HARDCORE: Storm MC(96)

Again, that suited her. She never found herself looking for anything more serious with someone than a month or two here and there. And she knew that Hunter was quietly relieved by this, since it kept her around to take care of him. He sometimes wistfully fantasized out loud about how nice it would be if Missy settled down with one of the Eagles, and she knew that was just because he wanted to make sure she never fell in love with some square and ditched the whole scene to become a happy homemaker with a picket fence.



Missy pulled into the parking lot of the Shop-N-Stop and got out, walking through the automatic doors into the massive store. Clothes, shoes, food, toys, appliances, auto parts, garden stuff—this place had it all at dirt-cheap prices, catering largely to the trailer park-dwelling residents of Micanaw.



She grabbed a shopping cart and wheeled it through the aisles. First she went to the toy section, grabbing a deck of cards and inspecting the board games. She found the perfect one, chuckled to herself, and put it in the cart.



Next, she went to the food section and plucked several basics from the shelves. She didn't know what Cain liked or disliked, but since he didn't seem inclined toward civilized discourse so she could find out, she figured it was his tough shit if she brought back something he hated. He could always gnaw on the fossilized pork chop if her cooking wasn't good enough for him.



I'm damn sure not spending a week over there with just instant coffee either, she thought, pulling a freeze-dried brick of French roast off the shelf along with some sugar and evaporated milk. I'd rather drink mud from under an outhouse than choke down another mug of that shit.



While pushing the cart up and down the aisles, Missy saw a section for camping equipment. Her shoulders and neck were still stiff from spending the previous night on the unforgiving floor, and she thought about what to do to make sure this night wouldn't be as uncomfortable.



I can't believe he doesn't have a bed, she thought. Who the hell doesn't have a bed in their house? Even if they don't use it themselves?



She looked over a few sleeping bags, then settled on an inflatable mattress with an electric air-blower. She also picked up a cheap blanket and a small, squishy pillow for good measure.



Missy picked up a fresh bottle of dish soap, a package of sponges, and some other cleaning supplies, then ventured over to the electronics section to look at the burner phones. She figured Cain would need a new cell for Hunter to reach him, especially if she'd be making these supply runs on a regular basis.



As Missy wheeled her cart over to the appliance section to look at coffee makers, she noticed that someone was following her. He was a hugely obese Latino with a vast expanse of white t-shirt covering his belly and a red bandanna tied around his head. His flabby arms were covered with prison tattoos.



And he was staring daggers at her.



Jesus, she thought. This is the guy they send to stalk me? Do they think I'm fucking blind or something? He's impossible to miss.



Missy took her cart to the check-out line, keeping an eye on the man following her. He kept a short distance between them, not bothering to conceal himself or pretend he was there for any reason except to eye-fuck her. She felt a shudder down her spine as she placed her items on the counter for the clerk to ring up. When everything had been bagged, she paid with a couple of twenties and went out through the automatic doors, glancing behind her every few steps. As she did, she reached into her pocket for her keys, fanning their jagged points out between her knuckles to be used as a weapon.



Her stalker had bypassed the check-out line and was walking after her. His hand was in his pocket, and she knew that he might have a gun there.



Missy had left the knife and shotgun at Cain's place, but her revolver was strapped to her ankle. With a sinking feeling, she realized the man following her could easily pull his piece and gun her down right there in the parking lot before she'd even have time to hitch the cuff of her pants leg up, let alone grab her pistol.



When she reached her car, Missy opened the back door, tossed the bags in, slammed the door again, and turned to look the fat man squarely in the eye. “What the fuck is your problem, huh?” she yelled at him.



The man smiled, and his eyes flicked over to something over Missy's shoulder.



Missy's eyes widened and she spun around, realizing—too late—that she'd been had. It was a classic surveillance move: Make sure the fake “stalker” is so obvious and impossible to ignore that the prey focuses on him entirely, allowing the real predators to get close without being noticed.



And she'd fallen for it.



Two men emerged from behind Missy's car, grabbing her roughly by the arms before she had time to lift them in defense. “You're comin' with us, puta,” one of them purred, his foul breath making her eyes water.