Lethal(73)

“Yeah, well it would have scared me half to death if I’d woken up looking into the double barrel of Doral Hawkins’s shotgun.”

Honor bit back a retort she obviously was itching to say. Instead she bent over Emily’s head and kissed the top of it.

The comforting gesture somehow made him feel even worse about setting the kid off. “Look, I said I was sorry. I’ll get her a… a… balloon or something.”

“She’s afraid of balloons,” Honor said. “They scare her when they pop.”

“Then I’ll get her something else,” he said irritably. “What does she like?”

Emily’s head popped up as though it was spring-loaded. “I like Thomas the Tank Engine.”

Coburn stared at her for several beats, then the absurdity of his situation got the better of him, and he began to laugh. He’d been eyeball to eyeball with villains whose best chance at an afterlife lay with taking off his head. He’d ducked heavy gunfire, dodged a rocket launcher, jumped from a chopper seconds before it crashed. He had cheated death too many times to count.

Wouldn’t it have been funny if he’d been done in by Thomas the Tank Engine?

Honor and Emily were watching him warily, and he realized that neither had ever heard him laugh. “Inside joke,” he said.

Happy once again, Emily asked, “Can we have breakfast now?”

Coburn considered, then said under his breath, “Why the hell not?”

He got out and opened a toolbox that was attached to the back of the truck’s cab. He’d discovered a denim jacket in it the day before. It smelled of gasoline and was covered in grease, but he pulled it on. Standing in the open wedge of the door, he leaned in. “What do you want?”

“Would you rather I go?” Honor asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“You still don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that. In this crowd…” His gaze moved over her tousled hair and whisker-burned lips. It took in her snug T-shirt and the clearly defined shape beneath it, which he knew by feel was the real deal, not fake. “You’d attract attention.”

She knew what he was thinking because her cheeks turned pink. She had ended last night’s kiss, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t liked it. In fact, he figured it meant she’d liked it a lot. Too much. He’d stayed on the deck for half an hour after her speedy retreat, but when he did go below, he’d known she was still awake even though she’d pretended otherwise.

Even after he’d lain down on the bunk, he’d stayed restless and hot for a long time. If she’d been as worked up over that kiss as he’d been, it was no wonder that she was blushing now and having a hard time looking him in the eye.

Face averted, she said, “Anything you get will do.”

He put on the cap and sunglasses he’d found in the truck, and, as he’d expected, he blended with the other customers. He waited in line to use the microwave, then took his heated breakfast sandwiches to the cash register and paid. As soon as he’d handed the sack of food over to Honor, he started the truck and drove away.

While driving, he ate his sandwich and sipped his coffee, which was chicory-enhanced and bracingly strong. But his mind wasn’t on either the hot food or the coffee, because it was busy assessing his situation and deciding on his next course of action. He was in a jam, and he wasn’t certain how to proceed.

Like the time in Somalia when his weapon had malfunctioned just as his target spotted him. He’d had to make a choice: Abandon the mission and save his own skin, or carry out his assignment and ante up on surviving it.

He’d had a nanosecond in which to make up his mind.

He’d dropped the weapon and used both hands to snap the guy’s neck.

He didn’t have much more time for decision-making now. He couldn’t see his pursuers yet, but he sensed their urgency to find him.

The odds weren’t in his favor, but he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel, abandon his mission, and let The Bookkeeper continue conducting business.

He wasn’t even ready to call Hamilton and ask for backup from Tom VanAllen, because he didn’t entirely trust his own agency. The bureau probably didn’t entirely trust him either.

For all the FBI really knew, he had gone postal and mowed down everybody in that warehouse on Sunday night. If it became expedient for the bureau to pass him off as a veteran suffering from P.T.S.D., then that’s what they would do, and no one, probably not even the woman sharing a stolen truck—and a wanna-f*ck-you-bad kiss with him—would believe otherwise.

Chances were good that he wouldn’t be around to see the smoke clear on this case. He wouldn’t be available to exonerate himself for the warehouse massacre. He’d wind up on a slab, growing cold in infamy. But by God, he wasn’t going to take the fall for The Bookkeeper’s handiwork without putting up a hell of a fight.

This morning had been a close call. As sure as he was still breathing, that engaged cell phone had brought people running to that damn tub, and in all probability Doral Hawkins had been leading the pack. If Emily hadn’t awakened him when she had, they’d all have been shot in their bunks.

Risking his own life was a job requirement. Risking theirs, no way.

Mind made up, he said, “You mentioned a friend yesterday.”