Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle Pauline Jones (the red fox clan txt) 📖

Unbelievably, they were driving towards the freeway. Neither spoke until the car, now smoothly obedient, made the run onto the freeway entrance ramp.

After a long silence, Donald said, “I think we should have bought the Uzi.”

It was a generous admission. Fern offered her own, “I think we should’ve stole American.”

4

When he’d caught sight of the careening car and the gun sticking out its passenger window, Mickey’s instincts had kicked in. A step, a leap, and he’d caught Luci mid-body, knocking her flat as bullets filled the air above them. His fumble for his gun netted him a handful of skirt—and thigh. He’d had to settle for uttering his choicest swear words as the Yugo swept past, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of a large-nosed-profile and a Groucho Marx behind the wheel before the car disappeared around the curving roadway.

The underpass filled with smoke from a burning something. Mickey’s eyes watered as he did a quick visual survey, noting that the downed figures were, like him, beginning to look around.

No obvious casualties. That was good. He remembered Luci and looked down. “You all right?”

Her voice, slightly compressed, came from somewhere under his chin. “I think so.” A pause, then she added, “Thank you for knocking me down and jumping on me.”

Mickey shifted enough to get them eye-to-eye, just shy of lip-to-lip. He opened his mouth to say something, but what was there to say? You feel good? I want to kiss you?

“A lot,” she said, the red mouth’s opening and closing acting like a jump for his heart. “Uh, do you think you could get off me now?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The wail of approaching sirens played accompaniment as he made to roll off her. The sound of tearing fabric stopped him in mid-roll.

“I think I’m caught—or you are.”

“I think you’re right.” Her hands moved down the sides of his thighs. “My skirt seems to be caught on your gun.”

She looked far too calm for the situation. Only the speeded-up pace of her heart indicated agitation, that and a tiny frown creasing her forehead as she tried to unhook his gun from her clothes.

“If you could just shift a little—that’s good—very good—yes—almost got it—”

Was that a smile tugging the edges of her straight mouth as she uttered breathy, suggestive things? He tried to focus on higher things, cooler things, but it wasn’t easy in the heated underpass with her hands moving lower, and lower again, straying far too close to the area he was trying not to think of—

He jerked.

“Sorry.” This time there was no question her lips twitched. He heard a short sharp tearing sound, and she said, “I think that’s it. Try it now.”

Slowly at first, then faster, Mickey rolled off her and got up. He paused only to brush his grimed hands down the sides of his pants before holding them out to Luci.

She gripped them, came up, then staggered slightly, as if her knees weren’t as steady as her voice. Whatever the reason, she ended up in his arms and he found he wasn’t averse to offering support for as long as she might need it. She tipped her head back, her smile a grateful one. Adrenaline screamed through his veins. He’d been a cop long enough to know the effects it could have on the sex drive, and he wasn’t as relieved as he should be when she eased away from him and looked around. Discretion was the better part of lust, so he looked away.

There was a lot to see. It needed only a gun-toting Stallone to complete the mess as official-looking figures began to filter through the debris. A fire engine roared up, disgorging slicker-coated figures and adding to the noise. It was followed by every Jefferson Parish patrol car in the area, their police lights sending flickering blue flashes bouncing off the billowing smoke.

They had, he decided, been damn lucky…

The thought died when he saw the remains of his car, glassless, pocked with bullet holes, and sagging into the remains of what had been new tires. He bit back the expletives that crowded in his throat, heard Luci gasp and turned to find her studying a trail of tiny white puffs of cotton floating across the pavement.

Cotton?

Mickey followed the trail to the source. Her pig.

Or what was left of it. He grinned, feeling somewhat better about his own loss.

The pig wasn’t the only casualty. Shots had ripped through Luci’s luggage with ruthless disregard. One suitcase sagged half off, half on the cart. Mortally wounded, the rips in one long side bled frothy bits of white underwear and other feminine items. Jagged tears that dripped pieces of brightly colored clothing onto the pavement below scored the other. With the slow beat of his heart counting the seconds, Mickey waited and watched for her to finally react, to erupt, and to vent.

She drew a long shaky breath, then turned towards him, her eyes incredibly wide in her pale, smoke-smudged face.

“Someone must be really pissed at you.”

“Me? What makes you think this was meant for me?”

Luci arched her brows. “The evil half of the universe wants cops dead, but who’d want to kill a waitress from Butt Had, Wyoming?”

“Waitress? But you said—”

“There’s not,” Luci pointed out, “a lot of money in do-wahing so I have to moonlight.”

The familiar mechanism of law enforcement soothed Mickey’s frustrations. At least there was hope that the wheels of justice would, in time, crush the aging jerks that trashed his car. With martyred mourning in his heart, he watched a uniform speak into a radio, then turn to say, “They found the Yugo abandoned outside Lakeside Mall. Same place it was stolen from. It’s possible they picked up their own car—or stole another one.”

“They dust it?” asked another officer.

“Yeah, but it looks wiped.”

“Can’t shoot straight enough to hit the side of a barn but know enough to wipe away their prints,” snorted a deputy from the Sheriff’s Department. “What’s