Free Lucky Bang by Deborah Coonts

the windows did little to inspire confidence. I took a steadying breath and hoped my black eye gave me a hint of badass. With more bravado than I felt, I threw my shoulders back and pushed through the single glass door. A bell dinged somewhere in the dark recesses.
    After the bright sunlight, the interior murkiness was impenetrable. As the door closed behind me shutting out the sun, I paused allowing my eyes to adjust. Only three of the canned lights in the ceiling had working bulbs, which cast thin, milky light. Smoke and the acrid tang of desperation hung in the air.
    Finally, light filtered in and images hit my retinas. Musical instruments hung from the ceiling. A nice maroon Harley Springer Softail sat in the middle of the floor. A knight in full armor kept watch in the corner. Power tools hung from hooks forming an intricate pattern against peeling, puke green paint on the walls. A phalanx of bicycles stood in rows to my left. High in each corner, video cameras, their red recording lights staring like Gargoyles' eyes, captured my every move. Glassed cases filled with the high-end stuff formed a barrier in front of the back wall, protecting the lone entrance to a section marked 'private.' Snippets of a laugh track from some television show filtered through the closed door.
    "Hello?" My voice, not exactly as strong as I wanted, was swallowed in the depths. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Anybody home?"
    This time, the swinging door moved inward a few inches, just far enough to allow a side-by-side barrel to poke through, the business end pointed at my chest.
    "Go away."
    I recognized the voice, husky from decades of unfiltered Camels. "Gracie? You know why I'm here."
    "He ain't here."
    "Then he ain't far." I tried to look mean as I stared into the dark, evil holes of the shotgun. "He's probably next door drinking himself into the next life. But I know when he's in a heap of trouble, he hides in your skirts. And this time, Frenchie's brought trouble with a capital 'T' to your doorstep."
    She lowered the gun and eased through the door. After breaking the gun, she held it over her forearm. The shells didn't eject, so she could slap the thing closed and be locked and loaded in a jiffy. Not a happy thought, being on the receiving end and all.
    A tough woman forged in the fire of a hard life, Gracie was small and thin to the point of painful, with gray hair that hung in greasy waves down past her shoulders. Her face, long with hollowed cheeks, held deep-set, lifeless eyes and the slash of a mouth defined by thin lips. A few faded tattoos decorated her creped skin beneath the short, tattered sleeves of her white shirt, now yellowed with age. "I know his story. What's yours?"
    "Your brother pinched some dynamite. I need it. And it would go a long way toward lowering the heat if he could tell me where he got it. I can tell you that, after a good grilling, the ATF guys will want to fry his ass. Probably yours, too," I bluffed. "I need something to douse the flame."
    "He don't have no dynamite. He's just got himself a blistering headache, nothing's put a dent in it. I'm thinkin' maybe he's got a tumor or something."
    "Or a nitro headache."
    She shook her head. "Yeah, that boy ain't smart enough to hide from hillbillies. No way would he have thought to use rubber gloves when handling…" Her eyes grew wide when she realized what she'd said. Finally, after a moment of vacillation during which I held my breath, her face fell, laying bare the soft spot she had for her brother.
    I went for the kill. "They'll throw him down a hole, Gracie, then bury him."
    "Hell, his ass is a grape anyway. Might as well talk to you. Can't hurt him none. That boy's gone and done it now." She fingered a cross hanging from a gold chain around her neck. "He means well, know what I mean?"
    Unclear as to how his proclivity for the ten-finger discount supported that statement, I said nothing.
    She stopped fiddling and slapped me with a stern look. "You can