Stillwell was glancing all around, as if he expected to see a SWAT team, weapons drawn, leap from behind the trunks of the surrounding trees. As if he expected a setup.
Not as dumb as he looked.
“You got our money?” Stillwell asked, his gaze returning to the woman.
“All right here.” She held up a black bag that had been resting on the passenger seat. “Load the gear in back.” Up the window went.
Boxer slipped his gun into the pocket, then helped Ronny haul the heavy cases of weaponry, Paul Latham’s collection of pistols, knives, and larger guns that had been disassembled and neatly packed in the cases they’d found in that mother of a gun closet the doc had kept. Like a damned museum for his arsenal. The weapons displayed in cases with lights as if they were pieces of fucking art.
Paul Latham . . . Doctor Paul Latham had been one weird dude.
“Give a hand, will ya?” Ronny grunted, and Boxer realized he’d been daydreaming. Getting ahead of himself. Here in the damned forest. When there were still serious last details to wrap up. He hauled the last of the gun cases from the truck and crammed them into the cargo space of the Wrangler.
So they could get paid.
Finally.
And his share had just grown over the past few hours.
The deal they had struck was that she would take care of the stolen items, pawn them, private sale the guns, whatever. And they would get their hundred thousand each for the murders and the robbery. Boxer would even get a little bonus. Twenty-five grand. For taking care of Ronny. And, of course, Stillwell’s share. All in all, he was going to leave this forest a rich man tonight and Canada was only a few hours north.
He grinned despite the fact that it was cold as a mother out here. His breath steamed and his flesh was tight where it was exposed to a brisk wind that rattled the limbs of the surrounding trees and froze Boxer’s nose and cheeks. Once they’d loaded the stolen guns, they walked to the driver’s side of the Jeep.
Again the window slid down.
“Okay. You got it all. Now we need to get paid. Let’s get this over with.” Ronny paused to light a cigarette, bending his head over his lighter, inhaling deeply.
“Yes, let’s,” she said, turning away toward the bag on the passenger seat. “Now.”
Boxer raised his pistol.
Before Stillwell straightened or knew what was happening, Boxer placed the barrel against the taller man’s temple and squeezed.
Blam!
The blast was loud. Echoed off the surrounding hills.
Stillwell’s body jerked wildly.
Blood spurted.
His lighter flew from his hand.
His lit cigarette fell to the ground, sizzled out.
He weaved a split second before his legs gave out and he fell to one side, landing with a quick whumph on the ground.
Boxer watched him fall and felt just a bit of remorse for the man.
Ronny Stillwell had never really been much of a friend, but, still, they’d drunk pints together, talked sports, and shot the shit. He wasn’t a bad guy, just a . . . problem.
If only he’d been able to stay focused and keep his damned mouth shut.
“I get his share,” Boxer reminded her, turning and seeing the barrel of her own gun raised, pointed straight at his chest.
“Not this time.”
What?