Saint stares like this is somehow the worst thing she’s ever seen—and keep in mind, she’s buried more bodies than most cemeteries.
“Good for him,” she says flatly. “We need to go. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
She turns and starts back toward the car.
Which, of course, is when I give Skippy the slightest nudge on his shoulder.
He wobbles.
Left side. Right side. Left again.
A listing, drunken shuffle down the slope.
“Look!” I call after her. “He can walk!”
Saint turns with a look that’s a cocktail of disbelief, horror, and pure, exhausted judgment. Like she’s trying to decide if she should shoot Skippy again or me or both.
I pat the corpse’s shoulder. “Don’t worry amigo. She’s always like this.”
“I can hear you,” she snaps.
“I know,” I say, and Skippy tips forward like he agrees with me, face-planting in the dirt again. “Ah, fuck me.”
We ditch the car half a mile from the freight strip—no lights, no signs, just a sprawl of warehouses and cargo bays pretending to be too boring to bother with.
Perfect place to smuggle two assassins and a dead man.
I pop the trunk and pull back the side panel, revealing my rifle case nestled where the spare tire should be. Long-range precision. My actual comfort blanket.
I sling it over my shoulder and reach into the back seat for Skippy.
He flops into my arms like a sandbag wearing sunglasses. Only slightly stiff.
I hoist him across my shoulders and wait while Saint arms herself.
She’s checking her ankle sheath, sliding in an extra knife.
Reloading her gun with a fresh magazine.
Adjusting the strap of her harness like she’s preparing for a triathlon, not a felony.
I should not find this as attractive as I do.
Minutes later, we’re crouched behind a patch of tall grass near a chain-link fence that surrounds the airfield. A few truck headlights sweep the gravel beyond. Workers wander between loading docks, bored and oblivious.
I whisper, “Where exactly are we going?”
“New York,” she says without looking at me.
I raise a brow. “And what is in New York?”
She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a crumpled slip of paper.
“Takeout.”
She handsit to me.
It’s a receipt for Chinese food.
