Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

“Hey, Andy,” one of the men said, “she wants you to drop the knife.”

“I'm gonna gut her like a fish,” Bender said. “I'm gonna filet her like a trout. No bitch just walks in and ruins my lunch.”

The two guys on the Olds were smiling. “Andy needs some anger management courses,” one of them said.

The T-shirt salesman was next to me. “Yeah, and he don't know much about fishing, either. That ain't no filet knife.”

I finally pried the pepper spray loose from my pocket. I shook it and aimed it at Bender.

The three men mobilized into action, slamming the trunks shut, putting some distance between us.

“Hey, you want to watch which way the wind is blowing,” one of them said. “I don't need my sinuses cleaned. And I don't want my merchandise ruined, either. I'm a businessman, you see what I'm saying? We got inventory here.”

“That stuff doesn't scare me,” Bender said, inching his way around the Caddy, waving the knife at me. “I love it. Bring it on. I've had so much pepper spray I got an addiction.”

“What you got on your wrist?” one of the men asked Bender. “Looks like you got a bracelet on. You and the old lady doing S and M shit now?”

“Those are my cuffs,” I said. “He's in violation of his bail bond agreement.”

“Hey, I know you,” one of the men said. “I remember seeing your picture in the paper. You burned down a funeral home and set your eyebrows on fire.”

“It wasn't my fault!”

They were all smiling again. “Didn't Andy go after you with a chain saw last year? And all you got now is this puny girlie-size pepper spray? Where's your gun? You're probably the only one in the whole project not got a gun.”

“Gimme the keys,” Bender said to the T-shirt guy. “I'm getting out of here. This is turning into a real downer.”

“I'm not done selling.”

“Sell some other time.”

“Shit,” the guy said, and flipped him the keys.

Bender got into the Cadillac and roared away.

“What was that?” I asked. “Why did you give him the keys?”

The T-shirt guy shrugged. “It's his car.”

“He doesn't have a car listed on his bond agreement,” I said.

“Guess of Andy don't tell everything. Anyways, it's a recent acquisition.”

Recent acquisition. Probably stole it last night along with the T-shirts.

“You sure you don't want a T-shirt? We got more in the Oldsmobile,” the guy said. He opened the trunk and took a couple shirts out. “Look at this. This here's the V-neck model. Even got some spandex in it. You'd look fine in this shirt. Show off your boobies.”

“How much?” I asked.

“How much you got?”

I shoved my hand back into my pocket and pulled out two dollars.

“This here's your lucky day,” the guy said, “on account of this shirt is on sale for two bucks.”

I gave him the two dollars, took the shirt, and trudged back to my CR-V.

There was a sleek black car parked just in front of mine. A man leaned against the car, watching me, smiling. Ranger. His black hair was pulled back from his face, tied into a ponytail. He was dressed in black cargo pants, black Bates boots, and a black T-shirt that stretched taut over muscles he'd acquired when he was in Special Forces.