Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(57)
“No hablo inglés!” one of them yelled.
Through the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, George aimed and put a bullet right between the tosser’s eyes. The man’s lifeless body crumpled onto the tarmac, blood mixing with the freezing rain to form an inky puddle behind his decimated skull.
The two remaining crewmen blinked down at the corpse before turning dark, terrified eyes on George. “Either of you two claim not to hablo English?” he asked.
“I speak English, sir,” one of the men said, the shorter, fatter one.
“Good.” George nodded, shivering as a drop of icy rain snuck down the front of his coat and shirt. “Then do as I say or join your friend there.” Of course, even if the fat man did do what George said, he’d still end up like his friend. But George would save that little surprise for later.
Chapter Fourteen
2,600 feet over Colombia
Saturday, 12:10 a.m.
“You stupid bitches! You’re both dead, do you know that? Ow! Watch it, you ham-handed cunt!”
For a while there when Dan and Zoelner struggled to control the little plane against the turbulence kicked up by the storm and the wind sheers around the mountains, Penni had been absolutely green, we’re talking so green Kermit the Frog would have been envious of her hue. And she was pretty sure her fingerprints were permanently embedded in the armrests of her seat. But eventually, what seemed like eons later and after she’d made about a dozen grabs for the barf bag but never actually barfed, they’d gained altitude and the ride evened out.
A couple of quick breaths of relief, and she and Chelsea had unbuckled so they could tend to Winterfield’s wound. Can’t have the traitor dying of blood loss before he’s interrogated and made to stand trial, don’t you know? But he’d started to fight them and then he’d started doing that rocking thing, and Penni had whispered to Chelsea, “I think this guy is about to go forty on us all.”
“What does that mean?” Chelsea asked from the corner of her mouth, giving Winterfield the stink-eye.
“It’s what we in the boroughs say when someone looks like they’re thinking about climbing into a clock tower with a rifle.”
“Ah.” Chelsea nodded her agreement. “Well, since there aren’t any clock towers around, I’m afraid he might try to go forty on the door and attempt his hand at flying without a parachute.”
“So let’s secure him to his seat and then we can check his bullet wound,” Penni had suggested.
Which is exactly what they’d done. While Chelsea held her Springfield between the traitor’s eyes, Penni did the honors of duct-taping his arms to the armrests and his legs to the metal braces of his seat. Of course the minute they used the scissors Chelsea had scrounged from Dan’s backpack to cut away the sleeve of his jacket and his hooded sweatshirt so they could get a look at his arm, he’d started with the insults.
Penni had a pretty tough skin. Most New Yorkers did. But the c-word was the last straw as far as she was concerned. “I think we should tape his mouth too,” she muttered, her lip curled back.
“Oh good,” Chelsea said, taking the tape from her and using her teeth to rip off a six-inch strip. “I was going to suggest it myself, but thought you might consider it cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Are you kidding me?” Penni’s chin jerked back. “Riding a packed, un-air-conditioned train out to Coney Island in August is cruel and unusual punishment. Taping this bastard’s filthy mouth shut is a gift to mankind. We should be canonized for the effort.”
Winterfield started howling and throwing his head around, resuming his litany of name-calling. Really, it was enough to blister a sailor’s ears. But with the two of them working together, they were able to wrestle the tape over his dirty, dirty mouth. He glared at them, his glasses knocked askew, his nostrils flaring.
“Anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to call people names, you traitorous piece of scum-sucking shit?” Chelsea asked.
Penni snorted at the contradiction in Chelsea’s question. She liked the little CIA agent. The woman was funny and smart and had proved she could straight-up Chuck Norris an eight-foot fence.
“Okay,” Penni said, willing her stomach to gird itself. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” With Winterfield subdued in every way except a good, solid whack upside the head—a girl can dream—Penni pulled the material away from the blood drying on his arm. She hesitated when she saw the wound for what it was. A scratch. Like, seriously. The bullet had barely grazed him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Chelsea’s jaw slung open, disgust lacing her tone. “All that hullabaloo over this? I’ve cut myself worse shaving my armpits.”
“I guess we should…clean it?” Penni suggested. Or maybe put a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid over it and kiss it better? Although someone would have to be holding a gun to her head to make her put her lips anywhere near Winterfield. The man made her want to hurl.
“Why don’t you grab the first-aid kit out of my satchel, leave me some antiseptic wipes, and take the rest with you into the lavatory?” Chelsea proposed. “Your cheek could probably use more attention than this little…nick.” She flicked a finger at Winterfield’s wound.
“Mmm, mmmmmph, bwphhhh,” Winterfield grunted, still trying to insult them from behind the tape.