“But how could she think I’d want to kill her?” Ozzie demanded, drumming his fingers on the dashboard impatiently.
Christian gritted his teeth around an order for Ozzie to quit abusing the leather and narrowed his eyes at Ozzie’s expression. If one were to look up the word wounded in the dictionary, one would find Ozzie’s puckered puss pictured beside it. It was obvious that despite what Ozzie proclaimed, Samantha Tate had come to mean more to him than a mere gal pal.
“It boggles the mind,” Christian mused, “given you’ve gone through birds the way a bloke with a cold goes through tissues, that none of them have formed a negative opinion of you. But the one Betty you haven’t shagged thinks you’re evil incarnate.”
Not that Ozzie had been going through women of late. In fact, as far as Christian knew, Ozzie hadn’t hopped aboard the shaggin’ wagon since the night he nearly lost his leg. Christian wondered if perhaps it wasn’t just Ozzie’s thigh that had sustained an injury. Of course, he dared not ask. Talk of whether or not a bloke’s manhood was up to snuff was best done over a pint. Or rather many, many pints.
“First of all,” Ozzie said, sliding him a withering look, “when it comes to bagging babes, I’m not like a man with a cold. I’m like a connoisseur of fine wines. Sampling comes with the territory, and those who are sampled love the fact that they’ve been savored by someone who truly enjoys their unique bouquet.”
Christian’s snort was the audio version of an eye roll.
“And second of all, you could look a little less delighted that Samantha is operating under some misguided notion that I…that I…”
“Kill people for a living?” Christian lifted a brow while making another lane change. “If the shoe fits, mate, lace it and wear it.”
Ozzie’s scowl deepened. Then he sat forward, pointing. “She’s exiting. Get over. Get over! Oh my God! Why are you driving like an elderly turtle? Let’s chew up some asphalt!”
“Cool your heels,” Christian muttered, downshifting and shoving his way between vehicles, ignoring the irate honks that followed his progress.
“The Basilisk is following, but he’s not trying to advance on her,” Ozzie observed. “He’s happy just to remain on her tail. What the hell is going on?”
Uh…like Christian should know? “Sorry. I left my crystal ball back home. Shall I pull over and fetch my tarot cards from the boot?”
“You, sir, are a boorish lout.” Ozzie’s affected English accent was actually quite good.
“And you, sir, are a slang word for male genitals.” This was a game they used to play before Ozzie’s accident. They lessened the tension of any given situation by devolving into name-calling and smack talk. Immature? Sure.
But bloody good fun.
“Speaking of male genitals,” Ozzie said. “I saw you staring at my rig yesterday when I was wearing those tight jeans. But just to be clear, while I love you, it’s more like brotherly love than—”
“I only stared because I’ve never laid eyes on anything so woefully minuscule.”
“Oh, you mean the minuscule bit of space left in the crotchal region of my Levis due to the enormity of my—”
“In fact,” Christian went on as if Ozzie wasn’t speaking. “I shouldn’t begin to imagine how you managed to bag all those babes, as you so eloquently put it, given you’re working with such limited equipment.”
“When it comes to women, I’ve found it’s best to lead with confidence, follow with comedy, and close with red-hot sex. I could give you some pointers.”
“I’m sorry.” Christian kept one hand on the wheel but used the other to cup his ear. “What language are you going on in? It sounds quite a lot like bullshit, but since I don’t speak it, I can’t be certain.”
“I’ll release the Kraken and prove it.” Ozzie pretended to reach for his fly. “Prepare yourself to behold the majesty of the ol’ Ozzie meatsicle. But fair warning, it’s been known to make folks faint.”
“From despair?”
“Nah. From its overwhelming size and majesty.”
Christian lost it. As he exited the highway and laid on the gas to close the distance to Samantha’s Mustang, he couldn’t stop laughing. Having a war of wits with Ozzie was always fun, despite Christian usually losing the final battle. But since Ozzie’s jocularity had dimmed of late, seeming pressured and somehow less, this bout felt particularly good. It was as though, after the bombing in Malaysia, all the Ozzie had been scooped out of him, leaving behind a dry husk.
“You keep your iPad back here, don’t you?” Ozzie reached into the backseat, foraging around inside Christian’s rucksack.
“Yeah, so?”
“Do you pay for Internet service for it?”
“I…” Christian frowned. “No. I connect to Wi-Fi and… What are you on about?”
“I’m going to use your iPad to hack into the police databases to bring up the CCTV and POD footage as we go. That way, if we lose Samantha, we can still track her through the city’s cameras. But since you don’t pay for Internet service, I’ll have to use my iPhone as a hot spot.”
“Oh, brilliant.” Christian had stopped being amazed at Ozzie’s ability to make magic with all things electronic and geeky years ago. The bloke was a mad genius. He could hack anything, program everything, and always make it look easier than tea cakes and scones on a Sunday.
“I think she’s turning.” Ozzie’s head whipped around just as he settled the iPad in his lap. “And the Basilisk just peeled off in the opposite direction. Why did he—”
But that’s all Ozzie managed when they saw Samantha’s destination. It was a police station, lit up like a Roman candle against the dark, rainy night.
“This should be interesting,” Christian muttered as he pulled into the station’s car park and chose a space three over from the one Samantha slammed into with a squeal of brakes that sent twin fans of water kicking away from her tires.
“While I figure out what the hell is going on, you call back to the shop, or ring back to the shop, as you like to say, and let them know we’re okay.” Ozzie’s hand was already on the Porsche’s door handle, despite Christian having yet to put the vehicle in park. “I’m sure Delilah called them as soon as we left the bar. No doubt they’re worried.”
Christian scowled as he switched off the engine. Ever since the BKI women had descended on the shop, he’d been made to feel like a teenager instead of the trained agent he was. “You realize those three sentences made my willy invert,” he grumbled.
“Oh, poor you.” Ozzie feigned a pout. “It’s so hard having a handful of beautiful women care about you, isn’t it?” He opened the door and jumped out, tossing Christian’s iPad into the passenger seat. The sound of the rain crashing onto the car park’s pavement was relentless before the door closed with a perfunctory thunk.