• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Don’t even think about moving, lady.”

She dropped her cell phone. Could she get to her gun before he killed her? No, probably not. “You’re Beauregard Jones, I take it?”

“Shit! How do you know who I am?”

“Law enforcement is pretty good nowadays, Mr. Jones. Just about everybody in Jessborough knows who you are. The FBI is already at your place in Alexandria and more agents will be here in about three minutes.” She looked behind Beau. “Where’s Fatso?”

“You just shut up, lady.”

“I’m not a lady, I’m the sheriff. Surely you know that. How’d you find out where I lived? What’s the matter? Is Fatso hurt so bad he can’t help you anymore?”

“Shut your trap, no, wait, back up, just back up. Nail your ass to that spot and don’t move or I’ll kill you and that cute little girl won’t have a mommy any longer.” He kept the gun pointed at her as he broke the rest of the glass in the window. Then he stepped through.

When he stood dripping water on her grandmother’s prized Aubusson carpet, he looked her up and down, glanced over at the fireplace and said, “You’ve given us lots of trouble, Sheriff. And here you are, looking all tousled and frumpy like any good little housewife on a Saturday night.”

She was aware of her SIG Sauer nestled against her back, the derringer pressed against the ankle holster. “I haven’t begun to give you trouble, Mr. Jones.”

He gave her a big grin, all big white crooked teeth, the two front ones overlapping, just like Alice had said. “I like a girl with a big mouth. Fatso’s real name is Clancy and he doesn’t like people bugging him about that gut of his. But no matter. He’s waiting for us in the van. You’ll meet him soon enough. Go get the boy.”

Beau realized in that instant that it wasn’t a good idea to let her go off by herself. She didn’t look at all tough, and she looked real young, what with her hair pulled back with a tie and no makeup on her face. But she had to have something going for her, they’d elected her sheriff of this hick town, after all. He’d been watching her through the window, watching her eyes just like his daddy had taught him before he’d gotten himself blown away during a bank robbery down in Atlanta. His daddy would have called those eyes of hers hard, the kind that saw way down deep into you, and he’d never want to drink a beer with her. He hadn’t realized how his daddy would have hated her eyes until he’d seen her up really close. He thought she knew things, thought things, that he couldn’t.

Beau wasn’t about to take any chances with her, not with those eyes. “Wait,” he said, “you walk ahead of me, don’t make no sudden movements or I’ll have to put a bullet in your back. You got that?”

Katie fanned her hands and said, “I got it.”

“Let’s go.”

“I don’t understand something, Mr. Jones.”

“Walk, Sheriff, stop trying to slow things down. You might be right about the FBI coming, but hey, they’re clowns, everybody knows that.”

“I didn’t know that. Why do you think they’re clowns?”

“Just shut up.” He waved the gun. “Move, now.”

Katie walked out of the living room into the small front hallway. She said over her shoulder, “I told you that the FBI knows who you are, and they’re on their way here right this minute. You also know they’re not clowns. If you don’t get out of here now, you’re going to be in the deepest trouble imaginable. There’s really got to be a lot in it for you to make you come here for the boy. Somebody’s paying you and Fatso lots of money, right?”

“Shut up, Sheriff. Keep walking, or I’ll just shoot you and get him myself. Hey, I just might take the little girl, too. Bet I could get some loot for that cute little button.”

“Yes, there must be big bucks in this for you and Fatso to take this kind of risk.” In ten steps, she’d be at the guest room door. And Sam was inside.

Beau grunted. “Keep moving.”

She had to do something, had to do it soon. It was up to her, not the FBI, not anybody else. But he was holding what looked like a 10mm Smith & Wesson pistol,