and he hoped Con appreciated his candor. He could tell by the flat, frightened look on the girl’s face that she’d understood every word he’d said. “Smile, honey. We don’t want people thinking we’re not having a good time—and I mean it. Smile.”
She did her best, which was pretty damn good. Hell, she was so beautiful, he liked looking at her whether she was smiling or not.
Stepping away from the table, he slipped his left hand into his hoodie pocket and, after flipping off the safety cover, palmed the black syringe. He kept his right hand carefully in front of him, close to his waist, his thumb and fingertips lightly resting on his belt buckle. From that position, he could push the hoodie back and pull his .45 clear of its holster in a lightning-fast draw. Despite Lancaster’s rules of engagement, he wasn’t going to let Conroy Farrel get ahold of him. He’d see the bastard dead first.
“Fifteen seconds,” he repeated, stepping aside and pushing open the kitchen door. “Don’t fuck with me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Fifteen seconds.
They would never make it.
Jane kept putting one foot in front of the other, following King, with Rock following her, and all of them following J.T.
She’d been in the kitchen at Mama Guadaloupe’s before, picking up dinner one night with Skeeter, and the place had not changed. It was still orchestrated chaos, pans rattling, a dozen people talking, half in Spanish, half in English, constant movement, nobody standing still, and everybody getting in their way.
People were crowded up against the pickup line, stacking plates up their arms, putting finishing touches on meals, expediting orders, and the four of them were going the wrong way, trying to jostle their way through, moving against the flow.
Ten seconds.
She was counting it in her head, and they would never make it.
The kitchen was hot, about ninety-five degrees, the air rich with the spicy smells of food. It had hit her like a blast furnace when they’d come through the door. Between the heat and the fear, she didn’t know what was making her sweat more—but she was betting on fear.
“Hey, hey, you there, ustedes ahí, los gringos, deberían estar de vuelta aquí,” somebody called out to them—you shouldn’t be back here—and as quickly as that, their bubble of momentary invisibility popped. Everyone saw them, which only added to the chaos.
“Los baños are the other way, through the dining room,” one of the busboys said. And how anybody could mistake their phalanx of fear and intimidation for four people who’d gotten lost looking for the bathroom was beyond Jane. She was just your average Josephine, but all three men looked like serious contenders for some kind of Death Fighters of Doom videogame.
“No, no, it’s okay,” somebody called out. “It’s J.T. Oye, Juanio … oye …” The voice trailed off in confusion.
Oh, God, a cook had recognized J.T., one of the old men standing next to the grill. King Banner couldn’t have expected that. She could only pray that the cook would take the bull by the horns and call the police or, better yet, call Steele Street.
Of course, whatever bad thing happened was going to happen faster than any of the good guys could get there. And it was definitely going to be a bad thing. She knew why J.T. had held her gaze and told her to get out any way she could, and so help her God, she was going to do her best. She needed to be ready.
“Oye … chico?” the old man continued softly, standing stock-still, watching J.T. go by, a look of shock on his face.
Jane understood completely. She’d had the same reaction to seeing J. T. Chronopolous back from the dead.
Five seconds.
The four of them were starting to bunch up, getting closer to the door, and she felt Rock shove his gun against the small of her back—the bastard.
Two and a half pounds of pressure and she was a dead girl in a gold dress.
No.
The one word was very clear in her mind. She wasn’t dying in an alley on the west side, shot in the back by some behemoth bastard. And she didn’t care if King Banner and his buddy drove around all night long, she was most definitely not getting in their car and going for a ride—no way. She was going to make her stand right here. She’d rather die fighting in the alley, where she still had a chance, than be kidnapped, tortured, raped, abused, and end up dead anyway.