Skip:Awesome! I’m going to go get a slice or five of some good old-fashioned New York pizza while we wait.
Fucker.
He knows I’ve been craving that since we got on the damn jet.
Another vibration.
Skip:I’ll think of your pretty face with each and every bite, Tank.
Me:Fuck you, Skip. Bastard.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Clinton watching me before he steps away from his table of polished lies and makes his way toward me.
With quick fingers, I flip my screen over and pull up GPS. I press on the food icon in the corner, and the map loads up just in time for Clinton to lean up and glance at my phone.
“Can I help you?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Is my demonstration boring you?” he asks, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone.
“Well,” I say flatly, “it’s taking you fucking forever to get started. So I figured I’d find the closest pizza joint to your warehouse. Might starve to death before you pull the trigger.”
His mouth tightens.
For a second, I think he’s going to snap.
Instead, he turns sharply and walks back toward his weapons table.
I smirk.
Idiot.
“He gets hangry if he doesn’t eat on time,” Maverick says smoothly from beside me. “It would be wise to proceed.”
Clinton forces a laugh.
“I’ll try to move things along.”
I don’t look at Maverick.
But he just backed my cover without missing a beat.
I want to believe he did it to keep my cover…but he’s not wrong either.
I do get mean when I don’t eat.
My phone vibrates again.
Foster:Package located. Waiting for extraction time.
Clinton claps his hands once and finally gets on with it.
The first round fires clean. Recoil’s tight. Minimal jump. Ejection smooth.
I hate admitting it, but the weapons perform.
Clinton watches us like a salesman waiting for applause.
Skip’s name lights up next.
