risk losing the opportunity for it. I didn't really want to spray Mo anyway. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to reason with him. Get some answers. Get him to come back into the system without hurting him.

Stephanie Plum, master of rationalization. Believe whatever the moment calls for.

I jogged to a dark spot across from the store and watched for more movement. My heart gave a lurch when a light flickered briefly. Someone had used a penlight and immediately extinguished it. The information on my answering machine had been right. Mo was in the store.

Stephanie Plum 3 - Three To Get Deadly

10

I sprinted across the street and sought cover in the shadows to the side of the store. I hugged the brick wall, creeping back toward the rear exit, thinking I might barricade the door. I'd stand a better chance of capturing Mo if he had just one avenue of escape.

I took a deep breath and peeked around the building corner. The back door to the store was wide open. I didn't think this was a good sign. Mo wouldn't have left the door open if he was in the store. I feared history had repeated itself, and Mo had flown the coop.

I inched my way to the door and stood there listening. Hard to hear over the pounding of my heart but no footfalls carried to me from the neighborhood. No car engines being started. No doors slamming shut.

I did another deep breath and poked my head into the gaping doorway, squinting into the dark hall that led to the counter area.

I heard the scrape of a shoe from deep inside the store and almost passed out from adrenaline rush. My first instinct was to run away. My second instinct was to shout for help. I didn't follow either of these instincts because the cold barrel of a gun was pressed to my ear.

“Be nice and quiet and walk into the store.”

It was the wiry little guy who'd tried to give me money. I couldn't see him, but I recognized the voice. Low and raspy. A smoker's voice. North Jersey accent. Newark, Jersey City, Elizabeth.

“No,” I said. “I'm not going into the store.”

“I need some help here,” the guy with the gun said. “We need to persuade Miss Plum to cooperate.”

A second man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing the requisite ski mask and coveralls. He was taller and heavier. He was shaking a canister of pepper spray. Showing me he knew to make sure the gas is live.

I opened my mouth to scream and was hit with the spray. I felt it suck back to my throat and burn, felt my throat close over. I went down hard to my knees and choked, unable to see, closing my eyes tight to the searing pain, blinded by the spray.

Hands grabbed at me, digging into my jacket, dragging me forward over the doorstep, down the hall. I was thrown to the linoleum at the back of the store, knocking into a teary blur of wall and booth, still unable to catch my breath.

The hands were at me again, wrenching my jacket over my shoulders to form a makeshift straitjacket, binding my arms behind my back and tearing my shirt in the process. I gasped for air and tried to control the fear, tried to ignore the manhandling while I fought the pepper spray. It'll pass, I told myself. You've seen people sprayed before. It passes. Don't panic.

They moved off. Waiting for me to come around. I blinked to see. Three large shapes in the dark. I assumed they were men in ski masks and coveralls.

One of them flashed a penlight in my eyes. “Bet you're not feeling so brave anymore,” he said.

I adjusted my jacket and tried to stand but wasn't able to get farther than hands and knees. My nose was running, dripping onto the floor, mixing with drool and tears. My breathing was still shallow, but the earlier panic had passed.

“What's it take?” Jersey City asked me. “We tried to warn you away. We tried to compensate you. Nothing works with you. We're out here trying to do a good deed, and you're being a real pain in the behind.”