Bitch Factor – Chapter 5
Thursday, December 24, Grand Forks, North Dakota
Dixie zipped her denim jacket against a frigid wind and hustled across the motel parking lot. Even best-laid plans occasionally went awry. Dann had managed to dodge all her bird dogs and stay ahead of her on the all-night drive. Twice she’d wasted time checking out likely motels while the skip pressed on. Now here she was, twelve hundred miles north of Houston, in a state where she didn’t know a soul to call on for backup.
She hunkered behind a four-year-old Chevy sedan parked outside room 114. Her knees popped. Her back and leg muscles shrieked from too many hours on the road with too few stops. Scraping snow and grime off the Chevy’s license plate, she compared the numbers to those on her notepad. No match ̶ yet the car looked right.
Another blast of icy wind ruffled her short hair. Shivering, she unzipped her jacket far enough to reach her shirt pocket and pull out a grainy photo. She flipped it over, tilted it toward the morning sun, almost hidden behind a bank of ugly clouds, and studied the dealer’s description jotted on the back: cream, 1993 four-door Caprice, patched dent in right rear fender. Dann had probably snatched the plates off a parked car somewhere. Still, Dixie needed to be certain she had the right man.
She studied the faded blue drapes at room 114.
You in there, Dann?
Spying a maid’s cart stationed by the open door of room 120, Dixie ambled past and scooped up an armload of cheap white towels that smelled of soap. Snowflakes dampened her face. Catching a few flakes on her tongue, she filed the sensation in her memory for a hot Texas night. The frivolous part of her mind hoped the snowfall would continue. If she had to be in North Dakota on Christmas Eve, it should at least be a white one. Back home, snow was as scarce as snake feathers.
Approaching 114, Dixie considered retracing her steps to get the semiautomatic stored in the Mustang’s trunk. She didn’t like using deadly force when she didn’t need it, and Dann’s file hadn’t mentioned his owning any weapons. He was a salesman, for Pete’s sake, not a street punk. Walk in with a gun, he might panic, make a stupid move. Get one of them killed. No, she’d leave the .45 in the Mustang.
Cradling the towels, she unlocked a small stun gun from her belt and held it hidden in her right hand. Her palm felt damp. She juggled the stunner and wiped her hand on the top towel, then rapped on the dingy blue door.
“Maid service!” She flavored the words with a Mexican accent. Sometimes she found the smidgen of Apache blood that darkened her skin and hair to be remarkably handy.
Pretending not to understand English might buy her enough time to study the man’s face, get a quick take on the room, hazard a guess at whether he was alone; and she spoke a damn sight more Tex-Mex than Apache.
When the door remained shut, she rapped louder.
“Fresh linen, seňor?”
The door swung open. A hairy chunk of a man with bushy dark brows, a bold mustache, an angry jaw ̶ and a hell of a lot more muscle than she’d expected ̶ glared at her from the doorway. Dixie resisted a sudden urge to back away and try a different tack. He looked bigger, rougher than his mug shot. No shirt. Jeans zipped but unsnapped. Purple bags under fierce blue eyes. He needed a shave, and his hair was hiked up as if slept on crooked.
It was Dann, all right, drunk, child killer, bail jumper.
“The hell you want?” he thundered?
“I clean your room now, seňor?” Dixie’s gaze swept past him to take in the rumpled bed and the clothes spilling out of two plastic grocery bags.
“Hell no! Go clean somewhere else.”
“Que hora, seňor? What hour?” No roommate in sight. No weapons, either.
“The sign says I don’t have to check out till noon ̶ hellfire, it’s only ten-thirty.” Dann started to shut the door.
“Por favor, seňor, you take fresh linen.”
Dixie thrust the towels at his chest. At the same instant, she shoved the stun gun to his solar plexus, a fist-size mass of nerves nestled beneath the heart. Eighty thousand volts traveled from that sensitive mass to scramble his brain patterns.
Surprise, Dann.
Despite its limitations, Dixie preferred the stunner to more serious weapons. It was useless at farther than arm’s reach, dangerous on wet ground, and if you were actually touching your opponent, you’d get the full voltage yourself. But a stun gun was quiet and, in the right situation, remarkably effective.
When Dann jerked and started to fall, Dixie steered him awkwardly toward the bed. He landed half on, half off, eyes unfocused, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, like a fish.
She rolled him onto his stomach, with only his bare feet hanging off the mattress ̶ a quick glance outside to make sure no one had witnessed the scuffle ̶ then kicked the door shut. Locked and bolted it. She studied Dann for a moment: he looked dead to the world.
Unhitching the cuffs from her belt, Dixie scanned the sparsely furnished motel room. A heavy down jacket was draped over a ratty chair, a shirt tossed on the closet floor; still no weapons visible. She snapped the cuff on Dann’s thick left wrist, then had to reach across the bed for the other hand.
Incredibly, he rolled over.
The unexpected movement shoved Dixie off balance. As Dann rolled, the arc of his right forearm collided with the side of her head. Not much strength behind the blow, but damn!
He should’ve been out for at least five minutes. The stunner’s battery must be low.
As Dixie stumbled back, Dann hit the floor. He landed seated on his rump, legs out straight, hands splayed behind him on the worn beige carpet, bracing him from falling backward. His eyes were already flashing with comprehension. Dixie swept a quick appraisal over the powerful chest muscles and knew instantly she didn’t want to tackle this guy one-on-one. Her only hope was to restrain the bastard while he was still dazed. Or to get the hell of there. For a shaky instant, she wished Slim Jim McGrue were here to scare Dann into submission.
Stomping hard on his left hand from behind, she fished her key ring from her jeans pocket, wrapping her fingers around the Kubaton she carried there. Thick as a thumb, long as a ballpoint pen, and hard as steel, the Kubaton, like the stunner, was an up-close-and-personal weapon. Simple but persuasive. When applied with force to sensitive spots, a Kubaton could make grown men as docile as doves.
Thankfully, it didn’t require batteries.
Reaching around him, Dixie pressed it to the nerves in Dann’s right ear, forcing his head against her hip. Too much pressure and he’d black out. She wanted to avoid that, wanted him mobile to walk to her car. But without enough pressure, he could snatch the Kubaton and slap her against the wall like a bothersome horsefly. She wanted to avoid that, too.
“Put your right hand behind you,” she ordered, grateful to hear her voice sound strong and fearless. “Slowly.”
Dann didn’t move. She applied another ounce of pressure.
“You know the drill, Dann. We can do this hard or we can do it easy. So far I’ve been mercifully easy.”
When he tried to pull away, she pressed harder. She heard a satisfying grunt, but also felt his powerful back muscles tense against her leg. He still wasn’t convinced.
“The cosh in my back pocket,” she explained reasonably, “was invented by the Nazi SS. It can break a kneecap with one blow, quick as breaking eggs.” Absolutely true. She didn’t add that she’d never used it. “I’ll ask you once more, Dann, nice. Put your left hand behind you.”
She gave him time, holding the pressure steady, letting him think about it. After a moment she felt his shoulder move as he tried to comply, dazed neurons sending sluggish impulses to the arm. Then his left hand slid behind him, the spare cuff dangling.
“I’m going to move my foot,” she told him. “I want you to put the other hand back here, both wrists together so I can fasten the cuffs.”
Maintaining the pressure on his ear, she eased back on her boot heel and released his hand. He didn’t move. She knew what he was thinking ̶ once the cuffs were locked, he’d lose any advantage.
Another ounce of pressure on the Kubaton.
He didn’t move. The pain in his ear had to be nearly unbearable. Dixie waited, mentally counting to ten.
At five, she felt his back muscles flex … six …
She wished she could see what he was doing. She leaned forward … seven …
He was stretching his fingers. Plotting a sudden grab? Eight …
Her hand around the Kubaton began to cramp. She wondered if the stun gun had any zap left. Nine …
Wincing at the pain in her hand, she applied more pressure … and his arm brushed her leg as he finally, with a gravelly curse, complied.
Dixie reached down to snap the lock one-handed, then stuffed the Kubaton back in her pocket and wiped the sweat off her upper lip. After a moment, her heart stopped hammering.
The easy part was over. Now she had to ferry this scumbag all the way to Houston, a twenty-six hour trip after already being up all night. Taking this job had been as dumb as spitting upwind.
Meet me here next week for another slice of Bitch Factor.
And check out Slice of Life, another Dixie Flannigan book, in the video below:
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