“That’s not close to what I meant, Muerto. When you get smashed out of your mind at this Bulgarian bar, how the hell do you plan to make a split second shot through a reflective surface?”
“That’s the beauty of what I have planned. I will also be a driver for a VIP, so I will only be allowed to sip a couple Vodkas. Guess who will be my VIP?”
“At least that’s plausible.”
“In a few days of not shaving, I’ll be scruffy looking enough to fool Sarac. I’d like you to do the same thing. We’ll keep them trimmed though so we look cool instead of like a couple of bums.”
“If you say so Scruffy. I’m glad we’ll have a few days to enjoy the high life before you jettison our lives into the toilet.”
“The only bad part of my plan is I’ll have to sacrifice a perfectly wonderful Barrett M82 sniper rifle I confiscated on a mission. I kept it for just this kind of set up, because I think it bad luck to use a dead sniper’s weapon.”
“Wait a minute… Muerto… you’re superstitious?”
“Hell yeah… at least about using a weapon I took off a sniper I killed. It’s not like I found it along the side of the road.”
Gus saw an opening as they walked along with Deke smelling everything in the park he could get his nose near. “Really, Muerto… that’s a little sad. It’s not the weapon’s fault its owner had a bad day. Maybe if you had a priest bless it, the curse would be lifted.”
“There is no curse, you prick. I drilled the guy right between the horns. The contract called for proof, so I had to get up close and personal. No way, I leave a nice tool like the Barrett behind. I brought it on our private flight for this purpose. I plan to use it on Dafar. If it were actually bad luck for me, I wouldn’t be planning on using it, now would I?”
“I don’t know, Nick. You said it was bad luck. If you weren’t El Muerto, I’d have to think you were acting a bit oddly over an inanimate object.”
“We better start heading back. It’s dangerous to run off at the mouth like you’ve been doing. Muggings still happen here in Central Park all the time, wise-guy.”
Gus chuckled. “Just sayin’.”
“I think before my character Jewel dies in a grotesque sexual self-choking scene, he’ll have an affair with an East Indian drug dealer afflicted with the flesh eating drug Krokodil.”
“Admit it, Muerto… you can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”
“Speaking of dishing it out and taking it, wait until you meet my editor.”
*
The elevator doors opened. Jean started to walk into the elevator, but Nick pulled her back, and behind him. Gus shielded and moved Rachel, Tina, and Jean a few steps to the side. Mohammed Dafar straightened from his leaning position with a sneer. “McCarty… here at the Trump… with your little family. How sweet. You baited me at the airport!”
“You confronted me in a public place. I didn’t know you existed until then.” The only thing Nick considered happily was the bodyguards weren’t with Dafar. “You know my name. Who the hell are you?”
Dafar caught the elevator door before it could close. “Perhaps it would be best you pray never to cross my path again.”
Nick smiled. I should have been more careful. I may have to alter my technique. “Or what? We’ll wait for the next elevator, but thanks for the warning, Mr. No Name.”
“My name is Mohammed Dafar! I warn you for the last time!”
“Or what, sweetie, you’re going to threaten me to death?”
Jean giggled, and Dafar went for Nick’s throat. Nick caught both his wrists. Dafar plunged to his knees as Nick squeezed and bent Dafar’s wrists. “Here’s the thing, sweetie. I don’t mess around on the first date. I’m a happily married man.”
Tears were forming at Dafar’s eyes as he tried not to cry out in agony. Nick threw him backwards into the elevator. The doors closed and the elevator resumed its descent. Nick turned to his friends and family.
“Sorry about that. Mohammed and I had a few issues to work out apparently. Our plans don’t seem to be progressing the way Gus and I thought they would. I’m sure Mohammed will be going in a different direction now. We’ll have to cross Mr. Dafar off our appointment list. Things have changed, Gus.”
“For the better, I hope,” Gus replied. “Are we still going to Stamford?”
“Oh yes. It’s only that I’ve concluded we’ll have to handle these Mohammed interruptions a different way.”
“I hope this doesn’t mean we won’t be going to dinner,” Rachel said. “I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Jean piped in.
“Me three, Gomez,” Tina added.
The next elevator arrived, and Nick motion them in. “Ladies first. Next stop, the Nougatine restaurant, where I’ve been guaranteed a fabulous meal. The only thing casting a shadow over our meal is the fact we have to share it with my editor. There may be some shop talk at the restaurant, so enjoy your meals, and remember this is a working vacation.”