As We Continue The Fine Tradition Of Your Characters Pulling Weapons On Mine At The 1st Meeting - Tumblr Posts
Well, shit. That was unexpected.
Rusty stares at the truck when be rounds the bend; he already had a couple plausible excuses in mind, in case he ran into someone.
But then he notices the big damn hole in the ground, heaps of sandy dirt piled up around it. His eyebrows are already starting to go up when a petite dark-haired woman springs out of the hole like some crazy jack-in-the-box.
The sheer ridiculousness of running into someone else digging what damn sure looks like a grave has him frozen in surprise for a beat too long. When he realizes the woman isn't sprinting for the truck to escape, he's too slow grabbing his Glock out of the center console. She already has the shotgun leveled at him.
For a moment, Rusty thinks of shoving the car in reverse and flooring it - but she'd shoot him for sure if he did that. Then he thinks of tromping the gas and flattening her against the side of her truck. With his luck, that'd leave both vehicles wrecked.
So he takes a breath and thumbs the window button. She hasn't fired yet, but no way is he gonna get out and lose what protection the windshield and engine block give him.
"Relax, lady. Do I look like a cop to you? Put the gun down, we can talk this through." starting with the fact that there's a tarp covering something in the back, and just what in hell a chick like her is doing out here.
He's no fool - the car's still in gear, and if she looks like pulling the trigger, he'll floor it.
Traveling for business sucked. New York and its environs were home, where he knew every bodega and back alley. But his face was a little too recognizable there right now, and until a certain witness was persuaded not to testify about the whereabouts and activities of certain men, one of whom may or may not have been James “Rusty” Sullivan, well, it was better that he stay out of town.
He’d thought “out of town” would mean, like, Delaware. Not New Mexico, for cryin’ out loud.
But New Mexico was where a certain guy lived, and that guy had run off with a whole bunch of money that wasn’t his, and the rightful owners of that money had finally tracked him down. The money was spent, of course, it’d been six years ago. Now it was the principle of the thing.
Which was why Rusty’s rattletrap Chevy was bumping off the old county road into a nice little dry wash. Quiet road, little bit of concealment, a fairly flat surface to drive on - almost as good as a gravel pit. He just needed to get out of sight of the road, then he could park and start digging. The shovel was in the trunk, along with the thief.
The thought that, in all this godforsaken desert, someone else might’ve picked the same spot to bury a body … Well, that never even occurred to Rusty.