“Potential al-Rahma is looking to intercept,” Zoelner quickly replied. “I think this is it.”
“Move in,” Dan hissed and Penni’s heart was no longer a fist banging against her ribs. It was a giant ham hock of a hand squeezing her throat. Curling her fingers around Dan’s Ruger—he’d taken the Bersa, leaving her with the Ruger’s better aim, longer firing range, and bigger clip—she sighted down the weapon’s barrel, bracing it against one of the posts to combat the shaking of her hands. Blowing out a breath, she slipped her finger off the trigger guard and onto the trigger, noticing the latter was worn smooth from years of use.
Maybe they should have chosen Chelsea for this and left me to hot-wire the van…
The thought barely had time to finish swirling through her head before the world dissolved again. Only this time it wasn’t Dan’s handsome face that filled her vision. It was Mr. Hoodie. She kept his head lined up dead center in the three-dot sight. From one breath to the next, and with a few pounds of pressure, she could turn his skull into a big bowl of chunky salsa. And even though she’d never killed anyone, never had to kill anyone in all her years with the Secret Service, she knew she wouldn’t hesitate to one-eighty that status quo if it looked, for even a split second, like Dan might be in trouble.
And speaking of Dan…
From the corner of her eye she saw a shadow move from the street into the square. If she hadn’t been expecting it, she wouldn’t have noticed it. Noticed him. Dan “The Man” Currington. Dan “Her Man” Currington…maybe…hopefully? Honestly, she wasn’t sure. It all hinged on what happened once she told him—
Not now.
Right. Right. Now was not the time. Quickly filing away her thoughts under Shit to Be Dealt with Later, she searched the darkness beneath one of the trees surrounding the fountain. There. She spotted him again. Just a slightly deeper shadow in and among all the other shadows. He was as quiet as death. As still as a coffin. And now he was standing no more than ten yards from the potential bad guys.
Be careful, she begged him silently. She could smell the fear on her skin, taste its bitter flavor on her tongue.
“It’s him!” Zoelner hissed. “It’s Winterfield! Move, move, move!”
She watched mesmerized, terrified, locked-and-loaded and ready to fire should one of the men happen to see Dan and Zoelner materializing out of the night’s inky blackness and turn to take a shot at them. But she needn’t have worried. Winterfield and al-Rahma were completely clueless, caught totally off guard when Zoelner popped up behind al-Rahma at the precise second Dan materialized behind Winterfield, their guns held tight to each man’s head as if the whole thing had been choreographed and practiced for months. Al-Rahma instinctively turned to fight and Penni’s finger tightened on the trigger. But Zoelner clocked him in the temple with the butt of his weapon and the blow dropped the man to his knees.
“The next time won’t be a warning, motherfucker,” Zoelner growled. “It’ll be a bullet in your brainpan.” Al-Rahma held his wounded head and whispered something foul-sounding in Arabic. Zoelner must have understood it because he barked out a laugh. “Not even on your best day, you piece of shit,” he said.
As for Luke Winterfield? He proved something Penni already knew. That he was a filthy, stinking, no-good coward. Because he didn’t even attempt to put up a fight or run away. He simply raised his hands over his head and hissed a nasty word that translated through the mics Dan and Zoelner were wearing. Not that she would have wanted him to put up a fight, of course. Not with Dan on the receiving end of any resistance. But still…it was all a little anticlimactic.
“Luke Winterfield,” Dan growled. “Under the authority granted to me by the government of the United States of America, I hereby inform you that you’re totally fucked. You made a choice to sell out your country and now you’re gonna face the consequences. Reap the whirlwind, asshole.”
“Nice,” Zoelner said. “Have you been holding on to that one for a while?”
“Came up with it in Bogotá,” Dan admitted, a definite grin in his tone.
“I like it.”
“Thought you might.”
“Really though,” Zoelner went on, “I was expecting some quote from Ted Nugent or Eminem.”
“I can come up with my own material, you know,” Dan insisted. “It’s just I like to give credit to my hometown whenever I can. To make up for the place getting such a bad rap.”
“Maybe it’s because so much bad rap has come out of there,” Zoelner mused. “Insane Clown Posse comes to mind.”
“Hey,” Dan whispered urgently, “don’t say that too loud. You’ll have groups of juggalos beating down your door.”
Zoelner snorted.
“And just so you know,” Dan went on, “what I’ve learned out of this lifetime is you should be proud of where you come from.”
“I’m waiting…”
“Kid Rock said that. Via his Twitter account.”