that way, at least.
He ceased all activity and took a deep breath. He placed the coffee carefully on the dash and pulled his other hand out from under his jacket.
“What?” he mouthed.
She indicated for him to roll down the window.
Bulletproof
, he thought.
Doesn’t roll down. Ever
.
He shook his head.
She pouted.
He tapped the window, made a rolling down gesture, and slashed his other hand across that, indicating, he hoped in truck stop language, that the window was indeed incapable of being opened.
She pointed past him and looked over his shoulder, while his hand—the correct one this time—was going for the gun. But he saw no threat behind him. He looked back at her quizzically.
She smiled and slowly pulled the sucker from her mouth. Then she pointed at it at him, and then past him at the passenger seat.
It didn’t even take a year of college to figure that out.
Then she signaled with two fingers and then a zero.
Twenty bucks?
The Courier thought of that smart-assed college girl.
He glanced down at the muted GPS display. Area 51 was 429 miles away and then he’d have to debrief, fill out a shitload of paperwork, and drive two hours to get to Vegas.
Too damn far and too long.
He nodded, and she walked around the front of the van.
As she did so, he pulled the Glock out and placed it on his left side, within ready reach. He took out his wallet, removed a twenty, and shoved the wallet farther down on the left side of the seat. He wasn’t stupid, after all. Hookers were known to rob people. Let her try and she’d be in for a surprise.
Thinking of pulling the Glock on her excited him as much as watching her climb in the door as he shoved it open for her. She tossed the sucker over her shoulder as she squirmed in.
She smiled, didn’t say a word. She took the twenty and leaned over into his lap.
College girl would have still been talking, he thought.
She unzipped him. Her hand was cold, but exciting enough, and he thought once more of the Glock, of putting it against her head as her lips closed on him. He leaned back, fingers closing around the grip of the Glock, eyes half-closed.
She pulled her mouth off him with the same slow movement she’d done with the lollipop.
He looked down. She smiled up at him with wide, innocent eyes as she shoved open the driver’s door.
Stunned, the Courier looked to his left, into the visage of a human monster. The man’s face was terribly scarred, with lateral marks across it as if he’d been flayed. The man smiled as hejammed the icepick into the soft spot on the bottom of the Courier’s jaw, right up into his brain.
He was dead before the Glock hit the floor.
The girl screamed and scrambled back against the passenger door.
“You said you were robbing him! Not killing him!”
“I am robbing him,” Burns said. He had a silenced Beretta in his off hand and he fired a round right between her eyes, following it up with a second bullet, sticking to Nada’s Yada to always double-tap in the head and make sure they’re dead.
Two beers were all the Nightstalkers were allowed, although Mac snuck four. Moms was firm about that rule in the Den, but it was her and Nada’s turn to in-brief the newly minted Kirk. Roland, Mac, and Eagle ambled off to their little rooms—cells almost—to catch some Zs while Kirk cleaned up before going into the CP. New guys always cleaned up. It was the same in every unit around the world.
As Kirk tossed the last can into the trash, the door to the Den from the outside corridor hissed open and a short man with glasses walked in. He spotted Kirk and smiled.
“Good day. I am Doc.” His voice was almost musical with a strong trace of his parents’ Indian accent. He held a finger up to his lips as Kirk was about to reply. He looked at the whiteboard. “Let me guess what Ms. Jones picked.”
He frowned as he read the list. “Know is out, naturally. A pathetic attempt at humor in some way, perhaps by Mac or Moms. Slick would be
He ceased all activity and took a deep breath. He placed the coffee carefully on the dash and pulled his other hand out from under his jacket.
“What?” he mouthed.
She indicated for him to roll down the window.
Bulletproof
, he thought.
Doesn’t roll down. Ever
.
He shook his head.
She pouted.
He tapped the window, made a rolling down gesture, and slashed his other hand across that, indicating, he hoped in truck stop language, that the window was indeed incapable of being opened.
She pointed past him and looked over his shoulder, while his hand—the correct one this time—was going for the gun. But he saw no threat behind him. He looked back at her quizzically.
She smiled and slowly pulled the sucker from her mouth. Then she pointed at it at him, and then past him at the passenger seat.
It didn’t even take a year of college to figure that out.
Then she signaled with two fingers and then a zero.
Twenty bucks?
The Courier thought of that smart-assed college girl.
He glanced down at the muted GPS display. Area 51 was 429 miles away and then he’d have to debrief, fill out a shitload of paperwork, and drive two hours to get to Vegas.
Too damn far and too long.
He nodded, and she walked around the front of the van.
As she did so, he pulled the Glock out and placed it on his left side, within ready reach. He took out his wallet, removed a twenty, and shoved the wallet farther down on the left side of the seat. He wasn’t stupid, after all. Hookers were known to rob people. Let her try and she’d be in for a surprise.
Thinking of pulling the Glock on her excited him as much as watching her climb in the door as he shoved it open for her. She tossed the sucker over her shoulder as she squirmed in.
She smiled, didn’t say a word. She took the twenty and leaned over into his lap.
College girl would have still been talking, he thought.
She unzipped him. Her hand was cold, but exciting enough, and he thought once more of the Glock, of putting it against her head as her lips closed on him. He leaned back, fingers closing around the grip of the Glock, eyes half-closed.
She pulled her mouth off him with the same slow movement she’d done with the lollipop.
He looked down. She smiled up at him with wide, innocent eyes as she shoved open the driver’s door.
Stunned, the Courier looked to his left, into the visage of a human monster. The man’s face was terribly scarred, with lateral marks across it as if he’d been flayed. The man smiled as hejammed the icepick into the soft spot on the bottom of the Courier’s jaw, right up into his brain.
He was dead before the Glock hit the floor.
The girl screamed and scrambled back against the passenger door.
“You said you were robbing him! Not killing him!”
“I am robbing him,” Burns said. He had a silenced Beretta in his off hand and he fired a round right between her eyes, following it up with a second bullet, sticking to Nada’s Yada to always double-tap in the head and make sure they’re dead.
Two beers were all the Nightstalkers were allowed, although Mac snuck four. Moms was firm about that rule in the Den, but it was her and Nada’s turn to in-brief the newly minted Kirk. Roland, Mac, and Eagle ambled off to their little rooms—cells almost—to catch some Zs while Kirk cleaned up before going into the CP. New guys always cleaned up. It was the same in every unit around the world.
As Kirk tossed the last can into the trash, the door to the Den from the outside corridor hissed open and a short man with glasses walked in. He spotted Kirk and smiled.
“Good day. I am Doc.” His voice was almost musical with a strong trace of his parents’ Indian accent. He held a finger up to his lips as Kirk was about to reply. He looked at the whiteboard. “Let me guess what Ms. Jones picked.”
He frowned as he read the list. “Know is out, naturally. A pathetic attempt at humor in some way, perhaps by Mac or Moms. Slick would be
Similar Books
