Shoot the Woman First by Wallace Stroby Read Free Book Online Page B

anything else that wasn’t money, found nothing.
    They turned as the Saturn came up the driveway, Glass at the wheel. He parked beside the Toyota. She put the bills back, zipped the bag shut, started to pull it from the trunk, felt a surge of pain. Larry saw it in her face.
    â€œI’ve got it,” he said. “Go on in.” He took out the bag, shut the lid.
    Inside the house, it was almost dark as night. There was a half inch of water on the kitchen floor. They went into the living room, and he dropped the duffel on the couch. The wind picked up outside, rattled something upstairs.
    Glass and Cordell came in, shaking off the rain, Cordell carrying the bag with the weapons.
    â€œHow’d we do?” Glass said. He smelled of gasoline and smoke.
    â€œWaiting on you before we find out,” she said.
    â€œYou all right?”
    â€œI’m good.”
    Cordell set the tac bag clanking on the floor. Glass switched on the lanterns, went to the bay window and looked back down to the street. “Nobody out there.”
    â€œGood,” Larry said. “Let’s do the count.”
    â€œFirst things first,” Glass said, and took an empty tac bag from behind the couch, opened it on the floor. “Give it up. Any other weapons. Vests and masks, whatever else you have. Cell phones, too.”
    Larry took off his windbreaker, then shrugged out of the sweater, unsnapped his vest. Glass was doing the same. Her own vest had been left behind in the van. She left the Glock where it was.
    Cordell hadn’t moved. He stood behind the couch, watching them.
    â€œCome on,” Glass said. “Vest off. I’m ditching them.” He folded his own vest into the tac bag. Larry dropped his on top, pulled the windbreaker back on.
    â€œGetting kind of used to it,” Cordell said.
    â€œTake it off,” Glass said. Then to Crissa, “You ready to count?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Glass pulled a folding chair near the couch, sat, and unzipped the duffel. Larry took the other chair, sat close by. Glass began taking out money, lining the packs up on the coffee table. They soon ran out of space, had to set packs on the floor, Glass counting, then handing them over to Larry, who counted them again.
    Cordell had his windbreaker off, was pulling the sweater over his head. He looked at the money, glasses askew, said, “Fat stacks.”
    â€œNo way it’s a half mil,” Larry said. “But it’s two hundred K at least.”
    â€œThree hundred, I’m betting,” Glass said. “Or close.”
    Cordell was fumbling with the vest straps. He got it off finally, draped it on the back of the couch. Beneath it, he wore the same Bob Marley T-shirt she’d seen before, now dark with sweat across the stomach. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose, watched them count.
    â€œHave a seat,” she told him. “This could take a while.” Glass had a small calculator out, was punching in numbers.
    Her back ached. She wanted to sit down but was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get up again. She rubbed the small of her back, resettled the Glock. When they were done with the split, ready to leave, she’d put it in the bag with the other guns.
    â€œThree twenty-five,” Glass said. “Even.”
    â€œMy count, too,” Larry said.
    To Glass, she said, “Five thousand off the top to you, like we agreed. Then that’s ninety thousand to each of us.”
    â€œYou were always quick that way,” he said. “Cordell and I are going to hang here a bit, let you two get clear. Leave your shares in the duffel, it’ll be easier to carry. Just get rid of the bag when you can, to be safe.”
    â€œRight,” Larry said, and began loading money back into the bag.
    Glass looked at her. “Nice work.”
    â€œIt was,” she said, and then the ceiling above them creaked.
    They all looked up. She reached back, touched the Glock, turned