Three seconds later, a beanpole in ripped jeans entered the café by way of the kitchen. He gave the dining room a bored glance, lifted his chin in a “whaz up” gesture at Grafton’s three goons, and smirked at Grafton’s silly getup before sauntering over to the table where Sonya and Angel sat. Black hair, black eyes, and skin the color of dark-roast coffee contrasted starkly with the white AC/DC T-shirt stretched across his skinny shoulders. He’d used a single finger to hook his leather jacket over his shoulder.
Even had Angel not known the man was Al-Qaeda—the kid, honestly; if the asshat was older than twenty-two, Angel would eat his tactical boots—he still would have labeled him as the definition of a shitbag. He wore an air of superiority that spoke of a permissive upbringing. Angel could tell by the way he carried himself that he was drunk on what little power he had in this situation.
His cockney accent was as thick as the pistachio halvah Angel’s mother used to make as he grabbed the empty seat and said, “Oy! Ain’t never been outside of England, but if this place is what the rest of the world looks like, I ain’t been missin’ much, now have I?”
“You’re English.” The two words came out of Sonya’s mouth the way most people would say, You drown kittens in barrels or You smother babies in their cribs.
AC/Dickmunch smirked, revealing a set of big, crooked teeth. “East Ender born and raised, luv.”
“But wh-why?” she sputtered. “Why would you…” She stopped there, shaking her head in confusion, obviously having trouble understanding how he could have grown up in a world of Western privilege and freedom only to side with a group of murderers, thieves, and sadists who’d embraced a nihilistic, almost medieval interpretation of Islam.
“Throw in my lot with those mad hatters named Al-Qaeda?” AC/Dickmunch finished for her. When she nodded, he said, “They’re the future of the Muslim world.” His eyes were those of a true believer.
No doubt the kid’s extremism had been forged in the crucible of online propaganda and fostered by the radical teachings of some zealous imam. Angel knew so many young men like him, raised in Western societies but marginalized within those societies because of the color of their skin or their religious beliefs. It wasn’t an excuse. It was a fact.
“Now”—the scrawny little bastard turned to Angel—“you got the goods or what?”
Angel was tempted to take out the canister of uranium and brain both Grafton and AC/Dickmunch. The world would be a much safer, much saner place without either of them in it. But cooler heads prevailed.
AC/Dickmunch glanced inside the bag after Angel handed it to him. “That’s it, eh? That’s the stuff?”
“That’s the stuff,” Angel assured him. Grafton had meant for Sonya to facilitate the exchange, but if the look on her face was anything to go by, it was taking everything she had not to jump up from the table and run screaming from the café. She fiddled nervously with the button on her blouse and stared wide-eyed at the kid.
“Don’t look like much,” he observed.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Angel assured him.
“Ain’t that the truth.” AC/Dickmunch winked as he pushed away from the table and stood.
Before he could disappear through the back door, Grafton elbowed Sonya. She cleared her throat. “Uh, when can we expect the…er…” She grimaced, and Angel could tell she didn’t want to voice the question Grafton had insisted she ask. “The fireworks?”
“Seven days.” The kid grinned around his big, crooked teeth. Then he shoved through the door and departed as quickly as he’d arrived.
Angel clenched his hands into fists. He’d spent too many years keeping that stuff out of the clutches of crazy-eyed little jackwads like AC/Dickmunch to feel comfortable handing it over without a fight. But he knew better than to do anything that would screw up the plan.
The roly-poly waiter appeared once more in the doorway. He tug-tug-tugged away at his beard and eyed Grafton. Grafton’s nod was a subtle downward jerk of his chin, but that was all it took for the waiter to walk to the front door and turn the lock.
And so it begins…
Angel coiled in readiness, covertly scooting to the edge of his seat and lightly moving his tactical boots so they were on either side of his chair. The instant one of the bodyguards made a move, he’d spring up and disarm him. What happened after that would have to be played by ear.
“Sonya and I are going to exit out the back,” Grafton said, standing and motioning for Sonya to do the same. “Angel, you and the others can follow us in ten minutes.”
Sonya’s expression was puzzled as she looked from Grafton to Angel and back again. “What? Why?”
“Because I want to make sure—”
“Let me stop you from squeezing a bullshit log out of that face anus you call a mouth,” Angel interrupted. Just because he wasn’t much for words didn’t mean he didn’t know how to employ a little artistic license when the occasion called for it. “You have no intention of letting me leave this café. You never did.”
“What?” Sonya suddenly stood, clutching her purse tightly against her chest. Lucky purse.
Grafton’s sneer said he’d like nothing better than to destroy the planet. Starting with Angel. “Come, Sonya.” Grafton turned toward the back door at the same moment Lead No-Neck pushed away from the wall again.
A palpable menace emanated from the approaching man. Even from a distance of nearly ten feet, Angel could smell the brute’s foul breath, see the murderous intention in his squinty eyes. In Angel’s mind’s ear tick-tocked a clock. It counted down the seconds until it was go-time.
Three.
Two.
