Chapters (42)
- DEDICATION
- EPIGRAPH
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- ALSO BY RICHARD KADREY
- CREDITS
- ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
He could hear her typing something into a laptop. When she was finished she said, “Why don’t we take off the blindfold? The van is blacked out and he’s going to see us soon enough.”
“I’ve already seen you,” Coop said.
“See? He’s already seen us.”
The gunman sounded annoyed. “You suck the fun out of everything.”
“He thinks we’re here to kill him. That’s not a good way to begin a business relationship,” said the woman.
“That’s what I’m talking about right there. Work, work, work. I bet when you saw Star Wars all you thought about was Darth Vader’s quarterly review. He lost the princess. He choked an officer.”
“Well, he did let the Death Star get blown up,” said the woman.
“See? I knew it.”
“Please take it off him.”
“Fine. But only because I know you won’t shut up about it.”
“Thank you.”
The man jerked Coop’s head forward and began fiddling with the blindfold knot. While he did it Coop said, “I know a good marriage counselor in the Valley if you kids want to make a stop.”
Finally, the blindfold came off and the gunman shoved Coop back in his seat, slapping a pair of handcuffs on him. “Shut up and go back to worrying about your poodle,” he said.
“He’s man’s best friend,” Coop said. He studied the cuffs. They looked well made, with hard locks to pick.
The gunman shook his head. “No. This is man’s best friend.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a drink.
“Mind if I have a snort, seeing as how we’re all friends?” Coop held out his hands.
The man with the gun smiled at him and took another drink.
“Why not let him have a little?” said the woman. “It might calm him down.”
The gunman thought about it and finally handed Coop the flask. He held it up in a toast and then began to drink. It was bourbon. Good stuff, too.
“Hey, Mr. Greedy, that’s enough. We share around here,” said the gunman. When he came forward to take the flask out of Coop’s cuffed hands, Coop spit a mouthful of whiskey directly into the gunman’s eyes. He screamed and wiped at his face with his hands. Coop kicked him on top of the woman, grabbed the sliding door handle, and pulled it open. He didn’t know how fast they were going or where they were. It looked suburban and upscale. Coop jumped onto a grassy patch near the curb and rolled as best he could. When he scrambled to his feet, he took off running across a series of impossibly green lawns.