Nevertheless, the package was small—about four inches long. It could have been anything.
“I need you to get this to DC, that’s all,” he said. “It’s the cure—and if the wrong people get their hands on it, it’ll never make it back to the laboratory. They’ll keep it to themselves, find a way to profit from it.” He winced inwardly at that. “But it’s fragile, so be careful.” He pushed it toward her gently. “I’ll meet you there. At Finley’s, okay?”
“You really are a jerk,” she said, taking the vial and slipping it into her purse. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Tess,” he said, pressing her other hand to his lips. “I owe you big time.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling a little bit in spite of herself. “You do.”
Suddenly she pulled away and stood, turning toward the entrance. Michael Kelly appeared in the doorway, frowning toward them with suspicious eyes. She moved quickly to him without another word to Peter, taking his arm and leading him out onto the street, all the while speaking softly near his ear. Peter had no right to feel jealous, and yet in that moment, he could have happily punched Kelly in the face.
But he squelched the thought. That kind of testosterone-fueled drama would blow the fragile truce he’d forged with Tess, and just then it was more important to get the virus back to the States, so he could score the payoff he needed to keep his neck out of Big Eddie’s noose.
So he sat quietly and finished his beer. When it was done, he left a few crumpled bills on the bar and was about to head out into the bustling street when his latest disposable cell phone rang. There was only one person who had that number.
“Jaruk, you dog,” he said when he picked up. “How’s it hanging?”
The voice on the other end was female and hesitant, speaking in a heavy Thai accent.
“Sorry,” the voice said. “I am Pim. Jaruk’s wife. This is Peter Bishop?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, frowning. “That’s me.”
“He want me tell you Little Eddie is coming,” she said. “You run now.”
“Jesus,” Peter said, an icy dread congealing in his belly. “Let me talk to him.”
“He in hospital,” Pim said, her voice breaking. “He say he very sorry for telling. You run now, Peter. Run now .”
The line went dead.
Peter just stood there for way too long, staring at the dead phone, his mind blank except for a shrill, echoing fear filling his head like a car alarm.
Little Eddie.
Jesus, that was bad.
Physically speaking, there was nothing particularly big about Big Eddie Guthrie. He was pretty average in height, about five foot nine, with a stocky build and more wiry gray hair growing out of his large ears than on his shiny freckled head. But he was known as Big Eddie because he had a son, also named Eddie.
Unlike his dad, Little Eddie was big in every dimension. He was six foot four, broad-shouldered and thick through the middle. The kind of hard, heavy build that didn’t come from working out at a gym. He was handsome in a thuggish, gangster-actor kind of way with dark hair and pale-blue eyes that were only pretty if you didn’t look too close. He was a dog-kicker. Two hundred and fifty pounds of bad news.
And he was coming for Peter.
Peter sidled up to the door and peered down the crowded Monireth Boulevard, first one way, then the other. Motorbikes and pedicabs jockeyed for position with cars and vans, and the sidewalk was bustling with pedestrians. Unlike his Bangkok accommodation, the Lucky Star was clean and modern, as was the section of town in which it stood.
He noticed Tess and Michael standing by a rickety food stall about a half a block away, talking to someone who had his back to Peter. Someone large, towering far above the dark heads of the bustling locals. He’d recognize those hulking shoulders anywhere.
Kelly, the rat bastard, was pointing back toward the bar. Tess was shaking her head and gripping Kelly’s sleeve, until she spotted Peter.
“I need you to get this to DC, that’s all,” he said. “It’s the cure—and if the wrong people get their hands on it, it’ll never make it back to the laboratory. They’ll keep it to themselves, find a way to profit from it.” He winced inwardly at that. “But it’s fragile, so be careful.” He pushed it toward her gently. “I’ll meet you there. At Finley’s, okay?”
“You really are a jerk,” she said, taking the vial and slipping it into her purse. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Tess,” he said, pressing her other hand to his lips. “I owe you big time.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling a little bit in spite of herself. “You do.”
Suddenly she pulled away and stood, turning toward the entrance. Michael Kelly appeared in the doorway, frowning toward them with suspicious eyes. She moved quickly to him without another word to Peter, taking his arm and leading him out onto the street, all the while speaking softly near his ear. Peter had no right to feel jealous, and yet in that moment, he could have happily punched Kelly in the face.
But he squelched the thought. That kind of testosterone-fueled drama would blow the fragile truce he’d forged with Tess, and just then it was more important to get the virus back to the States, so he could score the payoff he needed to keep his neck out of Big Eddie’s noose.
So he sat quietly and finished his beer. When it was done, he left a few crumpled bills on the bar and was about to head out into the bustling street when his latest disposable cell phone rang. There was only one person who had that number.
“Jaruk, you dog,” he said when he picked up. “How’s it hanging?”
The voice on the other end was female and hesitant, speaking in a heavy Thai accent.
“Sorry,” the voice said. “I am Pim. Jaruk’s wife. This is Peter Bishop?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, frowning. “That’s me.”
“He want me tell you Little Eddie is coming,” she said. “You run now.”
“Jesus,” Peter said, an icy dread congealing in his belly. “Let me talk to him.”
“He in hospital,” Pim said, her voice breaking. “He say he very sorry for telling. You run now, Peter. Run now .”
The line went dead.
Peter just stood there for way too long, staring at the dead phone, his mind blank except for a shrill, echoing fear filling his head like a car alarm.
Little Eddie.
Jesus, that was bad.
Physically speaking, there was nothing particularly big about Big Eddie Guthrie. He was pretty average in height, about five foot nine, with a stocky build and more wiry gray hair growing out of his large ears than on his shiny freckled head. But he was known as Big Eddie because he had a son, also named Eddie.
Unlike his dad, Little Eddie was big in every dimension. He was six foot four, broad-shouldered and thick through the middle. The kind of hard, heavy build that didn’t come from working out at a gym. He was handsome in a thuggish, gangster-actor kind of way with dark hair and pale-blue eyes that were only pretty if you didn’t look too close. He was a dog-kicker. Two hundred and fifty pounds of bad news.
And he was coming for Peter.
Peter sidled up to the door and peered down the crowded Monireth Boulevard, first one way, then the other. Motorbikes and pedicabs jockeyed for position with cars and vans, and the sidewalk was bustling with pedestrians. Unlike his Bangkok accommodation, the Lucky Star was clean and modern, as was the section of town in which it stood.
He noticed Tess and Michael standing by a rickety food stall about a half a block away, talking to someone who had his back to Peter. Someone large, towering far above the dark heads of the bustling locals. He’d recognize those hulking shoulders anywhere.
Kelly, the rat bastard, was pointing back toward the bar. Tess was shaking her head and gripping Kelly’s sleeve, until she spotted Peter.
Similar Books
