The black-bearded bandit grabbed my collar, pulled me half outside through the window, and slammed his big pistol—not my sleek little laser—into the side of my head. A starburst of pain, but I didn't quite pass out, and weirdly, I was grateful that he’d hit a different part of my head than the car thieves in Rocky had.

He dropped me back onto my seat, his filthy hand closing around my throat. "I hate loud-mouthed women." Then he laughed, showing those rotten teeth again. "But I don't kill 'em, except when people pay me to."

That was nice to know.

“Even when they got red hair. I hate red hair.”

I always liked to think of it as auburn, but I decided not to argue with him again. He still had hold of my throat; I reached for the last pistol anyway.

“Too bad you’re old and got red hair.” He let go of my neck and walked away. I put my fingers on the gun but waited. If he came back, I’d shoot him.

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