Gualterio, former U.S. Marine and Austin, Texas, high-school homecoming queen, long legs, long chestnut-colored hair, dark eyes, smart mouth, red business suit with a three-button jacket and a tight skirt.
Hell. She was fucking a poet, and he was good for a laugh. Something wasnât right with the world.
Actually, a whole lot of things werenât right with his world, beginning with these small-time hoods thinking they had something to gain by killing Alejandro Campos instead of doing the smart thing and letting him make good on his deal with Gonzalez. There was plenty of action to go around, always a way for everyone to get ahead.
But nobody got ahead by going after Alejandro Campos. That was a strictly âgood way to get fuckedâ move. Heâd spent the last twelve years building the reputation that made it so.
Twelve years, dammit.
Twelve years to go from a street corner drug thug to a major mover with an estate in the Salvadoran highlands and the kind of entourage that was supposed to keep him out of rat-infested alleys.
Not today, though. He hadnât seen this disaster coming, and he sure as hell hadnât expected to get fucking shot and bleed all over one of his best damn suits.
Well, the street thugs had gotten all the blood they were going to get, and it was all soaked into the seat of the POS, the piece-of-shit four-banger.
Yeah, it was a hundred land miles to Barranquilla, but only two to the coast and a go-fast boat running four 250 Mercs. Heâd have Jewel back in whatâs-his-nameâs good keeping and be sitting in a Beech Baron, flying home to Morazán before Gonzalezâs staff finished cleaning up the mess that had started out as an elegant lunch with a little business on the side and ended with Mercedes
flambé
and a firefight in close quarters.
He had a package arriving this evening, a package with his name on it, and heâd be damned if he missed the delivery.
CHAPTER FIVE
Make it four sumo wrestlers, Smith thought, sitting next to Honey in the limo taking them to Howard Air Force Base, where they would board a C-130 to Ilopango. She wasnât giving anything away, least of all the damn combination to the briefcase sheâd honest to God handcuffed to her wrist. It was the only flaw in an otherwise flaw-less look. He didnât know how sheâd done it, honestly, he didnât, but in the half an hour sheâd had to get ready, sheâd managed to turn herself from a bikinied bimbette into a Park Avenue princess. All her wild curls had disappeared into a sleek French twist, and all those wild curves had disappeared inside a sleeveless canary yellow dress so simple it almost defied description. There was nothing to it: a front, a back, and a very thin black patent leather belt with a very tiny black patent leather bow in the front. That was it. And yet it looked like it cost more than his car. And it fit her like a glove. Every breath she took registered with a subtle rise and fall of canary yellow material. Every move she made, the dress was right there with herâand so was the damn briefcase.
For her own good, he was going to have to tell her the bad guys had a real quick way of dealing with wrists handcuffed to briefcases, and she didnât know it, but she would freeze her butt off inside a C-130 in a sleeveless dress. Fortunately, being cold was one problem he could fix.
âOur friend at the State Department did not give you a pair of handcuffs to wear,â he said. White Rook knew as well as anyone that in this part of the world, handcuffing yourself to anything worth stealing was a real good way to lose a hand, and the bad guys wouldnât hesitate, not for a second, no matter how pretty her French manicure looked.
âNo,â she said, arranging the briefcase more comfortably next to her in the seat, tucking it up against her large canary yellow purse. âThe cuffs are mine.â
Great. Just what he wanted to hear.
Hell. She was fucking a poet, and he was good for a laugh. Something wasnât right with the world.
Actually, a whole lot of things werenât right with his world, beginning with these small-time hoods thinking they had something to gain by killing Alejandro Campos instead of doing the smart thing and letting him make good on his deal with Gonzalez. There was plenty of action to go around, always a way for everyone to get ahead.
But nobody got ahead by going after Alejandro Campos. That was a strictly âgood way to get fuckedâ move. Heâd spent the last twelve years building the reputation that made it so.
Twelve years, dammit.
Twelve years to go from a street corner drug thug to a major mover with an estate in the Salvadoran highlands and the kind of entourage that was supposed to keep him out of rat-infested alleys.
Not today, though. He hadnât seen this disaster coming, and he sure as hell hadnât expected to get fucking shot and bleed all over one of his best damn suits.
Well, the street thugs had gotten all the blood they were going to get, and it was all soaked into the seat of the POS, the piece-of-shit four-banger.
Yeah, it was a hundred land miles to Barranquilla, but only two to the coast and a go-fast boat running four 250 Mercs. Heâd have Jewel back in whatâs-his-nameâs good keeping and be sitting in a Beech Baron, flying home to Morazán before Gonzalezâs staff finished cleaning up the mess that had started out as an elegant lunch with a little business on the side and ended with Mercedes
flambé
and a firefight in close quarters.
He had a package arriving this evening, a package with his name on it, and heâd be damned if he missed the delivery.
CHAPTER FIVE
Make it four sumo wrestlers, Smith thought, sitting next to Honey in the limo taking them to Howard Air Force Base, where they would board a C-130 to Ilopango. She wasnât giving anything away, least of all the damn combination to the briefcase sheâd honest to God handcuffed to her wrist. It was the only flaw in an otherwise flaw-less look. He didnât know how sheâd done it, honestly, he didnât, but in the half an hour sheâd had to get ready, sheâd managed to turn herself from a bikinied bimbette into a Park Avenue princess. All her wild curls had disappeared into a sleek French twist, and all those wild curves had disappeared inside a sleeveless canary yellow dress so simple it almost defied description. There was nothing to it: a front, a back, and a very thin black patent leather belt with a very tiny black patent leather bow in the front. That was it. And yet it looked like it cost more than his car. And it fit her like a glove. Every breath she took registered with a subtle rise and fall of canary yellow material. Every move she made, the dress was right there with herâand so was the damn briefcase.
For her own good, he was going to have to tell her the bad guys had a real quick way of dealing with wrists handcuffed to briefcases, and she didnât know it, but she would freeze her butt off inside a C-130 in a sleeveless dress. Fortunately, being cold was one problem he could fix.
âOur friend at the State Department did not give you a pair of handcuffs to wear,â he said. White Rook knew as well as anyone that in this part of the world, handcuffing yourself to anything worth stealing was a real good way to lose a hand, and the bad guys wouldnât hesitate, not for a second, no matter how pretty her French manicure looked.
âNo,â she said, arranging the briefcase more comfortably next to her in the seat, tucking it up against her large canary yellow purse. âThe cuffs are mine.â
Great. Just what he wanted to hear.
Similar Books
