eyes trained on the target.
He didn’t know how they’d tracked Pretty Boy down. A few of the guys were saying the boss man had an old friend in the NSA, which seemed valid. With access to phone and credit card tracking, you could pinpoint any old Tom, Dick, or Harry in the civilized part of the planet in half an hour.
And what Pretty Boy was doing, they didn’t know that, either. All they knew was that it wasn’t part of the playbook. He’d bugged out for a little R&R for the long weekend like the rest of them, but then come Tuesday, he didn’t show up. No word.
That was a week ago. Now they’d finally run him down, here in New York in this fancy Pajama Boy gin mill, of all places.
Devine watched as the hot bartender tossed Pretty Boy another interested glance. Had a woman, even an ugly one, ever looked at him like that? he thought. No. Not even when he gave them the money first. The bitter inequities of the world.
Yeah, Devine thought, nodding as he looked at Pretty Boy. He was going to enjoy this little piece of work.
It was about three minutes later when Pretty Boy put down his empty glass and stood up. He was heading toward the can. Devine had been monitoring it. There was no one in there.
Welcome to an evening at the improv , Devine thought as he suddenly slapped the phone into Therkelson’s lap.
“C’mon,” he said, already moving as he watched Pretty Boy push open the restroom door.
He sent Therkelson in by himself while he watched the hall to keep out any civilians. He heard some scuffling behind the door, a muffled grunt. Therkelson knew his orders. Neutralize him, then do a strip search if necessary.
He waited a full minute, checking his stainless steel Rolex, and then another.
What the hell was taking him so long? Devine thought.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed open the door.
And came face to face with the shocking and unthinkable.
Therkelson, the incredible Therk himself, was lying unmoving, facedown on the white tile.
As if that weren’t enough, as Devine stood there still gaping in wide wonder, one of the stall doors slammed open and cracked him right in the forehead.
An instant later came a searing pain in his neck as Pretty Boy hit him with Therkelson’s stun gun for a buzzing moment. Devine threw up jalapeño peanuts all over himself when PrettyBoy savagely kneed him in the balls. Several times, lightning-quick, like a Thai boxer.
Before he knew it, Devine was down next to Therkelson on his hands and knees like a baby, seeing stars in the tile work. Pretty Boy leapt him like a track hurdle and exited.
Palming himself up from his own vomit a few dazed and throbbing minutes later, Devine shook his head as he fished out his phone.
Here we go again, he thought as he dialed the boss man.
THE MAN IN black was a serious runner. He ran seventy miles a week on a strict plan. He did tempo runs and speed training. He didn’t just run 5Ks, he usually won them.
But he was gasping like a day-one Biggest Loser and had sweated clean through the back of his suit jacket by the time he came up the sixteen flights of steps and burst from the stairwell door out onto the hotel’s roof deck.
He scanned the deck. Dark blue-black sky and cold air. Rattan couches under string lights. A gas fire pit turned off now. No people. No team. They weren’t up here. At least not yet.
He thought he could find a way out the back of the hotel, but there was only the stairwell. There was no way he could have gone out the front. If Devine and Therkelson were here, they were all here, strung out in a perimeter.
He was in a slipknot now, which was tightening as he stood there.
Beyond the fire pit, there was an enclosed rooftop bar with a Reserved sign on a stand in front of its French doors. Throughthe glass, he could see guests and wait staff and tables set with flowers and white linens. A DJ in a tuxedo shirt bent by a turntable, and then there was a sudden blast of swinging trumpets and Sinatra
He didn’t know how they’d tracked Pretty Boy down. A few of the guys were saying the boss man had an old friend in the NSA, which seemed valid. With access to phone and credit card tracking, you could pinpoint any old Tom, Dick, or Harry in the civilized part of the planet in half an hour.
And what Pretty Boy was doing, they didn’t know that, either. All they knew was that it wasn’t part of the playbook. He’d bugged out for a little R&R for the long weekend like the rest of them, but then come Tuesday, he didn’t show up. No word.
That was a week ago. Now they’d finally run him down, here in New York in this fancy Pajama Boy gin mill, of all places.
Devine watched as the hot bartender tossed Pretty Boy another interested glance. Had a woman, even an ugly one, ever looked at him like that? he thought. No. Not even when he gave them the money first. The bitter inequities of the world.
Yeah, Devine thought, nodding as he looked at Pretty Boy. He was going to enjoy this little piece of work.
It was about three minutes later when Pretty Boy put down his empty glass and stood up. He was heading toward the can. Devine had been monitoring it. There was no one in there.
Welcome to an evening at the improv , Devine thought as he suddenly slapped the phone into Therkelson’s lap.
“C’mon,” he said, already moving as he watched Pretty Boy push open the restroom door.
He sent Therkelson in by himself while he watched the hall to keep out any civilians. He heard some scuffling behind the door, a muffled grunt. Therkelson knew his orders. Neutralize him, then do a strip search if necessary.
He waited a full minute, checking his stainless steel Rolex, and then another.
What the hell was taking him so long? Devine thought.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed open the door.
And came face to face with the shocking and unthinkable.
Therkelson, the incredible Therk himself, was lying unmoving, facedown on the white tile.
As if that weren’t enough, as Devine stood there still gaping in wide wonder, one of the stall doors slammed open and cracked him right in the forehead.
An instant later came a searing pain in his neck as Pretty Boy hit him with Therkelson’s stun gun for a buzzing moment. Devine threw up jalapeño peanuts all over himself when PrettyBoy savagely kneed him in the balls. Several times, lightning-quick, like a Thai boxer.
Before he knew it, Devine was down next to Therkelson on his hands and knees like a baby, seeing stars in the tile work. Pretty Boy leapt him like a track hurdle and exited.
Palming himself up from his own vomit a few dazed and throbbing minutes later, Devine shook his head as he fished out his phone.
Here we go again, he thought as he dialed the boss man.
THE MAN IN black was a serious runner. He ran seventy miles a week on a strict plan. He did tempo runs and speed training. He didn’t just run 5Ks, he usually won them.
But he was gasping like a day-one Biggest Loser and had sweated clean through the back of his suit jacket by the time he came up the sixteen flights of steps and burst from the stairwell door out onto the hotel’s roof deck.
He scanned the deck. Dark blue-black sky and cold air. Rattan couches under string lights. A gas fire pit turned off now. No people. No team. They weren’t up here. At least not yet.
He thought he could find a way out the back of the hotel, but there was only the stairwell. There was no way he could have gone out the front. If Devine and Therkelson were here, they were all here, strung out in a perimeter.
He was in a slipknot now, which was tightening as he stood there.
Beyond the fire pit, there was an enclosed rooftop bar with a Reserved sign on a stand in front of its French doors. Throughthe glass, he could see guests and wait staff and tables set with flowers and white linens. A DJ in a tuxedo shirt bent by a turntable, and then there was a sudden blast of swinging trumpets and Sinatra
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