Four to Score (Stephanie Plum 4)

“Well, I don't know exactly. Wherever you go when you're dead. Climb into the Dumpster so I can shoot you.”

“What are you nuts? I'm not climbing into the Dumpster. That thing is disgusting.”

“Okay, fine, then I'll just shoot you here.” He pulled the trigger and click.

No bullet in the chamber. Standard safety procedure.

“Darn,” he said. “I can't do anything right.”

“You ever shoot a gun before?”

“No. But it didn't seem like it'd be all that complicated.” He looked at the gun. “Ah, I see the problem. The guy I borrowed the gun from left one of the bullets out.”

He sighted the gun at me, and before he had time to pull the trigger, I jumped behind one of the Dumpsters. Bang, zing. A bullet hit the Dumpster. Bang, zing again. We were both so panicked we were acting unreasonably. I was running between Dumpsters like a tin duck in a shooting gallery, and Sugar was firing at shadows.

He got off five rounds, and then there was the telltale click again. He was out of bullets. I peeked out from my hiding place.

“Shit,” he said. “I'm such a loser I can't even shoot somebody. Damn.” He plunged his hand into his red purse and came out with a knife.

He was between me and the back door. My only real option was to run like hell around the building or across the grass to the seniors' building. He looked more athletic than me, but he was in heels and a skirt, and I was wearing shorts and sneakers.

“I'm not giving up,” he said. “I'll do it with my bare hands if I have to. I'll rip your heart out!”

I didn't like the sound of that, so I took off across the grass for all I was worth, running full out for the seniors' building. I'd been in

the building before. There was always a guard at the door at this time of the night. The front of the building was well lit. There were two double glass doors, and then the guard. Beyond the guard was a lobby where the old folks sat.

I could hear Sugar laboring behind me, breathing heavily and shrieking for me to stop so he could kill me.

I barreled through the doors and hollered for the guard, but no guard came running. I looked over my shoulder and saw the knife arc down at me. I spun to the side, and the knife blade sliced through the sleeve of my Rangers jersey.

The lobby couches were filled with seniors.

“Help!” I yelled. “Call the police! Get the guard!”

“No guard,” one woman explained. “Budget cuts.”

Sugar lunged again.

I jumped away, grabbed a cane from an old geezer and started slashing at Sugar.

I'm one of those people who imagine themselves acting heroically at disasters. Saving children from school buses dangling precipitously from bridges. Performing first aid at car wrecks. Rescuing people from burning buildings. The truth is, I totally lose my cool in an emergency, and if things turn out okay, it's through no effort of mine.

I was blindly slashing at Sugar. My nose was running and I was making animal sounds, and by sheer accident I connected with the knife and sent it sailing through the air.

“You bitch!” Sugar shrieked. “I hate you! I hate you!” He hurled himself at me, and we went down to the ground.

“In my day, you'd never see two women fighting like that,” one of the seniors said. “It's all of that violence on television. That's what does it.”

I was rolling around with Sugar, and I was shouting “Call the police, call the police.” Sugar grabbed me by my hair and yanked, and when I jerked back I caught him with my knee and pushed his gonads a good six inches into his body. He rolled off me into a fetal position and threw up.

I flopped over onto my back and look up at Ranger.

Ranger was grinning again. “Need any help?”

“Did I wet my pants?”

“No sign of it.”