Double Dealing: A Menage Romance(27)

The addict started to turn, and I had to hope that Francois's reactions were true. The man’s arm came around in a sharp, wicked arc, the hammer on the cheap revolver in his hand already rising up to fire. I swung the squeegee, praying that I could at least knock the gun a bit out of the way.

I shouldn't have worried. Francois, whose aim with thrown items had never been better, nailed the inside of the man’s wrist, sending it wide, the shot missing my chest by a good foot to shatter the front glass door of the store. I adjusted the swing of my squeegee, taking the meth head under the armpit. Stepping in and past him, I threw him to the hard floor, where I stomped him in the stomach and then kicked his gun away. The potential robber went from screaming to breathless in a second, his face turning beet red before he curled into a ball, holding his most likely fractured ribs.

The cashier, a stunned-looking high school boy who had probably wondered if he was going to die a virgin or not, stared at me in absolute shock. In the course of two minutes, he'd gone from a normal boring day to thinking he was most likely going to die, to suddenly being saved by a can of beef stew and a squeegee. "Dude . . .”

"You'll be okay," I said, taking a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket. I handed it to him. "For our items. Keep the change."

Francois was already up, holding Jordan by the arm as he led her toward the now useless door. "Add another twenty."

I nodded, after all, we were taking the store's wire hand basket as well, not wanting to take the time to bag up everything. Tossing the kid another bill, I smiled and left, making sure to step on the addict as I walked away. Back in the car, Jordan stared at the both of us with a strange light in her eyes as Francois started up the Jeep and pulled away. "Hope the cops don't respond quickly out here."

"What the hell was that?" Jordan asked, finding her voice. "You're throwing beef stew like Bob Gibson threw fastballs while Felix takes the guy down with barely a ruffled hair, and then you toss the cashier forty dollars and walk out like we're on a stroll."

I laughed. ”You should see him with throwing knives at the celebrations and fairs. As for me, I had the size and strength advantage over him. Once the gun was taken care of, it was no object to disable him. Who is Bob Gibson?"

Jordan looked at me like I was half crazy, her mouth dropping open, before she shook her head, blinking unbelievably. “An old major league pitcher. Grandpa was a big Cardinals fan, and he'd watch the old games on videotape all the time. He talked about Gibson constantly."

I nodded. "Never much of a baseball fan," I said. "As for the money, well, it just seemed like a nice thing to do."

Jordan gaped at me again, then shook her head in amazement. "You two . . .”

"Come on, let's just hope that there wasn't an external security camera there," Francois said. "The chances are low, but I would prefer to not have this Jeep pulled over by the police."

The drive to the ranch was completed in relative silence. Jordan sorted the things we had already gotten into the two shopping baskets like she was packing a lunch for each of us. It broke my heart to watch her carefully pack them, making sure that each of us got exactly the same amount.

We pulled onto the ranch road just as the sun disappeared below the horizon, casting the desert sky in oranges and purples. I saw our target, an SUV with the lights on next to a shape that I assumed was our airplane. It was smaller than I'd hoped but larger than I had feared.

Francois got out and shut off the engine. He left the keys in the ignition and headed toward the back of the Jeep, opening the tailgate. "Can I help?" Jordan asked.

Francois looked at her carefully for a moment, then nodded. "Sure," he said, sadness in his voice. They quickly unloaded our bags, the same duffel bags we'd used all week to carry wood, along with Francois's footlocker, taking them over to the plane. I got the bundle of swords in their cases out of the back and carried them over to the SUV where our agent's representative got out.

"You boys are right on time," he said in thickly accented English. He sounded like he was most likely a Mexican national, which I would not be surprised by. The Mexican Cartels knew plenty about how to move things and people both into and out of the United States. "Ready to go?"

"Not quite," I said. Jordan, who was packing the plane with Francois, wiped her head and turned to go back. I pointed at her with one of the sword cases, one I'd marked specially. "How much for her to join us?"

"You must be crazy,” the man replied. He was wearing a Tecate beer t-shirt and blue jeans, along with what looked like light boots, but that wasn't overly important. I was more concerned with his face, which was simultaneously surprised and greedy. I had a chance. "You bargained for two people."

"And I want to make a change," I said. "How much?"

"How much are you offering?" the man asked, curious. "That is one fine senorita."

I flipped the sword case in my hand over, offering it to him. "Our agent is supposed to get seven blades. This is number eight. It was supposed to be my personal memento of this job. It's complete, battle ready, and the finest blade produced in Japan in the past decade. She comes along — it's yours."

The man considered it, then looked at the plane. "That's a four-seat Cessna. The range is going to be shorter because of the extra weight, and your pilot is not going to be a happy man. You kick in another . . . ten thousand, and you have a deal."