one long sweep, before coming up and meeting her eyes.
âGood idea,â he said. âAs soon as I go through your suitcase, you can have all the clothes you want.â
The bastard, the mealy-mouthed, drug-running sonuva
â
âOh, my god,â she said, her gaze falling on his shoulder. âYouâve been shot.â
        Â
Of course heâd been shot. He was always getting shot. This was the second goddamn time this month.
âSkinned,â he said. âJust caught me across the top.â But it hurt like hell. Blood had soaked through his T-shirt and was seeping through and staining his favorite, ruined Hugo Boss suit jacket, the charcoal gray one with the shredded, ragged-ass tear across the shoulder.
Christ.
He probably needed stitches. He was always needing stitches.
On the upside, thatâs all he ever needed, a few stitches. No matter how knocked around he got, or how many damn times heâd been shot, a couple of stitches here and there had taken care of the problem. The worst thing that had ever gotten ahold of him had been dengue fever.
âIf you unhandcuff me, I-I could put pressure on the wound.â
How sweet.
âNice try.â He had enough experience to know he wasnât going to bleed out from getting nicked across the top of his shoulder, and truthfully, he wasnât absolutely sure it was a bullet that had gotten him. It could have been any one of a hundred pieces of crap that had been flying through the air as he and Lily Robbins had dodged bullets and death trying to get out of her house. No shots had been fired during his last sortie onto Somerset. However heâd been skinned, heâd been skinned during the first fiasco.
But heâd gotten the suitcase.
Which didnât really mean he had the bracelet. Not yet. Not according to Rule Number One.
Crossing Lawrence at just under light speed, he slid Charlotte up into fourth. There was no traffic at five-thirty in the morning, but the sun had finally edged up over the horizon into BMNT, Beginning of Morning Nautical Twilight, a clearly defining moment for the barbarians of the world. BMNT was their hurrah.
Spilled coffee was his. There was no way to hit fifty miles per hour in under five seconds and have a cup of coffee stay put on the console. It was back there somewhere, in the backseat, probably in his gun bag, running out of the cup and sloshing through his ammo and spare magazines.
Dammit.
The blocks whizzed by under Charlotteâs wheels, one after the other, taking them west through the neighborhoods and past half a dozen strip shopping malls. At five miles out, he felt they had enough distance from her house to make a stop. He either had the bracelet secured, or he didnât, and if he didnât, he was going to have to go back, cops or no cops.
Yeah, he was one of the good guys, too, but chances were, he wouldnât show up as a good guy in any database used by the law enforcement community of New Mexico.
Actually, there was no chance in that equation. His prints would have the Albuquerque chief of police doing a happy dance in the streets. Apprehending a notorious Central American drug dealer would just about make the guyâs whole year, maybe even his whole career. Not that the good chief would get a conviction, but it was best to avoid the whole mess to begin with by not getting arrestedâalso known as Rule Number Three.
Yeah, he lived by that one hard.
Pulling over, he parked the Shelby on a tree-lined avenue. It might be a nice gesture on his part to take the cuffs off Lily Robbins, and he would, as soon as he had what heâd come forâMark Devlinâs macramé bracelet.
Stretching back between the front bucket seats, he popped the catch on her suitcase. It was quickly growing light enough to see, and what he saw did not make him happy.
âDo you always pack in a wind tunnel?â
âWh-what do you mean?â
âGood idea,â he said. âAs soon as I go through your suitcase, you can have all the clothes you want.â
The bastard, the mealy-mouthed, drug-running sonuva
â
âOh, my god,â she said, her gaze falling on his shoulder. âYouâve been shot.â
        Â
Of course heâd been shot. He was always getting shot. This was the second goddamn time this month.
âSkinned,â he said. âJust caught me across the top.â But it hurt like hell. Blood had soaked through his T-shirt and was seeping through and staining his favorite, ruined Hugo Boss suit jacket, the charcoal gray one with the shredded, ragged-ass tear across the shoulder.
Christ.
He probably needed stitches. He was always needing stitches.
On the upside, thatâs all he ever needed, a few stitches. No matter how knocked around he got, or how many damn times heâd been shot, a couple of stitches here and there had taken care of the problem. The worst thing that had ever gotten ahold of him had been dengue fever.
âIf you unhandcuff me, I-I could put pressure on the wound.â
How sweet.
âNice try.â He had enough experience to know he wasnât going to bleed out from getting nicked across the top of his shoulder, and truthfully, he wasnât absolutely sure it was a bullet that had gotten him. It could have been any one of a hundred pieces of crap that had been flying through the air as he and Lily Robbins had dodged bullets and death trying to get out of her house. No shots had been fired during his last sortie onto Somerset. However heâd been skinned, heâd been skinned during the first fiasco.
But heâd gotten the suitcase.
Which didnât really mean he had the bracelet. Not yet. Not according to Rule Number One.
Crossing Lawrence at just under light speed, he slid Charlotte up into fourth. There was no traffic at five-thirty in the morning, but the sun had finally edged up over the horizon into BMNT, Beginning of Morning Nautical Twilight, a clearly defining moment for the barbarians of the world. BMNT was their hurrah.
Spilled coffee was his. There was no way to hit fifty miles per hour in under five seconds and have a cup of coffee stay put on the console. It was back there somewhere, in the backseat, probably in his gun bag, running out of the cup and sloshing through his ammo and spare magazines.
Dammit.
The blocks whizzed by under Charlotteâs wheels, one after the other, taking them west through the neighborhoods and past half a dozen strip shopping malls. At five miles out, he felt they had enough distance from her house to make a stop. He either had the bracelet secured, or he didnât, and if he didnât, he was going to have to go back, cops or no cops.
Yeah, he was one of the good guys, too, but chances were, he wouldnât show up as a good guy in any database used by the law enforcement community of New Mexico.
Actually, there was no chance in that equation. His prints would have the Albuquerque chief of police doing a happy dance in the streets. Apprehending a notorious Central American drug dealer would just about make the guyâs whole year, maybe even his whole career. Not that the good chief would get a conviction, but it was best to avoid the whole mess to begin with by not getting arrestedâalso known as Rule Number Three.
Yeah, he lived by that one hard.
Pulling over, he parked the Shelby on a tree-lined avenue. It might be a nice gesture on his part to take the cuffs off Lily Robbins, and he would, as soon as he had what heâd come forâMark Devlinâs macramé bracelet.
Stretching back between the front bucket seats, he popped the catch on her suitcase. It was quickly growing light enough to see, and what he saw did not make him happy.
âDo you always pack in a wind tunnel?â
âWh-what do you mean?â
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