Suds gets a lot of credit for keeping his cool as he aims his weapon. “We don’t want no trouble, we just want the truck.”
Sweat rolling off his forehead, the thug curls his index finger closer to the trigger. “Seems to me, I got nothin’ to lose. I might as well kill the bitch.”
Chapter 26
Rose
With the muscled arm around my neck, I gasp for breath, my vision fading. If I don’t move soon, it’s good night nurse. I once read high heels make a great weapon. Too bad I’m wearing sneakers.
About to lose consciousness, I lower my chin and chomp down on his tattooed forearm. Screaming, the man loosens his grip but as I duck through his looped elbow, gunshot ruptures my eardrum. Dropping to my knees, I hold my head in excruciating pain.
Soon, either Saint Peter or the devil should pop into existence. When they don’t and something touches my forehead, I lift a heavy lid.
Eyes on mine, ski mask down, Wheels taps my cheeks. His mouth opens and shuts but I can’t hear anything with Big Ben gonging in my ears.
“The redcoats are coming.” Even as the words exit my lips, I know they’re not quite right.Was I shot?“Why aren’t we moving? We need to go.”
“Are. You. Okay?” He forms the syllables slowly, in front of my face.
Hell no, I’m not. Paolo is right behind us.“Yippee ki yay. Giddy up, cowboy.”
C’mon brain, say something useful.I point up at a red dot in the ceiling. “Voldemort’s watching.”
Face hard, he takes aim, shoots, and barks silent orders to the rest. A few seconds later, he and his pals roll bodies out the back. The floor vibrates, the back door shuts, and as the truck jerks forward, I heave a sigh of relief.
A grim-mouthed Slate, lifts his black face covering and cups my cheeks with his lips moving but I shake my head, no. “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”
He pulls an iPad from inside his vest and types on the screen.
Is your ex following?
I nod. Close enough. It’s either him or my uncle Vinny. Both equally dangerous.
Chapter 27
Wheels
Shit. If Rose is right about Stephano, someone bankrolled him. I count three armor-plated SUVs with bullet proof glass and at least a dozen mercenaries.
Lucky glances between the double doors, shares a worried look with Suds, then turns toward Slate. “Should we call the Feddies?”
“Right. We’ll all say merry fucking Christmas and here’s a hijacked truck of designer drugs, just for you.”
Ignoring our boss’s biting sarcasm, Suds winks, then grins. “Well hell, I’d volunteer to explain but the FBI has banned me from every interrogation room in the US.”
The world-renowned rambler cracks the opening wider and sticks his head out. “Whatever y’all decide, you better do it right quick. Those bastards are on us.”
A shot rips through the metal, inches above his head. Everyone drops to their stomachs except Rose, who doesn’t hear a damn thing. After pointing out the bullet hole, I pile boxes around her body and motion her to stay low with my palms down.
Once she’s safe between crates, I help the others stack more in front of the doors. As we squat behind them, our comm unit crackles and Hands clears his throat. “The grenades are ready to drop on your say so.”
“I hope those damned fraggies work.” Our resident Aussie aims his weapon at a biker with a swastika on his neck.
Another rolls down a window, his silhouette lit by the car behind. After opening his Cruiser door, he rests the barrel of a semi-automatic in the glass’s gap. “Come out and we spare your lives.”
Because none of us inside respond, a spray of bullets lodge themselves in the crates. Wood splinters and stuffing flies but no one gets hurt. The fact his employer’s ex-wife could’ve caught a bullet doesn’t seem to be a problem.
Paulo’s a piece of work. No wonder she divorced him.
