On the Loose by Tara Janzen Page B

conspicuous—”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œâ€”especially when we get to El Salvador and head up into the mountains.”
    Okay?
    â€œOver there? Right?” she asked, pointing toward the poncho.
    â€œUh, yes, and if you could hurry it up, that would be...uh, great.” The last few words were spoken to himself, because Honey had already started across the hangar toward the “dressing room,” the briefcase still firmly in hand, locked around her right wrist.
    He really needed to take care of that.
    â€œFifteen minutes, right?” she said over her shoulder.
    â€œTen would be better.”
    â€œRoger that.”
    Roger that?
    â€œFive would be best,” he said after her, and it couldn’t take more than five. She had on one piece of clothing and was putting on two, a quick switch. He hoped.
    â€œThen I’ll do it in five,” she assured him.
    Well, okay, then.
    She disappeared behind the poncho, and he felt an unexpected glimmer of hope. If he could get that kind of cooperation for the next forty-eight hours, they might actually have a chance of pulling this off and coming out in one piece. He’d already decided that at the first opportunity, he was “requisitioning” one of the Beretta 9mm pistols on the pallet for her personal use. A lot of guys might have chosen not to arm her, thinking it would mean there would be one less person likely to shoot them—and yeah, he appreciated that reasoning.
    But she’d graduated Ivy League,
magna cum laude,
and she’d gotten a quarter of a million dollars across San Luis in the middle of the night. Those two deeds required two completely different types of intelligence. No one looking at her would think she had an ounce of street smarts, but she’d been smart on the street that night, and those had been bad streets.
    Yeah, he trusted her to be smart enough to safely handle a weapon without accidentally shooting him or herself. Campos had a firing range on his estate, and hitting it was going to be the first order of the day.
    In less than five minutes, she was coming out from behind the poncho—and looking good. She shouldn’t have, honestly. BDUs were utilitarian, except on her. On her they were a fashion statement.
    He watched her cross the hangar, somewhat dumbfounded, knowing there was a lesson to be learned here, but he’d be damned if he could figure it out. They’d given her a small tactical vest, too, and he’d be damned if he could figure that out, either. But she was loving it, opening all the pockets, looking inside, checking the straps and clips.
    He supposed, to her, it might look like a portable makeup bag or something. A year from now they’d be selling them in Saks along with the rest of her “outfit.”
    She’d rolled the trousers up enough to expose a bit of leg, and she’d rolled the gray army-issue socks down into two small, perfect cuffs on top of her black combat boots. Her dress was folded over her arm, but she’d threaded the narrow black patent leather belt through her French twist like a headband, with the bow in front. It was the finishing touch, tying the whole outfit together—black boots, black headband. The BDU shirt was open to the waist, exposing a light brown T-shirt. He hadn’t really noticed her gold chain necklace against the yellow dress, but it stood out nicely against the BDU T-shirt, and, of course, matched her gold earrings.
    She didn’t make sense.
    Nothing about her made sense.
    Him noticing every little thing about her didn’t make sense.
    He worked with women. He worked with Skeeter Bang Hart, who was a
fashionista
of the highest order. That girl had the clotheshorse sensibilities of a street urchin and a bottomless pocketbook to make her wildest dreams come true. But even dressed in a fuzzy pink sweater dress and pink suede go-go boots, Skeeter looked like she could kick a guy’s butt—and she