Page 25 of Bulletproof

When a throat cleared, Cristo looked beyond me, and his face broke into a smile. “Oh, Avery, there you are. I was looking for you. Are you ready to do business?”

He turned me around, arm draped over my shoulders, and I was faced with Agent Zane Calhoun in drag. The last time I had seen the FBI agent who hated me was a year ago in Dallas, when I was running from him. And now, there he was, with Sam, looking ridiculous, looking like a parody of a drug dealer, like a bad Saturday Night Live skit. He even had an earring. At least Sam didn’t have an earring.

I took a deep breath so I wouldn’t laugh or yell or rip the woman’s hands off the love of my life. I felt like I was slowly suffocating to death.

“I’ll be back,” I announced, pulling free of Cristo’s arm, walking from the room instead of bolting, proud of myself for not running and drawing any extra attention.

I had no idea where I was going. I just pushed and shoved, turning knobs, going from one room to another, passing by people talking, laughing, drinking, making out, doing lines of cocaine off tables, just being loud—it was a party after all—until I was in some room with a sink, maybe the kitchen or galley since I was on a boat. I should have just retraced my steps and gone outside. I needed air. I needed to breathe.

I clutched the counter and concentrated on calming my racing pulse. A loud bang startled me, making me gasp in alarm. The door had been slammed open so hard that I was surprised it remained on the hinges.

“What the fuck is going on?” Sam roared at me, coming around the counter, hands on my arms, fingers digging into my skin. “How the hell do you know Cristo Liron, and why the fuck did he have his goddamn hands all over you?”

“Who’s the girl?” I asked him.

“Did you hear me?” he yelled.

“Who’s the girl?” I repeated, my voice cracking.

“The girl doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he snarled at me, shaking me hard. “What matters is Cristo Liron—drug smuggler, gun runner, murdering piece-of-shit fuck—had his fuckin’ hands all over you! You have two seconds to tell me what⁠—”

The door opened, and Sam let me go, turned, pulled his gun, and had it leveled at whoever was there so fast that my eyes couldn’t follow the motion. It had been one continuous, fluid movement.

“This is un-fucking-believable!” Agent Calhoun yelled as he stormed into the room. “Are you kidding me with this? What the hell are you doing here, Harcourt?”

I was speechless, staring at both of them, taking in the whole picture. I was back in time, and I expected to see Don Johnson in a white suit and a sleeveless pink T-shirt at any second. They were both dressed in pastel Easter colors. It was surreal.

“You are putting us all in danger by being here!”

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, to respond to Calhoun, to the anger in his voice, but found myself at a loss.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled, throwing up his hands.

And just like that, seeing Calhoun’s disgust with me, I was back.

“What’re you wearing?” I asked him, my voice dropping low, suddenly just as annoyed as he was.

He picked up the closest thing to him and used it to punctuate his threats. “I’m going to have you thrown in federal⁠—”

“You’re threatening me with a whisk,” I pointed out snidely.

“This is an ongoing task force inves⁠—”

“I’m just saying,” I said, widening my eyes, “whisk.”

He threw the kitchen utensil at me, which I easily avoided, having only to lean sideways out of its trajectory. Not that it would have hurt me. I just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“You—” He stopped himself, turning to Sam. “Fix this now.”

“How?” Sam asked through clenched teeth.

“Get him out of here.”

“How?”

Calhoun looked at me, and I arched an eyebrow at him.

“We need to get out there before anyone notices we’re gone,” he told Sam.