than can be said for my body. Every bit of me aches. I’m not designed for this kind of carry-on. I’m more a ‘watch an action movie’ kind of guy than a ‘star in one’ kind. I don’t have any requisite skills to take on bad guys.
I’m more like the guy that cops it in the first thirty minutes for being a dumb ass.
Jason’s the fat computer geek who gets it in the first five minutes.
Paavo … Paavo’s just got his ass kicked. He either comes back John McClane-style, like in the Die Hard movies, or he slinks off with his tail between his legs, becomes an alcoholic and dies a sad lonely death in a shack out in the middle of nowhere. He hasn’t said a word since the diner.
None of us feel like talking. We’re lost in our own thoughts. Jason and Paavo are probably trying to work out why they’re friends with a dumb ass who’s managed to drag them into the warped and wicked world of Aldo Pirelli, Redneck and Barry White.
I’m trying to work out why the hell I didn’t just go to the cops in the first place. And why I didn’t let Kevin Philips call them five minutes ago.
Instead of stopping this madness , I’ve let it roll-on, compounding my initial mistake. Not that we have a choice any more. We’re up to our necks in a sea of shitty trouble. Plus Kate is a hostage. Plus there’s a million bucks on the line. Even if we try and call a halt to it all and the bad guys go to prison, they won’t forget their million bucks. And they won’t forget us.
Jason lets rip an enormous fart.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jase,’ I say, wafting at the air in front of my face. ‘Wind down that window.’
‘You can almost taste that one,’ he says proudly of the foul stench.
And he wonders why he’s single and only has a handful of loser friends.
Paavo turns hard right without warning, the tires screeching.
‘What the …’ I mutter, grabbing hold of Jason to stay in the seat.
The van speeds up, racing through a plush suburban estate. Without slowing, Paavo turns a hard left, cutting across the path of a SUV driven by a horrified mother, two kids in the back. Something behind us thuds against the inside of the van.
‘Paavo! Slow down.’
‘We’re being followed,’ he says calmly.
I look in the wing mirror. Behind us is a black Lexus.
Barry White and Denise.
Damn .
They obviously didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know where Kate was.
Paavo turns hard left again, heading back to Telegraph Road. He sweeps right into the traffic, ignoring the red light and the blasts of horns.
Jason lets another loud fart rip.
‘For God’s sake, Paavo, you’re going to get us killed. And what if the cops stop us?’
He doesn’t answer , concentrating on weaving in and out of the traffic, one eye on the wing mirror. He swerves into the inside lane and mutters: ‘Hold on.’
Hold onto what? I’m in the middle seat. The only thing to hold onto is Paavo or Jason. This is why they invented seat belts. This is why I should be wearing one.
I’d assumed that Paavo was going to cut across the traffic and hang a u-turn to head back into town. Instead he slams on the brakes performing an emergency stop, the tires squealing as they fight for purchase on the tarmac.
Unable to counteract the g-force, and despite my braced legs, I catapult into the dashboard.
Fuck !
I bounce back in time to catch out the corner of my eye the Lexus fly by on our right, Barry White fighting to steer the car into the parking lot of a Wendy’s and avoid the low wall fronting the premises. He manages it, but only just and ploughs into the side of a minivan, before pin-balling down a row of parked cars.
Behind us a chorus of horns is blaring.
Paavo has already started to pull away. In the side mirror I can see cars slewed at odd angles across the road. Paavo has not only managed to lose Barry White, but to also cause a major pile-up.
On the bright
I’m more like the guy that cops it in the first thirty minutes for being a dumb ass.
Jason’s the fat computer geek who gets it in the first five minutes.
Paavo … Paavo’s just got his ass kicked. He either comes back John McClane-style, like in the Die Hard movies, or he slinks off with his tail between his legs, becomes an alcoholic and dies a sad lonely death in a shack out in the middle of nowhere. He hasn’t said a word since the diner.
None of us feel like talking. We’re lost in our own thoughts. Jason and Paavo are probably trying to work out why they’re friends with a dumb ass who’s managed to drag them into the warped and wicked world of Aldo Pirelli, Redneck and Barry White.
I’m trying to work out why the hell I didn’t just go to the cops in the first place. And why I didn’t let Kevin Philips call them five minutes ago.
Instead of stopping this madness , I’ve let it roll-on, compounding my initial mistake. Not that we have a choice any more. We’re up to our necks in a sea of shitty trouble. Plus Kate is a hostage. Plus there’s a million bucks on the line. Even if we try and call a halt to it all and the bad guys go to prison, they won’t forget their million bucks. And they won’t forget us.
Jason lets rip an enormous fart.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jase,’ I say, wafting at the air in front of my face. ‘Wind down that window.’
‘You can almost taste that one,’ he says proudly of the foul stench.
And he wonders why he’s single and only has a handful of loser friends.
Paavo turns hard right without warning, the tires screeching.
‘What the …’ I mutter, grabbing hold of Jason to stay in the seat.
The van speeds up, racing through a plush suburban estate. Without slowing, Paavo turns a hard left, cutting across the path of a SUV driven by a horrified mother, two kids in the back. Something behind us thuds against the inside of the van.
‘Paavo! Slow down.’
‘We’re being followed,’ he says calmly.
I look in the wing mirror. Behind us is a black Lexus.
Barry White and Denise.
Damn .
They obviously didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know where Kate was.
Paavo turns hard left again, heading back to Telegraph Road. He sweeps right into the traffic, ignoring the red light and the blasts of horns.
Jason lets another loud fart rip.
‘For God’s sake, Paavo, you’re going to get us killed. And what if the cops stop us?’
He doesn’t answer , concentrating on weaving in and out of the traffic, one eye on the wing mirror. He swerves into the inside lane and mutters: ‘Hold on.’
Hold onto what? I’m in the middle seat. The only thing to hold onto is Paavo or Jason. This is why they invented seat belts. This is why I should be wearing one.
I’d assumed that Paavo was going to cut across the traffic and hang a u-turn to head back into town. Instead he slams on the brakes performing an emergency stop, the tires squealing as they fight for purchase on the tarmac.
Unable to counteract the g-force, and despite my braced legs, I catapult into the dashboard.
Fuck !
I bounce back in time to catch out the corner of my eye the Lexus fly by on our right, Barry White fighting to steer the car into the parking lot of a Wendy’s and avoid the low wall fronting the premises. He manages it, but only just and ploughs into the side of a minivan, before pin-balling down a row of parked cars.
Behind us a chorus of horns is blaring.
Paavo has already started to pull away. In the side mirror I can see cars slewed at odd angles across the road. Paavo has not only managed to lose Barry White, but to also cause a major pile-up.
On the bright
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