If you think I actually own any of this, you're wrong. It's the brain child of Angela Robinson and the property of Sony Pictures.

Chapter 9:

Knowing Ronnie, I really shouldn't have been surprised that he had been packing during our first break-in. He always had his trusty Glock on him somewhere. Kinda surprising that a guy with a penchant for American hardware would be so eager to pack a Austrian-made gun; but I guess he decided that he needed something rugged and reliable.

Yeah, the fact that he was carrying really shouldn't have surprised me in the least.

So I guess it's fair to say that I overreacted a little when I found out.

"You brought a gun on a break-in?" I yelled at him, "what the hell is the matter with you?"

"We were breaking into a building with armed guards," Ronnie replied, his voice steady. "You think that I wasn't going to arm myself?"

"You know, Ronnie," I said through clenched teeth, "I always credited you with having something which could be mistaken for brains." I thrust a finger at him, "now I'm glad you weren't with us in the vault room. What if the guard had come up early? Shooting him would've put a real damper on your 'nobody can no we've broken in' plan, wouldn't it?"

"So would getting caught by him," Ronnie countered. He stood, thrusting the pistol in my face, pointing it at my forehead, "you're not in charge here," he said, his voice threatening, "you never were. So get the job done and walk away."

Okay, I'll be the first to admit that my next move was a bit of a gamble. I was gambling that his desire to see this theft go through would overrule his desire to pull the trigger, at least for the moment. Once he had the diamond in his hand, the odds were that both Amy and I were dead; but for the moment, he needed me. I was gambling that he needed me enough to slow down his trigger finger a fraction of a second.

I quickly thought out a silent prayer that nobody was standing directly behind me and slapped his gun hand aside.

It was more the force of my strike that caused him to reflexively pull the trigger; rather than any real desire to shoot me. Maybe I imagined it, but I'm positive I heard the bullet whistle through the air a couple of inches away from my right ear. I didn't hear anybody go down, and at the very least Scud and Amy were standing in front of me; so they weren't in the line of fire.

The force of the strike, combined with the Glock's not insubstantial recoil knocked the gun from his hand.

It never struck the ground. I caught it, and brought it up to point at the center of his chest. I took a step back, out of his reach. "Who's in charge now?" I asked.

"Lucy," Amy's voice drifted over from behind Ronnie.

"You've got a better idea?" I asked her, without turning to face her. "You think anybody's really gonna miss him?" My finger tightened on the trigger. "I know I sure as hell won't."

Ronnie actually smiled. "So shoot me," he said simply.

"You think I won't?"

"I know you won't," he replied, "and if you do, my men will be generous enough to make sure that you live just long enough to watch the DEB die."

Dammit. I'd forgotten about the lackeys for a second there. Ronnie was a control freak; and not to put too fine a point on things, he was in control at the moment. They'd shoot Amy, probably somewhere where she'd die slowly and painfully, and they'd force me to watch until her heart stopped beating; and they'd do it even if Ronnie wasn't around anymore to keep them in line.

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't seriously consider shooting him anyway; at least for a second. If it were just me on the line, I probably would've. But it wasn't. Ronnie was holding all the cards, and he knew it. I took a deep breath, letting the tension bleed out of my limbs before I flipped the gun around, holding it butt-first to Ronnie. "If you ever bring a gun on one of my jobs again, I'll make you regret it."

"Come now," have I mentioned how much I hate it when Ronnie's being patronizing? "We both know that you wouldn't have fired." Almost as much as I hate it when he's right.

I turned around, my shoulders squared, and walked away.

Even if Amy hadn't yelled to warn me, I probably would've been able to swing around to block Ronnie's strike. He wasn't going for subtle. He just wanted it to be clear who was really the boss here. I wasn't exactly a martial arts master by any stretch of the imagination, but even with my meager skills, I figured I could at least prevent him from hitting me full-force.

I was wrong, but not in the way you think.

He actually drew short, stopping his blow before it connected with the arm I'd raised to block it. His fist hung in the air, shaking with the tension, poised to hit me right above the jawline.

We stood for the briefest of moments, his dark eyes bored through mine as I glared back at him.

"Drop your hands," he said. His voice was perfectly level, betraying none of the tension which was all too obvious in his body. "I won't ask again."

I didn't move. There was no way in hell I was gonna let him smack me around.

I heard a series of clicks off to my right. I didn't turn to look, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see no fewer than four automatic rifles taking careful aim at Amy.

"Drop them!" He ordered again. His fist still hung in the air, waiting for an unobstructed striking path.

My hands were shaking as I slowly lowered them to hang at my sides.

Okay, I just want to digress for a second to say ouch. If I'd ever wondered what it would feel like to be shot with a cannonball, I'm pretty sure Ronnie cleared it up for me. I think I saw a Julia Roberts movie some time when she was wondering if the boys were taken aside in kindergarten to teach them how to hit girls properly. Now, I don't spend a lot of time getting hit, but I have to admit that this one was a doozie. An electric blast of pain tore through my left cheek. I'm pretty sure I bit down on my tongue because I could feel warm blood spill out between my lips. Brilliant flashes of light exploded in my field of vision. I think I might have blacked out for a second because the next thing I clearly remember was being on all fours on a very cold concrete floor. That one was gonna leave a big-ass bruise.

I made a mental note that Ronnie had just forfeited the privilege of my going easy on him.

-x-

Remember how I mentioned that Amy would make a great mother someday? She never left my side that whole night. I don't think she slept either. She certainly wasn't going to let me sleep. Something about how I might have a concussion or something. I think my brain got knocked around a little there 'cause the next hour or so is a little jumpy. Like a bunch of puzzle pieces lying on a table.

"This what your life was like before I came along?" Amy asked, lovingly brushing a stray lock of hair away from my eyes.

"No," I groaned slightly, "sometimes it was actually unpleasant."

"Well, at least your sense of humor's intact," Amy smiled slightly in the dim light.

"How bad is it?" I asked, bringing a hand to my forehead.

"You've got a pretty nasty bruise there, and you bit your tongue," Amy told me.

"Can it be covered for tomorrow?" I asked, "I don't want to give anyone anything that'll help them remember me. A huge honking bruise will do that nicely."

Amy nodded, "yeah, a little makeup should do it."

"That's good," I took a long breath and slumped backwards on the small camping cot.

Amy was silent for a long time before she spoke again. "Mind telling me what that was all about?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure that he hit me," I replied.

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it," Amy told me.

"He brought a gun on the job," I countered, "no guns on jobs like this. You bring a gun, you're tempted to use it."

"So you take it and threaten him with it?" Amy asked. "Lucy, you went in there looking for a fight."

"What, exactly, are you bothering me about?" I asked, "I mean, I'm the one who got punched here."

"It's just that you've been… different since you've been here," Amy frowned. "It's like you're turning into that other Lucy," she jerked her head in the direction of the doorway, "the one he knows, not the one I do."

"You sure know a lot of Lucys," I answered wryly.

"Lucy…"

"Amy, we're dealing with someone who likes to play hardball. The only way to play is to be just as harsh and ruthless as he is," I told her.

"I'm not sure I like that," Amy said quietly.

"Well," I countered, "I am sure. I don't like it."

Okay, for the record, I hated lying to her. Partly because I suck at it, and it's really only because I was still half-stunned from the punch I'd just taken that I was able to get away with it. Any of my "tells," Amy would've passed off as me still not being all there from the punch.

I didn't lie about the not liking it part, 'cause I didn't. But the bottom line is that Ronnie needed to believe I was backsliding to my old ways. More than that, he needed to see me make some overt move against him. Like, for instance, pulling a gun on him. He needed to actually see me try something or he'd wonder what I was trying that he hadn't seen. Houdini would've called it "misdirection."

But just for the record, I hated having to lie to her; but the bottom line is that someone was listening to us right now, I was sure of it. That's why he kept the room so dark, so I wouldn't be able to find where he'd bugged it. So if he needed to believe that I was sliding back to my old ways, Amy did too.

I promised myself that I'd make it up to her if we lived through this.