The Retirement Plan

Chapter 17

When he reached the top of the marble staircase, Ricky heard the garbled voices coming from inside the nearest bedroom. He paused outside the door, listening intently. Puzzled. A foreign dialect been spoken, with unfamiliar sounds and patterns his brain didn't recognize. The speaker sounded male. What the hell?

His spine stiffened. This could get messy. Then a squeal of tires. The television. Wifey sat in bed watching TV, just like Reggie'd predicted. Ricky hoped he was right about the valium part, too, make his job so much easier.

He pressed down on the lacquered brass door handle and pushed the door open. A topless woman sat up in the bed, her knees making a tent under the covers. The blonde bob, the round, perky breasts—it couldn't be. Then she turned her head, and he was looking directly at the face he had pictured in his mind for the past two nights. Miley.

Dumbstruck by the sheer improbability of what he was seeing, Ricky cursed aloud. Jesus fuck, rookie mistake. Would she make the connection? Saw the flash of recognition in those amber eyes and knew life had found a fresh way to screw him in the ass again.

"Judd?" she said, in that dreamy dulcet tone of hers, making it impossible for him to do the one thing he needed desperately to do. Think straight.

"Shut up," Ricky said. An image of Miley lying in bed telling him about her cancer-ridden father, transposed by one of Miley, teary-eyed, spilling her guts to a smiling detective.

"What's happening?" Miley said. "Why are you doing this?" Guilt and anger sumo-wrestling in Ricky's brain right now. Could he kill her? This woman he had forged a connection with. How many years would a Spanish court dish out for a kidnapping conviction? His mind cracking under the weight of the moral dilemma, and the overwhelming need for self-preservation.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he said, slapping his left palm against his forehead. Miley looking at him, scared, tears forming in her eyes, covers bunched up around her neck.

"Get dressed," he said, acting on impulse. No idea what he would do.

"What are you going to do to me?" Miley said, fingers clawed around the sateen sheet she'd pulled up to her chin.

"Now." He hadn't meant to shout so loud. Had to drown out the voice of reason instructing his brain not to regard her as a person but as the one thing standing between him and a fifteen-to-twenty bid.

The fabric of the ski mask staring to itch, his face burning up under there.

Ricky whipped the mask off and let his skin breathe. He glanced over at Miley, climbing into her sequined dress. Now, staring right at his unveiled face. Not that it mattered much.

He started toward her, watching her tremble, eyes stricken with terror.

Ricky raised his hand.

Miley's head cowered.

"What?" It clicked that his gun was pointing at her. "I promise I won't hurt you," he said, lowering the piece, "but listen, we've got—"

"Whatcha doing, mate?" Chris said, stood on the threshold, mask on, silver Glock held at chest height. "You been having it off with the missus, you dirty birdy?"

"It's not what—"

"I ain't having a go. She is fit." Eyes squinting behind his mask, "That don't look nothing like the bird in the picture downstairs."

"What're you doing here?"

"Reggie sent me up to see what's taking so long. 'Ere, why you got your mask off then?" Then, looking back at Miley, "Who's this bird? She the maid or something. I thought you lot wore them frilly black French outfits."