Jennifer Estep: Deadly Sting

Maybe it was wrong, but I didn’t feel bad about plotting Delov’s death. Not bad at all. I knew exactly what kind of scum he was. The giant sold drugs, which was sleazy enough, but he specialized in getting kids hooked on the stuff. He had a whole network of dealers whose sole job was to push his product to the local middle and high schools. A few weeks ago, a thirteen-year-old girl had died after getting a bad batch of Delov’s drugs, and her nine-year-old sister had also gotten sick and almost perished. The girls’ parents had somehow reached out to Fletcher, and now here we were, about to get payback for the dead girl, her sick sister, and her grieving parents—permanently.

Fletcher gave me a hand signal. I nodded, understanding that I was to hold my position in the hallway and watch our backs, just in case there was anyone in the mansion who wasn’t supposed to be there. Fletcher palmed one of the silverstone knives he carried for jobs like these, slid into the kitchen, and crept closer to Delov.

I was so busy studying Fletcher that the faint click-click-click of toenails on the hardwood floor behind me didn’t register for a few precious seconds. When it finally did, I froze for a moment, then slowly turned my head to the side and looked down.

A fat, fluffy Pomeranian with golden fur sniffed my left boot like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

I bit back a curse. We hadn’t seen Peaches while we’d been skulking through the mansion, and I’d thought he must have curled up on another floor and gone to sleep for the night. I liked dogs, really I did, but they’d screwed up more than a few jobs Fletcher had taken me on. Still, I couldn’t kill the curious fluffball. Peaches was innocent, even if his owner wasn’t. No pets, no kids—ever. That was the code Fletcher had taught me and I was determined to live by it.

I eased down to my knees and held out my hand, hoping that would distract the dog long enough for Fletcher to kill Delov. He was only about fifteen feet away from the giant now and closing fast. Ten more seconds, and he’d be in range. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

Peaches sniffed my fingers and gave them a tentative lick. And then he started barking—loud, yippy, there’s-someone-new-new-new-in-the-house barks.

Oh, no.

Delov immediately whirled around at the sounds. Clutching the butcher’s knife he’d been slicing cheese and cold cuts with, he slashed out at Fletcher with it. Fletcher managed to jump out of the way, but Delov came at him with the knife again. Back and forth, the two men fought through the kitchen, knocking over dishes, silverware, and plates of food. I winced at all the noise they made. Good thing the guards were away for the night, or we would have been well and truly screwed. Beside me, Peaches kept barking and barking, but he seemed smart enough to know he would get stepped on and squished if he darted into the kitchen right now.

I got to my feet, ready to charge in and help Fletcher, but there was nothing I could do. Since there was only one entrance to the kitchen, Delov would see me coming, so I couldn’t even distract the giant by sneaking up on him from behind.

And then the worst thing of all happened. Delov’s fist actually connected with Fletcher’s chest.

Fletcher cursed and stumbled back. Delov surged forward, looking to press his advantage, but the old man grabbed a copper pot from a rack above his head and smashed it into Delov’s face. The giant growled in pain. He staggered and slipped on some of the broken dishes that littered the floor, going down on one knee.

But instead of regaining his feet, Delov fumbled with one of the cabinet doors below the sink, yanked it open, and reached inside. A second later, the glint of a gun appeared in his hand.

“Run!” Fletcher yelled at me. “Run!”

The old man had taught me to obey his orders no matter what when we were out on a job, so he didn’t have to tell me twice. I turned and ran, with him right behind me.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Bullets chased us down the hallway, and the acrid stench of gunpowder burned through the air, overpowering the moldy cheeses. Fletcher and I darted into a sitting room, raced through it and out into another hallway on the far side. We zigzagged through the third floor of the mansion, never taking the obvious, straight route but moving toward our escape point all the while.

Delov must have stopped to reload or maybe grab another gun from somewhere, because we quickly outran him, and I didn’t hear any sounds coming from behind us. But just before we got to the balcony and the stairs that would serve as our exit, Fletcher put a hand on my shoulder.

“Stop, Gin,” he mumbled behind me. “Or at least slow down.”

Slow down? We couldn’t afford to slow down, not while we were still in the mansion. Delov having a gun was bad enough, but if the giant caught us, he could always beat us to death with his fists. They were almost as big as the wheels of cheese he’d been cutting into.

Still, it was an order from Fletcher, so I stopped and turned around—and that’s when I realized he was bleeding. An ugly bullet hole had ruined his blue work shirt, close to where his left lung would be.

I gasped. “You’re hurt!”

Fletcher tried to smile, but his green eyes crinkled with pain. “Looks that way.”

For the first time, I heard the hoarse, raspy wheeze in his voice. It sounded like the bullet had done something to his lung, maybe even punctured or collapsed it, which meant I needed to get him to Jo-Jo—right now.

“Come on,” I whispered, putting my arm under his shoulder and preparing myself to drag him the rest of the way out of the house, across the grounds, and into the woods. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Fletcher shook his head. “No. Not before the job’s done. We have to get Delov tonight. This is our best chance—our only chance. All of his guards are gone. It’s just him and us. We have to end him now.”

“But you’re hurt,” I pointed out. “And he has a gun. Maybe more than one by now. You always told me that it was okay to walk away from a botched job. And we both know that I messed this one up.”

Fletcher shook his head again. “A dog barked. It happens, Gin, even to the best of us.”

He bent over and started coughing. He put his hand to his mouth, but I still saw the blood trickle out between his fingers.

“Here, at least sit down,” I said, helping him over to a nearby chair. “Rest for a few seconds, and then we’ll get out of here.”

“No,” Fletcher said, his mouth settling into a thin, stubborn line. “I made a promise to the Kilroy family, and I intend to keep it. Besides, I’ll be easy pickings for Delov now. We both know how fond he is of taking care of his dirty work himself.”

In addition to his love of gourmet food, Delov also fancied himself something of a hunter, and more than one poor animal’s head decorated the walls of his mansion. He even had a poaching trip planned for his time in the Keys. So I had no doubt that Delov would relish the challenge of tracking us down.

Fletcher couldn’t kill the giant. Not now, not with that injury.

But I could.

“Give me your knife,” I whispered.

He stared at me in surprise. “You don’t have to do this, Gin. I can finish it. I can—”

Another coughing fit cut off his words, and more blood dribbled down the sides of his fingers, even though he tried to hide it from me.