I still had my pocketbook on my shoulder. I ran a shaky hand over the outside, feeling for my .38.
The gunman stepped forward and ripped the bag off my shoulder. “Forget it.”
Rex was in his cage on the coffee table. He'd been running on his wheel when we'd come into the room. When the lights flashed on, Rex had paused, whiskers whirring, eyes wide with the expectation of food and attention. After a few moments he'd resumed his running.
The man with the syringe flipped the lid off Rex's cage, reached in and scooped Rex up in his free hand. “Now we get to begin the demonstration.”
My heart gave a painful contraction. “Put him back,” I said. “He doesn't like strangers.”
“We know a lot about you,” the man said. “We know you like this hamster. We figure he's like family to you. Now suppose this hamster was a kid. And suppose you thought you were doing all the right things, like feeding that kid good food and helping with his homework and raising him in a neighborhood with a good school. And then somehow, in spite of everything you did, that kid got started experimenting with drugs. How would you feel? Wouldn't you feel like going after the people who were giving him the drugs? And suppose your kid was sold some bad stuff. And your kid died of an overdose. Wouldn't you want to go out there and kill the drug dealer who killed your kid?”
“I'd want him brought to justice.”
“The hell you would. You'd want to kill him.”
“Are you speaking from personal experience?”
The man with the syringe paused and stared at me. I could see his eyes behind the ski mask, and I guessed my question had hit home.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“Then you understand why we have to do this. It's essential that our work isn't jeopardized. And it's essential that you understand our commitment. We'd prefer not to kill you. We're fair and reasonable people. We have ethics. So, pay attention. This is the last warning. This time we kill the hamster. Next time we kill you.”
I felt tears starting behind my eyes. “How can you justify killing an innocent animal?”
“It's a lesson. You ever see anyone die from an overdose? It's not a nice way to go. And it's what's going to happen to you if you don't take a vacation.”
Rex's eyes were black and shiny, his whiskers a blur of motion, his little feet treading air, his body squirmy. Not enjoying his confinement.
“Say good-bye,” the man with the syringe said. “I'm going to shoot this directly into his heart.”
There's a limit to how far a woman can be pushed. I'd been gassed, attacked, stalked by masked men, lied to by Morelli and I'd been swindled by my mechanic. And I'd stayed pretty damn calm through it all. Threatening my hamster brought out a whole new set of rules. Threatening my hamster made me Godzilla. I had no intention of saying goodbye to my hamster.
I blinked back the threat of tears, swiped at my nose and narrowed my eyes. “Listen to me, you two bags of monkey shit,” I yelled. “I am not in a good mood. My car keeps stalling. The day before yesterday I threw up on Joe Morelli. I was called a fat cow by my ex-husband. And if that isn't enough . . . my hair is ORANGE! ORANGE, FOR CHRISSAKE! And now you have the gall to force yourself into my home and threaten my hamster. Well, you have gone too far. You have crossed the line.”
I was shouting and waving my arms, totally out of control. And while I was out of control I was watching Rex, because I knew what would happen if he was held long enough. And when it happened I was going to act.
“So if you want to scare someone, you picked the wrong person,” I shrieked. “And don't think I'm going to allow you to harm one hair on that hamster's head!”
And then Rex did what any sensible pissed-off hamster would do. He sank his fangs into his captor's thumb.
The man gave a yelp and opened his fist. Rex dropped onto the floor with a thunk and scurried under the couch. And the guy with the gun swung his weapon in Rex's direction and fired off several rounds reflexively.
I grabbed the table lamp to my right and, keeping the momentum going, smashed the lamp against the gunman's head. The man went down like a bag of sand, and I took off for the door.
I had one foot in the hall when I was grabbed from behind and yanked back into the apartment by the man wielding the syringe. I kicked and clawed at him, the two of us wrestling for our lives in front of the door. My foot connected with his crotch and there was a heart-stopping moment of immobility where I saw his eyes widen in pain, and I thought he might shoot me, or stick me or smack me senseless. But then he doubled over and tried to suck air, inadvertently backing out the door, into the hall.
The elevator door opened, and Mrs. Bestler jumped out with her walker. Clomp, clomp, clomp with lightning speed, she stomped down the hall and rammed the man, knocking him to his knees.
Mrs. Karwatt's door crashed open, and Mrs. Karwatt trained her .45 on the man on the floor. “What's going on? What did I miss?”
Mr. Kleinschmidt came shuffling down the hall carrying an M-16. “I heard a gunshot.”
Mrs. Delgado was right behind Mr. Kleinschmidt. Mrs. Delgado had a cleaver and a blue steel Glock with “sidekick” rubber grips.
Mrs. Karwatt looked at Mrs. Delgado's gun. “Loretta,” she said, “you got a new gun.”
“Birthday present,” Mrs. Delgado said proudly. “My daughter Jean Ann gave it to me. Forty caliber, just like the cops use. More stopping power.”