“There,” Nestor said, tapping Stefanie on the shoulder and pointing at the school entrance. “Coming out.”
And there she was, Rachel Marin, exiting the school carrying her daughter, the young girl’s face buried in her shoulder, arms and legs dangling. She must have gone in to get Megan while they hadn’t been looking. She was the only parent crossing the schoolyard. Easy prey.
Stefanie had stayed up all night wondering if she would really be able to go through with it. Kill not just the Marin woman but her daughter too.
And now, seeing them both, Stefanie felt no hesitation. Once the first shot shattered the air, everyone would scatter. They would have time to put another round or two in the Marin woman to be thorough. She’d never have a chance.
Then they would burn the car and be in Bermuda before the cops even knew what had happened. And who knew? Maybe they would stay abroad. Start a family. Change their names. Forget the past. The world was their oyster. With $150,000, they could do just about anything.
Stefanie and Nestor slipped on the leather gloves and brought the duffel bag into the front seat. Nestor unzipped it and took out the Desert Eagle. She removed the Ruger and slid it down by the footwell.
“Ready?” she said to Nestor.
“Ready.”
As Rachel Marin crossed the yard holding her daughter, no more than twenty feet from the Dodge, Nestor and Stefanie exited the car. Nestor held the gun by his hip. Stefanie had the Ruger upright. She didn’t care if anyone saw them. Screams would be good. Screams would get everyone out of there. Panicked witnesses gave terrible testimony.
They walked toward Rachel Marin. She was whispering something to the girl in her arms. The girl seemed light. Almost floppy. Stefanie figured a bitch like that probably underfed her own children to save money.
She and Nestor exchanged a glance. Time to dance.
But as Marin got closer, a feeling of dread started in the pit of Steinman’s stomach. Something wasn’t right. The girl’s hair looked . . . off. Then it hit her: Marin wasn’t carrying her daughter. In her arms was a child-size doll. Stefanie looked at the doll, with its large button eyes and stitched-on smile, and wondered what in the hell was going on.
But before she even had a chance to look up, Stefanie felt the prongs embed themselves in her chest, and suddenly fifty thousand volts were coursing through her like lightning. Stefanie screamed, dropped the Ruger, and fell to the ground.
Nestor looked down at her in shock, and before Stefanie could warn him, three men wearing APD windbreakers knocked Nestor sideways. The Desert Eagle flew into the air and clattered on the stone sidewalk. Stefanie had never felt so much pain in her life. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. One of the men had his knee in Nestor’s back, pinning him to the ground. Another held his legs, while the third handcuffed him behind his back. Stefanie saw a cut on Nestor’s chin from where his face had hit the pavement. That would have been enough for her to kill someone.
They hurt my baby, she thought as she felt a knee drive into her back as well.
Stefanie managed to look up. She saw an Ashby PD officer holding a Taser. She also saw the Marin woman, her face oddly blank. Marin walked over to Steinman’s Dodge. Stefanie watched, helpless, as Marin reached into the wheel well of the right front tire, felt around, and removed a small metal box.
The bitch tracked us. She set us up.
Marin pocketed the item, then turned to look at Stefanie. A look of satisfaction on her face.
And then Marin waved at Stefanie and mouthed the word Bye.
CHAPTER 23
Four Years Ago
To “Rachel,” the only thing better than a cup of hot, freshly brewed arabica on a cool September morning was the rhythm of a speed bag being beaten to a pulp. She stood perfectly balanced in front of the bag and pummeled it endlessly, shoulders burning, sweat pouring down her face and pooling on the rubber mat at her feet.
It had taken her a long time to get the hang of the speed bag. Sure, she’d seen Rocky. Who hadn’t? The first time Myra set her up in front of the bag, she punched it as hard as she could and mistakenly led with her first row of knuckles like an amateur. The bag barely moved, and her hand ached for a week.
Myra taught her the correct positioning and striking form.
“The speed bag isn’t about strength,” Myra said. “Too many people try to beat the crap out of it like it’s a driver who rear-ended you. The bag is all about endurance and hand-eye coordination.”
Myra taught her to lead with the flat underside of her fist and to keep her hand slightly open. One of the biggest mistakes newbies made with the speed bag was using an open fist. Amateur hour.
“Keep your shoulders relaxed. Hit the bag before it reaches its center point. If you hit the bag while it’s coming forward, you’ll just drive it straight up into the platform. And always try to hit the bag in the same exact spot. If you hit it every which way, you’ll never be able to control it. So find a stitch, or lettering, and aim for that spot every single time. Repetition. Muscle memory. Don’t think. Just do.”
Rachel soaked in every word, not just hearing Myra, but listening. She evolved. Got better. She learned the difference between bad pain, which hurt, and good pain, which disappeared in a haze of adrenaline and pride.
She was working the red speed bag like a demon when she heard the front door open.
“Tell me you went home last night, Blondie, you crazy bitch,” Myra said. “Tell me you didn’t sneak back in after I locked up and spent the night beating that bag like it was a shitty ex-husband.”
Rachel laughed and stopped working the bag. She caught her breath and took a long pull from a water bottle.
“Hey, Myra,” she said. “Just needed to get some work in.”
“Apollo Creed is quaking in his star-spangled booties,” Myra said. “Just remember, elbows up. Almost perpendicular with the floor.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
She was getting used to being called Rachel. It took some time at first. Myra had to call her by the new name several times before she responded. It felt silly. Like she was playacting. But Myra had been clear.
No real names. No sharing details about your life. Everyone here needs to feel comfortable. These classes are a sanctuary, and the walls around us are real. We do not breach these walls. If you feel unsafe, let Myra know, and the offender will be gone.
At the conclusion of a recent class, one of the students, a thirtysomething man calling himself Abe, had asked another student, “Tabitha,” out for drinks. Tabitha had come back the next session. Abe had not. Rachel had quickly realized that not everybody understood just how serious Myra was about the group being a sanctuary.
Every day she would drive her son to school, drop her daughter at day care, and spend the rest of her hours toiling at the gym or ensconced in a book. Since meeting Myra she had transformed her body and her mind. And it wasn’t about getting back to her prepregnancy weight. She didn’t care about that. Her stomach would never look the same. But that didn’t matter. The C-section scar was the only scar on her body, but she considered it a badge of honor.
Her fingertips and palms had all developed hard calluses, courtesy of throwing around free weights, but finding the right lifting gloves had cut down on those. Every night she put her young daughter to bed, forced her son to do his homework, and then soaked her hands in Epsom salts and shaved off the dead skin layers with a pumice stone. And once both were in bed, Rachel spent an hour doing plyometrics in the living room.