Kill Whitey by Brian Keene Page A

and shadows lurked between the cars. Whitey, Otar, and the rest of the bouncers were walking around the parking lot. Several of them had flashlights in hand, training the beams on the ground, looking for someone or something. One bouncer glanced at us briefly, but otherwise they paid us no attention. I heard Whitey grumble something in Russian. It sounded like his mood had worsened.
    Darryl drew closer and whispered, “Maybe somebody was out here breaking into cars.”
    “I hope not.” Immediately, I thought of my iPod. I’d put it in the glove compartment, but if a thief had broken into the Cherokee, they’d probably find it easy enough. “Shit.”
    As we got closer to the Jeep, I sighed in relief. The windows weren’t broken and the door wasn’t ajar. The tires weren’t slashed. No signs that vandals had scratched it with a key or anything like that. None of the other vehicles looked like they’d been broken into either. The Russians continued searching the lot, walking slowly up and down between the rows of cars, shining the flashlights along the ground. They didn’t speak. Only Whitey remained motionless, standing in the middle of the lot and watching their progress. The moonlight sparkled in his white hair. He glared at us as we approached the Cherokee. I nodded at him and tried to smile. Instead of returning the gesture, Whitey turned away.
    My stomach was in knots and I didn’t know why. It was a terrible feeling. I looked to the sky. Darryl followed my gaze.
    “Full moon,” he muttered. “Bound to be some crazy motherfuckers out tonight.”
    “True that,” I said.
    I pointed my keychain at the Jeep and pressed the button to unlock the doors. While Darryl hopped inside, I walked around the front, checking the hood and grille for damage. There was none. At that point, I really wasn’t expecting to find any, either. Whatever the hell Whitey and his guys were looking for, it wasn’t vandals. Not the way they were going about their search.
    Darryl leaned over and opened my door. I raised my leg to step inside. Something grabbed my ankle. It startled me, but I didn’t scream. Not loud, anyway. Instead, I made a strangled little noise in the back of my throat. The Russians were too far away to notice.
    I glanced down. A hand gripped my ankle. The fingers wrapped around me tightly. It was a pretty hand. Slender and fair-skinned. The fingernails were long and red. The hand was attached to an arm and presumably, the arm belonged to someone hiding on the ground beneath my ride.
    I recognized the fingernails and the hand. Had studied them every night, along with the rest of their owner.
    It was Sondra. I was sure of it. For some reason, Sondra Belov was hiding beneath my Cherokee. And suddenly, I was pretty sure I knew who the Russians were looking for. I just didn’t know why.
    I took a breath and held it.
    “The fuck you doing,” Darryl hollered. “We’re gonna be late for work.”
    The bouncers glanced in our direction. The hand on my ankle squeezed harder.
    “I stepped in some gum,” I said loud enough so that the others would hear me. “Hold on a second. I want to scrape it off first. Don’t want to get it on my upholstery.”
    “Well, hurry up.”
    I knelt on the pavement and peeked under the Jeep. My breath hitched in my chest. Sondra stared back at me. Her eyes were wide and frightened. Her face was covered with black smudges. After a second, I realized it was her mascara. She’d been crying. Her lip was swollen and bleeding. There was blood under her nose, as well. She started to speak, but I put a finger to my lips and shushed her. Then I stood back up again, and slowly opened the door. The sound of my knees popping made me jump.
    “Darryl,” I whispered. “Be cool.”
    “Be cool?” His voice was very loud. “The hell do I care, Larry? It’s your ride. If you don’t want gum in it, then it don’t matter to me.”
    “Be fucking cool.” I stared at him as hard as I could, trying to