While Andrew’s tongue explored Irene's hungry mouth, Death slipped up behind him with a gun. The muzzle pressed hard against his skull just as her searching hand groped between his legs.
“Don’t move, pal.” The man’s voice was low and urgent. Andrew froze.
“Sorry, lover,” Irene said and shoved him off her.
Robbery? Here? Andrew listened desperately for signs of life in the parking garage, but it was late, and they were alone.
“Stand against that wall and face us,” Irene said, adjusting the tight dress to cover herself.
Andrew’s mind reeled, but he obeyed.
“You’re with him?” he asked.
The gunman smirked under the peak of his newsboy cap. His eyes were cast in shadow, but the pistol in his hand was plain enough.
Irene said to the gunman, “Don’t miss.”
“I never do.”
The shot echoed through the garage and Andrew doubled over in agony. Hands wet with blood, his stomach was on fire, and he could barely breathe. A dark stain spread across his belly.
Irene dialed someone on her phone and said, “It’s done...Are you sure?...Fine.”
Irene walked up to Andrew and held the phone's screen up to his face. A woman in a wheelchair leaned into the camera.
“Pam...?” Andrew asked. He sagged against the wall at the sight of his wife's cold, cold smile.
“She got you good. I’m glad. I had to pay extra for a gut shot.” Pam leaned in closer. “You’re never going to terrorize me or the kids again. You’re gonna die alone, you lousy piece of shit.”
The screen went black. Irene stood up and the gunman joined her.
“Well?” he asked.
“Leave the Benz,” Irene said. “Take his phone, his wallet, and that Tissot on his wrist. It will look like he died trying to be a hero.”
