The Gentlemen's Hour (Boone Daniels #2)

Johnny’s next two shots take out the Crazy Boy who comes in first, but the next one—the one they call Chainsaw—hits the floor, rolls to the right, and comes up shooting.

Diving to the floor himself, Johnny tips the coffee table in front of him, but it’s not much cover, and the little machine pistol blasts a swath across the top, sending splinters of glass and wood spraying across the room.

When Johnny comes up, he can’t find the shooter.

Chainsaw finds him, though, and is about to squeeze off another burst when his heart blows up instead.

Petra stands against the wall.

Pistol gripped in both hands.



150

Boone asks for a phone, and Rabbit gives him one. “Who you calling, the Brittita?”

“He’s calling the Brittita.”

“Boone’s in love.”

“In looooooove.”

She answers on the first ring.

“Pete?” Boone says. “Get out of there. Now.”

“It’s all right, Boone,” she says. “Johnny’s here. Just, please, meet me at the police precinct. I need you, please.”

Boone hears sirens in the background.



151

Boone stands beside the van.

Three bodies inside—two Crazy Boys and Jones.

Rabbit tosses Boone a set of sweats. “You should get out of those wet clothes, bruddah.”

“Wet clothes.”

“Eddie wouldn’t want you catching cold, da kine,” Rabbit says.

“Da kine.”

Boone peels off the wet clothes and crawls into the sweatsuit. It fits—Red Eddie is a big-on-the-details, Triple-A-personality, micromanager kind of guy. Which is all the more impressive given the quantities of dope he smokes.

“You’re slipping, Boone,” Rabbit says, “walking easy into your crib like that.”

“Slipping,” Echo agrees. “Advancing age.”

They’re both pretty casual about the corpses in the van. Why not? Boone thinks. With the warfare going on for control of the cartels, three bodies in a van is a subaverage day on the body count.

“I didn’t know they were looking for me,” he says, knowing how weak it sounds.

But a good thing that Red Eddie did.

Rabbit explains that Iglesias asked his permission to pick up Boone, knowing that Eddie had an interest and it was on his turf. Eddie didn’t give his good, his word was “hands off Boone.” But Iglesias did it anyway, which put Eddie in a bad position. He couldn’t let himself be disrespected like that.

So Eddie sent his boys to keep an eye out. They were surprised when Boone went out the window, and the boat was a little hard to track, but as soon as it pulled into the little marina in National City, they knew just where the van was headed.

“They used this place before.”

“Used it before. Habits kill.”

“Speed kills.”

“Speed kills,” Echo says. “Then habits.”

Boone hears yelling from inside the steel building. He opens the door and sees Monkey, hog-tied on the floor.

He looks in pretty tough shape, badly beaten.

“Monkey,” Boone says. “Oh, shit, Marvin, are you—”

“F*ck you, asswipe.”

Boone thinks Monkey’s probably going to make it.



152

Harrington takes her statement, and for once he’s respectful.

It’s a no-brainer self-defense shooting, just as Johnny’s is a righteous double shoot. Two of the Crazy Boys are DOA; the other might make it. Harrington has mixed feelings about that—on the one hand, it would be good to question him; on the other, it’s always convenient when one of them checks out of the hotel.

So he’s nice with the British chick.

For one, she’s a looker, even with the shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders. And she apparently saved his partner’s life. So even if it wasn’t pure self-defense, it’s going to go down that way. He pitches the questions to get those answers.

“You clearly thought that your life was in danger, didn’t you?”

“Clearly.”

“And you had no possible avenue of retreat?”

“None.”

“And you saw that Detective Sergeant Kodani’s life was also in immediate jeopardy?”

“That’s correct.”

“Where did you learn to shoot?” he asks her, just out of curiosity.

“My father insisted,” Petra tells him, still clutching the laptop computer she brought with her and will not let go. “He started me off on clays and rough shooting, and we were lucky enough to go on a friend’s shoot occasionally. When I moved to San Diego, as a single woman living alone, I decided to acquire a handgun—licensed, of course. I go to the indoor range from time to time.”

“It shows,” Harrington says, smiling.

“I took no pleasure in killing that man,” she says.

“Of course not.”

“Is Sergeant Kodani—”

“John’s in the e room getting some glass and splinters taken out,” Harrington answers. “He’s fine.”

“I’m glad.”

Harrington’s about to ask her out when Boone Daniels comes into the room. Petra gets out of the chair, sets the computer down, and throws her arms around him.

Harrington hates Daniels.



153

Boone takes her to Crystal Pier.

Her place is a yellow-taped crime scene, and she probably shouldn’t go back there soon, anyway. For a change, she doesn’t argue, just gets into a cab with him, and then lets him escort her into his home.

“Would you like a drink, Pete?”

She sits on the couch. “What do you have?”

“I have some wine in here somewhere,” he says, rooting through the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “I have beer and maybe some tequila.”

“A beer would be lovely, thanks.”

Boone pops open a beer, sits beside her on the couch, and hands her the bottle. She lifts it to her lips and takes a long drink, looking at him with wide eyes. He’s a little concerned that she’s in shock. “You want to talk about it, Pete?”

“There’s not a lot to say, really. I did what I had to do, that’s all.”

“You saved Johnny’s life.”

“Not before he saved mine,” she says. “I owe him a great deal.”

We both do, Boone thinks, and it makes him sad. They’d seen Johnny as they were leaving the precinct and he was coming in. He asked if Petra was all right, then thanked her, then looked at Boone and said, “None of this changes things between you and me.”

Boone didn’t answer him, just wrapped his arm around Pete’s shoulders and walked her out. But he’ll always be grateful to Johnny for going over to Pete’s. If he hadn’t . . . Boone doesn’t want to think about that “if.”

“Pete,” he says gently, “I’m going to assume this is the first time you’ve ever—”

“Killed someone?” she asks. “You can say it.”

“It isn’t an easy thing to deal with,” Boone says. “Even when you didn’t have a choice. You might want to think about . . . seeing someone . . . you know, to talk it out.”

“Why do I think you’ve been on the receiving end of that speech?” she asks.

“If I’d known,” Boone says, “that the cartels were in this, I’d never have involved you. And I’m really sorry.”

“I’m not,” she says. “I’m not sorry at all.”

Her remarkable violet eyes are wide and wet.

He leans over, takes the bottle from her hand, and sets it down. Then he pulls her close and wraps his arms around her.

She puts her face into his chest and sobs.



154

It seems like an hour later when she pulls away from him, sits up, and says, “Thank you for that.”

“No worries.”

“You’re a good man, Boone Daniels,” she says. She gets up. “I’m just going to splash a little water on my face and freshen up.”

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “You want some tea . . . something to eat?”

“Thank you, no,” she answers. “I think I’d just like to turn in.”

“You take the bedroom,” Boone says. “I’ll take the couch.”

She goes into the bathroom. Boone picks up the beer bottle, pours the remnant into the sink, and looks out the window. There’s something that still doesn’t make sense. The big money behind Paradise Homes came from the Baja Cartel, fine, but . . .