Off Meds

Chapter 1

"Put on your pants. We're going for a drive."

Jorge Gamez froze. Why did he answer the door without his gun? He never answered the door without his gun.

"Sure," he told Carlos. He stepped into his pants and buckled his belt slowly, trying not to be obvious as he glanced left and right. "Just let me get my phone."

"You won't need it."

Of course, he wouldn't need it. What would a corpse need with a phone? He forced a nervous chuckle. "What if we get in an accident or something?"

"We won't."

Nope, definitely not an accident. Whatever fate Carlos had planned for him would be quite deliberate. Jorge pointed over his shoulder. "You know what? I just remembered I left the stove on. I'll just--"

"Leave it."

"You know, I think I might've even left the water running."

Carlos stared at him awhile. "You finished?"

Damn if it didn't look that way. Jorge dropped his gaze and nodded. He stepped onto the porch, reached into his jeans pocket, and came up empty-handed. He patted down his clothes. "Aw, man. Honest to God, my keys are inside."

"Get in the car."

"No, no, it's true."

"I won't ask again."

The two stared at each other for another long moment.

"Yeah, okay." Jorge left the door unlocked, hopped down off the porch and staggered across the sandy yard, the condemned man walking the Green Mile.

Parked at the street was a limo. Black. Tinted windows. Impossible to see inside. Jorge wondered who was behind the wheel. Didn't matter. His own mother wouldn't have stood with him against a man like Carlos.

No driver got out as they approached. Jorge slowed to a stop a few feet from the car. Carlos pushed past him and pulled open the driver's door to reveal an empty seat behind the wheel. No way. Carlos Rias drove himself here?

Wait a minute. No driver meant no witnesses.

"Get in, other side," Carlos ordered, and disappeared into the car without looking back.

It was now or never, Jorge realized. But if he ran, where would he go? Even if he somehow made it off this street, his friends wouldn't hide him. When a man like Carlos Rias came around asking questions, people tended to give him answers. Hell, they'd volunteer answers to questions he didn't even ask. No, if Jorge ran he wouldn't last the day.

Of course, if he got in the car he might not last the hour.

"I'm waiting," Carlos called out from behind the wheel.

Maybe the man wasn't here to kill anyone. Maybe he just wanted to talk without his driver listening. The thought helped Jorge gather the courage to circle the limo and slip into the passenger seat.

Just the two of them. That was good. If he had to, he could try to wrestle a gun from the other man's hands.

They took the road west all the way to 27. Jorge expected Carlos to keep heading west, out of Miami and deep into the Everglades, his go-to place when "going for a drive." Instead he flipped on his signal and turned onto the on-ramp. Jorge wiped his palms on his shirt front and stared helplessly at the constant stream of rush hour traffic to his left. People getting off work, anxious to get home, forget their troubles, and get on with their lives. Normal freakin' lives that could be expected to continue after today.

The limo seemed to be moving in slow-motion. Could've been nerves made it seem that way, but no. Jorge saw the speedometer stuck on forty-five as they neared the end of the ramp. A semi soared toward them and blew past at twice their speed. Jorge pressed his foot against the floorboard to no effect. This might be a one-way trip for him, but damn if he was going out in a fiery crash at the end of this ramp. He cleared his throat.

"Hey, man, you might want to speed up a little."

"Screw that," Carlos said, and steered into traffic. Tires screeched. Horns blared. The sounds were unmistakable, even from within the quiet interior of the limo. "It's like this every day. Assholes speeding, weaving between lanes. They can all go to hell. They're breaking the law."

Odd thing to say for a man who spent nearly every minute of every day breaking one law or another, but Jorge thought it best not to comment. He also thought they might go faster now that they had merged into traffic, but instead Carlos drifted into the passing lane--more muffled horns--and continued to drive forty-five as if he were the only car on the road. Behind, a black SUV pulled so close to their bumper, Jorge half-expected the driver to give them a little nudge to help them along.

Carlos glanced up at his rearview mirror. "Jerk." He slammed on his brakes.

Tires screeched. Jorge watched through the rear window as the SUV fishtailed back and forth and spun to a stop on the shoulder. A half dozen cars behind failed to match the maneuver, resulting in a sudden melee of broken plastic and twisted metal.

"Holy shit."

Carlos remained unfazed. "Serves them right."

A faint horn sounded from outside. A guy in a pickup next to them swerved close to their mirror and back again, leaning out the window and yelling in words that failed to penetrate the quiet.

"Now, what's this asshole think he's doing?" Carlos said. "Maybe I should teach him why it's not a good idea to lean out of a moving vehicle."

"Maybe you shouldn't."

"Why is everyone always in such a goddamn hurry, anyway? Like it would kill them to drive forty-five."

"Might today," Jorge muttered under his breath.

"They should try it just once, you know. I bet they'd find it relaxing."

Jorge would have felt more relaxed if Carlos had skipped the highway and made his usual trip deep into the Everglades. "In their defense, the speed limit is sixty-five through here."

"Sixty-five is the maximum. Forty is the minimum. You're supposed to go somewhere between."

The driver of the pickup offered one last hand gesture and sped away in a cloud of blue smoke as if Carlos were standing still. A caravan of cars began to soar past on the right, each honking and cutting close to the limo as they swerved back into the passing lane.

"Fuckwads," Carlos said. He looked over at Jorge. "Forget them. Let's get down to business. You know why you're here?"

Jorge didn't. "Obviously I've done something to upset you, and for that I'm deeply sorry. You know I have the utmost respect--"

"Yeah, yeah, cut the crap." Another driver slowed alongside them and shouted to get their attention. Carlos gripped the wheel as if debating whether to teach him the finer points about driving, but then eased his grip. "You hear about Donny Z?"

"What about him?"

"Run down in the street this morning on his way to get the morning paper."

"No shit," Jorge said. "Who still gets a morning paper?" Carlos stared over at him. "I mean, that's awful. They know who did it?"

"How about Big Pete's dive from a balcony last night? You hear about that?"

"Big Pete's dead too? Jesus."

"Yep. Lot of people dying lately . . . ever since the news about Victor."

Jorge blew out a shaky breath. Their boss, Victor Garcia, had been found dead in his study three days earlier, starved to death in his home. Joey Luccia had died more violently, shot in the back of the head at close range the next day outside his favorite restaurant. And then there was Miguel "The Mic" Sanchez. He'd had a mysterious run-in with a cement mixer not four hours later. A lot of people were dying. But what did that have to do with Jorge? "Wait, you don't think I had something to do with all of this?"

"What I think is that the beta dogs are all out fighting to be the next alpha."

"And you think I want to be the alpha dog?"

"Do you?"

"Hell no." Carlos gave him a long stare. Jorge fought to remember how to look innocent. He had to go back a lot of years. "Seriously. When you're at the top, you always gotta watch your back. I'm happy just doing grunt work." Seconds passed. "Um, you might want to watch the road."

Carlos continued to study him a few more seconds. Finally he looked away. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. I think that's a wise attitude." His hand disappeared beneath the fabric of his shirt. "But I'm not sure I believe you."

Shit. Jorge froze, not sure whether to dive at the man, jump out of the car, wait to see if Carlos scratched an itch . . . He was saved from having to make a decision when a driver to their right angled toward them and crashed into the side of their car beneath a shower of sparks. The black SUV again.

"Fuck." Carlo's hand shot back to the wheel. He veered onto the shoulder and back, barely maintaining control of the car, and then hit the gas. "Fuckin' fucker." He reached under his shirt again, pulled out a goddamn Desert Eagle and aimed it straight at Jorge's head.

"Hey, I'm not the one crashing into us!"

"Roll down your window and get out of the way. This guy needs a driving lesson."

Jorge rushed to do as he was told. Carlos kept one hand on the wheel and leaned across Jorge's lap for a better view. Jorge couldn't see inside the SUV--What was it with people and cars with tinted glass?-- Then the window started to glide open and Carlos, inches from Jorge's ear, yelled, "Hey, shithead, where'd you learn to drive?"

Where Jorge expected to see a man's face, two black-gloved hands appeared, holding what looked to be an Uzi. Jorge flattened himself against the seat back and avoided the spray of bullets that nearly separated Carlos's head from his shoulders. Unfortunately, the well-timed maneuver managed to prolong Jorge's life by only six seconds, the length of time it took for the driverless limo to drift off the road, rattle across the bumpy shoulder, and slam into a bridge abutment that had been ill-fatedly positioned directly in their new path.

In those last few moments, Jorge was now sure he had screwed up. He should have run.



Chapter 2

Aside from this one time when her estranged half-brother tried to shoot her, the same day that a Florida crime lord put out a hit on her and twelve starving monkeys mauled her Zombie Slut boss, Emma Kilter would have described her life as fairly ordinary. Take this past Saturday, for example. All she did was attend a wedding with her boyfriend, Zach. True, a month earlier she had slept with the groom in a moment of weakness, and yes, Zach had slept with the bride that same night in a similar moment of horniness, but given all the murders that had occurred that night, a couple of one night stands hardly seemed worth noting. Anyway, aside from the murders and the sleeping with the bride and groom thing, it could have been just any other Saturday.

At least until the reception, when Non-Gay Marcel announced that Victor Garcia, the most notorious crime lord in the Miami area and father to Lexi Delaney, the aforementioned boss of mauled-by-monkey fame, had starved to death in his own study.

Non-Gay Marcel was Zach's nickname for a transvestite Emma had met when she took a job a month ago as a personal assistant to Lexi. Working for the teenage actress had proved particularly challenging, what with Lexi being a spoiled brat who had starred in a series of Zombie Sluts from Outer Space movies only because her father was, in addition to being a widely feared crime boss, the producer.

But aside from that, Emma's life was pretty ordinary.

At the moment she was behind the wheel of her car. She had just pulled onto the highway when the radio started to play Sheryl Crow's A Change Would Do You Good. Not true. Emma had tried change. Change was overrated. She wanted normal, dammit.

Traffic slowed to twenty-five, as it often did this time of day. Maybe Emma didn't want normal. Ahead, some idiot was leading the pack with a mile of open space in front of him.

"What is wrong with people?" Emma asked the empty car. Sheryl Crow answered with something about catching a train. "Not a bad idea." Emma was recalling just how much she hated Mondays when a stream of taillights ahead lit up, forcing her to brake to a sudden stop. "No, no, no." She just wanted to get home, kick off her shoes and eat dinner.

Traffic remained stopped for several seconds. Followed by several more seconds.

"Great."

Emma's phone rang. She picked it up and glanced at the screen. Someone calling from work. Fortunately, not Emma's old PA job, where everyone had literally tried to kill her. Her current job. The one she quit before working for Lexi and returned to after. Her nice, calm, non-lethal office job as the manager of Dr. Hoolihan's veterinary clinic in Miami Shores.

The phone rang again. Emma debated letting it go to voicemail. Most days she loved working for Dr. Hoolihan--or Dr. Hoo, as the girls at the office affectionately called him--but today had been the worst. She should have known to turn around and head home first thing this morning when she arrived at the office and saw over a dozen people already waiting outside with their pets. Among them, Mrs. Butterbaum with her Labradoodle, Lulu--the one who always lost control of her bladder at the sight of another dog, no matter how small. Emma had needed to clean the floor four times before Dr. Hoo even arrived. What did Mrs. Butterbaum do, force-feed Lulu five gallons of water before she brought her to the vet?

Emma sighed and hit Accept.

"Sto--ing! Mis--er--monkey is ti--your--!"

"What?" Emma said. She could tell the call was from Willemina, Dr. Hoo's receptionist, but not much else. "Willemina, I can't hear you. You're breaking up."

"--ving--en--er--" The call went dead.

Emma checked her screen again. The call had dropped. No signal. Did Willemina say something about a monkey? After the whole monkey-mauling incident with Lexi, Emma would have been happy to never see another of those foul creatures again in her life. But Willemina sounded desperate, which could mean only one thing. An emergency at the clinic. No, not just an emergency. An emergency involving a monkey.

Emma looked to the sky. "Which part of 'No, no, no' did you not understand?"

Wait, what kind of monkey emergency required assistance from an office manager? Didn't matter. If Willemina was calling, Emma must be needed. A good employee would go back.

Emma looked at the endless line of traffic ahead and debated if she was a good employee.

Soon the cars ahead began to move, and so did Emma. A minute later she crept past an area where no less than six wrecked vehicles were arranged haphazardly on the shoulder. Things could be worse. She could have been part of that. Once she made it past, traffic started flowing again, at a mind-numbing forty-five miles per hour.

"Please, people. The gas pedal is on the right."

A black SUV rode up on her bumper and threatened to drive through her, as if she could just ignore the line of cars ahead and speed up. "Get off my ass," she told the driver by way of her rearview mirror. If anything, the SUV moved closer. The driver's mouth moved. He waved his arms and yelled in words impossible to hear.

"What an asshole." She shot him the finger and then tilted the mirror so she wouldn't have to deal with his stupidity. When she looked back to the road, the taillights ahead were lit up. "Auugh!" She broke to a sudden stop and cringed, waiting for the crash from behind. Nothing. She adjusted her mirror so she could see the SUV again. "Oh, crap." The driver, a hulking man in a bright red shirt, had climbed out from behind the wheel.

Emma checked her door lock. The brake lights ahead flashed off. She hit the gas. In her side mirror she saw the man run back to the SUV and hop inside. Her heart pounded in her chest. What was that guy thinking? She'd shot him the finger, so he was going to what? Beat her senseless with a tire iron?

Wait, what if he had a gun? Or an ax? Why not? Whenever Emma was imagining things that could happen, she always shot for worst-case scenario. Like now, when she considered that whatever that maniac had been thinking, he'd still be thinking it next time she was forced to brake.

She pulled out her phone to call Zach, as if there was something her boyfriend could do to save her. Ahead traffic stopped again. Emma stomped on the brake and checked her side mirror. The man behind threw his SUV in park and hopped out.

Emma freaked. Cars to the right were still moving, so she shot into a gap barely longer than her Civic, ignoring the horn from behind, and braced for the crash that never came. Okay, she was moving, but was she moving faster than the maniac could run? She rechecked her mirror, barely reacting in time when the driver in front of her tapped his brakes. An exit loomed just a quarter-mile ahead. Emma swerved onto the shoulder and hit the gas. She reached the exit before she gathered the courage to check her mirror again. Someone else had pulled onto the shoulder too, a tiny dot in the distance. Could be an SUV, but it was too far away to tell.

Objects are closer than they appear, Emma reminded herself and floored the pedal to make the light at the end of the ramp.

She jumped back on the expressway in the opposite direction and took a calming breath. Even if the crazy man did get off after her, he was too far behind to witness her loop back. She reached the clinic ten minutes later, glad to put that nightmare behind her. As she climbed out of the car, a black SUV soared into the lot and slid to a stop between her and the door to the clinic. Had to be a coincidence. A man jumped out and ran toward her. A huge man. Bright red shirt.

"Oh, shit."

Emma screamed and ran for the street, only to be stopped by a wall of rushing traffic. This was it. She was going to be hacked to pieces by an ax murderer feet from safety because instead of going home like she wanted, she had been a diligent employee and returned to the office. Who would have thought she would have survived working for the daughter of Florida's most-feared crime lord only to be killed working for Dr. Hoo?

But the man didn't chase her. He stopped behind her car, caught his breath, and shouted, "Oh, thank god!"

Emma looked where he was looking. A monkey was standing spread-eagle on her bumper, his furry arms splayed to grip the crack between the car's trunk and body, looking like one of those stuffed Garfields you see stuck onto windows by four legs on suction cups. "Oh, my lord."

The man peeled the frightened animal off her trunk. "It's okay, girl. You're safe now."

"Why is there a monkey clinging to my car?"

"I just hooked her leash to your luggage rack for a second while I got out her carrier, and when I straightened up again, there you were, pulling out of the lot."

"You did what? Why would you have your monkey on a leash and not in the carrier? That's exactly the purpose of a carrier: to carry the monkey. If she's not in the carrier when you drive her over here, what's the point in bringing it?"

"I'm dropping her off for the week. The doc said I had to bring a carrier if I left her here."

Emma realized this must be the emergency Willemina was calling about. She took a calming breath. The monkey was actually kind of cute. He was dressed in a tiny red cap and vest, just one tin cup away from collecting tips for an organ grinder. "Well, I'm just glad she's okay."

"Okay? She's not okay. She's traumatized. Who just drives off without checking to see if there's a monkey strapped to their luggage rack?"

"Literally everyone."

"I'm thinking of suing."

"What? You're the one who hooked her to my car. And if anyone here is traumatized, it's me. When you jumped out of your car back on the highway, I thought I was going to crap my pants."

"I was trying to save Davy Jones, but you didn't care. You wouldn't stop."

"Davy Jones? I thought you said this monkey was a she."

"Yeah, but she's also a monkey."

Four more black SUVs soared into the lot and slid to a stop. Emma froze. "Oh, lord, now what?"

Agents in FBI ball caps and black flak jackets jumped out of cars and raced toward the clinic, waving rifles and shouting, "Move, Move, Move!"

Emma didn't need to be told twice. Or in this case, three times. She dove to the side as the agents ran past, flung open the door to the clinic, and raced inside single file to the sounds of women screaming, men shouting, and no less than two dozen dogs barking.

The man in the red shirt shook his head and retreated to his car. "What kind of operation are you running here? You'll be hearing from my lawyer."

Emma leaned in front of the door opening, trying to get a look inside. In a few moments, the madness was over. Two FBI men emerged, leading Dr. Hoolihan in handcuffs.

"What's going on?" she asked. No one answered.

"Call my lawyer," Dr. Hoolihan shouted over his shoulder. An agent pressed a hand over his head and guided him into one of the SUVs. Two more agents stepped out of the clinic carrying computers.

"Excuse me," Emma said. "Who's in charge here?"

Still no answer. They walked to their vehicles.

"Oh, Emma, thank god you're here." Willemina appeared in the open doorway. Two more agents nudged her out of the way and hurried past with boxes full of paper files.

"Willemina, what's going on?"

"Oh my god, you should have been here. These agents burst in, shouting and waving rifles and yelling for everyone to hit the ground. It was terrifying. Mrs. Tillsdale's poodle peed all over the floor. I think Mrs. Tillsdale might have too."

"But what's this about? Why'd they take Dr. Hoo away in handcuffs?"

"I don't know. Something about him trafficking in opioids."

"Dr. Hoolihan? You're kidding?"

"Emma, I think we just lost our jobs."

Another vehicle pulled into the lot. Did everyone in Florida own a black SUV? It's hot in Florida, people. Black attracts the sun.

The driver climbed out. No flak jacket. No bright red shirt. He watched curiously as the four FBI men climbed into their SUVs and pulled out of the lot. Then he walked over to where Emma and Willemina were standing.

"Is one of you Emma Kilter?"

"That would be me," Emma said.

"Oh, good." He handed her an envelope. "You've been served."

"Already? How is that even possible?" Emma looked to the sky again. "This is what you consider normal?"