Agnes and the Hitman Read online

  From the prone, Shane fired twice in the direction of the intruder. Rhett bayed and charged forward, and Shane cursed, realizing the dog was moving into the line of fire. He squeezed off four more rounds as fast as he could pull the trigger, then lunged to his feet and sprinted after the dog, hunched over, not quite believing he was putting his life on the line for a dumb old bloodhound. He continued to fire, dropping the magazine out of the well as he moved, zigzagging, slamming a fresh clip home, firing once more. Then he dived onto Rhett, grabbing the dog’s collar as he rolled behind a log, holding the bloodhound to his chest.

  Rhett bayed once more, then began licking Shane’s face. Shane stared up at the palmetto fronds above, half-expecting to see bullets whipping through them, but they were perfectly still. Since the initial shots, the intruder had not fired, which meant he was either waiting to ambush Shane if he got closer or else had split while the getting was good. Or Shane had hit him and taken him out, which he doubted, given he had fired mainly for cover not effect, having no solid target.

  He waited, letting time tick away. He was in no rush and knew waiting put the burden on his opponent, if he was still around. If the guy was a pro, the wait could be long. After fifteen minutes, Shane turned to Rhett, who appeared to be sleeping, and poked him. Rhett opened one eye. Shane poked him again and the dog opened both eyes and took a deep sniff.

  No baying. No alert.

  Shane got to one knee, pistol still at the ready, and looked around. No sign of the intruder. Between his eyes and Rhett’s nose, he felt confident they were alone.

  He walked forward, on alert, Rhett trailing him, and stopped when he saw his battered black Defender. He pulled out his remote opener and tapped the small status button and then watched as a small green light flickered green a dozen times, then surprisingly turned red and stayed that way. Shane stared at the Defender. Something or someone had set off the vehicle’s motion detector.

  He slowly circled the truck, eyes going over every inch. Nothing seemed amiss, but given he had just been shot at, he wasn’t willing to bet his life on it. With a resigned sigh, he got down on his knees in the muddy ground, then lay down, sliding forward, feeling the damp soil ooze into his outer clothes as he angled himself so he could see the underside of the high-riding truck. Then he froze.

  The shaped charge on one of the plates was easy to spot: it was directly under the passenger seat-whoever had put it there had not taken into account it was a right-hand-drive European vehicle. No wires. It looked like one of Agnes’s large mixing bowls painted black and stuck to the plate. A small red LED light glowed, indicating it was armed. Shane doubted it was on a timer since whoever had placed it wouldn’t know when he was coming back to the truck.

  But no one should even have known he was here. At least no one who had the sophistication to make and plant such a device. The kid in Agnes’s basement wasn’t anywhere near this level of professionalism. But whoever had just shot at him obviously was.

  Shane took a deep breath, then slid to where the bomb was right in front of his face. It couldn’t have been armed until it was in place, thus there was an arming mechanism. Which meant there was a disarming mechanism.

  He placed both hands on the bowl and slowly twisted it counterclockwise. The bowl moved smoothly and Shane unscrewed it until he felt it give slightly. He carefully lowered the bowl of explosives inside the metal frame to the ground, exposing a small metal canister hung below the plastic top that had been glued to the bottom of the car and into which it had been screwed. He reached up and removed the battery that supplied power to the detonator.

  He stuck it in his pocket, then ripped the plastic off the bottom of the truck. He pulled the entire contraption with him as he crawled out from under the Defender. He opened the rear of the truck and placed it all inside, then went around and opened the door.

  “Come on,” he called to Rhett, who had watched the disarming of the bomb with no interest at all.

  The dog jumped, feet scrabbling at the edge of the seat, and then he was in, moving over to the window, where he looked at Shane disapprovingly, a smear of snot on the dark glass.

  “It’s bullet- and blast-proof glass,” Shane said, trying to explain why he wasn’t rolling down the window.

  Rhett gave Shane a look that said, I just saved your life, but that’s okay.

  Shaking his head, Shane violated standing operating procedures and lowered the passenger window. Rhett stuck his head out, a happy camper.

  Shane spared a moment for what Wilson would say if he ever had to explain this-The dog wanted the window rolled down, and he’d saved me from being shot, so I violated procedure from gratitude-and then headed for Joey’s.

  If he wasn’t careful, Keyes was going to be the death of him.

  Agnes had heard the car doors slam and had said a fast prayer before she smoothed down the skirt of her red cotton sundress in an attempt to look like a lady or at least like Brenda, shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and picked up the tray of lemonade and sweet tea.

  Then she’d carried the tray into the hall and out through the beautiful big carved double front doors, propped open now for some cross-ventilation because it was hotter than hell in the house; across the lovely veranda that would be even lovelier if it had some goddamn paint on it; down the wide gracious front steps that were a real bitch to negotiate with a tray that heavy not to mention sandals with heels, thank you; and over the front lawn to meet the new arrivals: Brenda, looking beautiful as ever in a full-skirted rayon number, and

  Evie, looking cool and boring in white piped beige Chanel and pearls, all but screaming, I got good taste and you don’t.

  “Agnes, you look lovely,” Evie said as she glided toward her.

  “Evie, I’m sweating like a racehorse,” Agnes said. “Let’s have the tasting in the gazebo, shall we?”

  “Certainly,” Evie said, changing course around the house toward the gazebo without missing a step.

  “Oh, Agnes, honey,” Brenda said, slowing as she saw the front door open. “You shouldn’t leave that door open, sugar, it’s bad for my grandfather clock.”

  You shouldn’t leave your grandfather clock here, it’s bad for my hall, Agnes thought, and then felt guilty because Brenda had given them such a deal on the mortgage, especially the first three months’ payments in exchange for holding the wedding there, so she just said, “Well, whenever you’re ready to move it out, Brenda, it’s right there waiting for you,” and steered them around the side of the house.

  “The gazebo looks beautiful,” Brenda said, gliding along the flagstone walk in her three-inch heels, and Agnes smiled because it really did and because Brenda was pleased with it. Then Brenda added, “That fresh paint just gleams, Agnes,” and let her eyes slide to the scabby-looking house.

  “Doyle’s putting the primer on the house today,” Agnes said, feeling guilt swamp her. “By Saturday, this place will look like Tara.” With butter.

  “I do hate to see you go to so much trouble,” Evie said, sweetly, “when the country club is just-”

  “No trouble,” Agnes said brightly. “Wait till you see the gazebo ceiling. It’s going to be perfect for the ceremony. Maria and Palmer will look adorable up there.” Did I just say ‘adorable’? She shook her head and led them across the lawn and up the steps to the table inside. “There now. Isn’t this lovely?”

  “You know, it is,” Evie said, sounding surprised as she looked up at the rafters that Doyle had painted blue and Agnes had added gold-leaf stars to.

  Brenda looked up at the ceiling and said, “Oh, Agnes, you do like things bright, bless your heart.”

  Agnes smiled uncertainly and looked up at the stars again. She’d thought they were beautiful, like an illustration out of an old book. Maybe she should have checked with Brenda first…

  “Well, I think they’re very nice,” Evie said firmly. “Neoclassical.”

  Agnes blinked at her in surprise.

  “Of course,” Brenda said,