And by “they,” George knew Benton meant the Americans. And by “throwing over every rock,” George knew he meant they were looking for him. A hard, sinking feeling took hold of his stomach. “Why?” he wheezed, absently squeezing the brim of his cap. It was his habit to pull the thing lower over his face when he was feeling vulnerable. A tell he’d tried to quell, but just couldn’t seem to manage. “How? I mean, they can’t possibly know—”
“They’ll eventually connect the dots,” Benton assured him. The dots meaning the shoot-out in the square, the filched truck, the dead crewmen, the stolen Pilatus, and then the civilian flight out of Bogotá where he’d had to use his assumed name, passport, and credit card. “You better just hope they don’t connect them before you land,” Benton finished.
Shit, George thought. Then aloud, “Shit!”
“Eh?” the granny beside him asked, cupping a gnarled hand around her ear. “You need to speak up.”
“Sorry!” George nearly had to scream for her to hear him. “I’m not talking to you, love!”
“Oh!” She looked flustered, cute in that old granny sort of way. George tried to picture Bella growing old, tried to see her years from now as a sweet, deaf, wrinkled woman who’d lived a life of happiness and love.
If I have any say in it, he promised himself.
“No worries, love!” he told her, squeezing her hand. The bones felt as delicate as a bird’s, her skin as thin as parchment paper.
“Love? You know I don’t go in for that business,” Benton said. “I like the ladies and ladies like m—”
“Not you, you daft bugger,” George said. Then he got back to the point of their conversation. “Assuming they don’t connect the dots before then”—please, God, don’t let them—“I need to know what’s ahead of me. I need you to find blueprints of the shop that isn’t really a shop.” They both knew he was referring to the custom motorcycle business. “Assuming that’s where they’re taking the bastard.”
“Se?or,” the woman across the aisle said in heavily accented English. The way she was pursing her lips, one would think she’d been sucking on a lemon. “Do you mind? There are children three rows back.”
George could see it all very clearly. He’d grip the fork, reach across the aisle, palm the back of the bitch’s head, and jab the prongs straight into her eye. Blood would squirt. She would scream. And he would feel a momentary sense of satisfaction. But then he’d be wrestled to the ground, handcuffed, and arrested upon landing. And he couldn’t have that.
“Sorry,” he told her, smiling through his gritted teeth. Turning back to his conversation, he added, “I’ll also need tools.” And by “tools” he meant weapons. He’d had to toss his gun and knife before hopping on the civilian flight. “And something that makes a rather big, we’re talking huge noise.” And by “noise” he meant explosion. “And on the off chance I succeed and make it out, I’ll need all new papers.” And by “papers” he meant identification and credit cards. The ones he was using now under the name of Rupert Buttershaw—Spider’s counterfeit paper maker liked his unique monikers—were going to be too hot. Because Benton was right: eventually the Americans would connect the dots.
“Understood,” Benton said, reading between the lines. The kid was a right bright little shit, George would give him that. “You’ll also need to ring Sp—” Benton quickly cut himself off. “You’ll need to ring him up when you land. He wants to talk to you.” The bottom fell out of George’s stomach. “He’s not happy.”
“So what else is new?” George said tartly, disconnecting the call before Benton could respond.
* * *
Goose Island, Chicago, Illinois
Saturday 11:52 a.m.
“Who are you people?” Penni demanded from the backseat of the big, black Hummer when the vehicle’s headlights lit up the massive metal door at the end of the underground tunnel. With a pop and a hiss, the aperture slid open, revealing the first floor shop of Black Knights Inc. and a row of gleaming, whimsically designed motorcycles. The screech of grinding metal and the booming bass of high-volume rock ’n’ roll drifted inside the SUV. And Penni could just make out Becky Knight, blond ponytail swinging wildly as the woman used elbow grease—and a monster tool that looked far too big for her to handle—to whip a piece of sheet metal into shape.
“We’re Batman.” Dan chuckled, his voice all low and growly and Batman-y. “Er…Batmans.”
“Geez, I guess so,” Penni said a little breathlessly.