Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

in the row of belly drawers that lined the long, scarred table. With a flip of his thick wrist, Socks slammed the drawer into a bench leg. Small tools scattered every which way.
    No money.
    The second drawer held a bunch of rags and lubricants. The oilcans made a nice clanging sound when they hit the wall.
    Still no money.
    The third drawer had a cell phone, some cash, and a gun with silencer attached.
    For a moment Socks forgot about the missing gold. He shoved the cash in his pocket and checked out the gun. Clean, loaded, ready to go, and either cold or registered to Joey. Whichever, it was a really sweet piece.
    Whistling soundlessly through his teeth, Socks unloaded all but one bullet from his own gun. Feeling much better about the world, he went to Tim and handed him the nearly unloaded gun.
    “Forget the glass,” Socks said. “We got what we need. Here, whack the jerk and let’s go.”
    Tim looked unhappily at the gun and at Socks’s nicely sheathed hands. “You didn’t tell me I’d need gloves. Let’s just go and—”
    “Uh-uh, buddy,” Socks cut in. “Stick it in his mouth and blow his fucking head off.”
    Tim started to argue, saw the flat look around his jailhouse pal’s eyes, and knew he wasn’t going to get out of it. It had been the same way the first time he went along while Socks got a case of tequila for them at the end of a gun; whatever Socks did, Tim had to do. It was a good way to make sure your buddy didn’t snitch you off to the cops.
    Tim sighed. “If I blow his brains out from this close up, we’re going to have shit all over our new shirts.”
    “Jesus. Who could tell?”
    Tim looked stubborn.
    “Just whack him, okay?” Socks said. “Just do it.”
    Tim sighted over the barrel. A heart shot, not one in the head. Much neater. He squeezed the trigger.
    Joey jerked once, gave an odd, bubbling sigh, and went still.
    Socks checked him with a good kick. No reaction. Bye-bye buddy, and here’s for hosing me all those years.
    Still smiling, Socks turned to Tim and shot him with Joey’s gun. Even with the silencer on, there was still enough impact to send Tim spinning and crashing face first into a tall metal filing cabinet. He started sliding down it, grabbed the top to hold himself upright, and ended up pulling the cabinet over on himself instead. Man and metal landed on the cement floor with a racket that drowned out everything else.
    In the sudden silence following the fall, the wailing of a siren was too loud, too clear. And it was coming this way.
    Socks jumped and swore. Some nosy bastard must have called the cops. Or else Joey had an alarm he hadn’t talked about.
    He bent over the pawnbroker, grabbed lax fingers, and forced them around the butt of the gun he had used on Tim. When Socks let go, the gun just fell out of Joey’s hand. He tried again. Same thing the second time.
    The siren screamed around a corner so close that he could hear the tires cry.
    Sweating, Socks made one last try at stage setting. This time the gun stayed put. He let out an explosive breath and looked over where Tim was. Nothing moved under the cabinet except a trail of blood snaking across the floor.
    And the siren was making Socks want to scream.
    Not even noticing the blood on his shoes, he turned and sprinted out the back door.

Chapter 27
    Las Vegas
    November 3
    Late morning
    S mith-White didn’t look like his name. Instead of being tall, thin, and distinguished, he was short, bald, and round as Santa. But there was nothing particularly jolly about his eyes. They were the kind of opaque gray that reminded people of old snow.
    With barely concealed impatience, Risa waited for Smith-White to finally get down to business.
    Knowing his guest’s tastes, Shane had sent for Turkish coffee and sweets. The fact that Smith-White was still smacking his lips and choosing among the fruit tarts and candied fruit slices told Risa that she would have to wait a little longer to see the gold. It also told her that Smith-White was toying with them because he had something really superior to sell.
    That didn’t make waiting any easier.
    Neither Shane nor Risa glanced at the locked spun-aluminum box Smith-White had set on the low table next to the coffee service.
    The guard barely looked away from the box. Anything that was allowed into the upper reaches of the Golden Fleece without being searched made him unhappy.
    “Lovely,” Smith-White said, blotting powdered sugar from his upper lip. “Your