looking like a recruiting official for the Hitler Youth and return as a shaggy dog.”
“My hair grows fast,” he replied. “The awkward phase where it stuck out straight was a bitch though. As for why, the group was easier to worm into than expected. But having a deadly intent isn’t the same as having smart leaders. They were distracted by dumb shit. The skinhead look made them too visible to local police, so they decided to grow their hair out.”
Izzy honked with laughter. “All at once? Everyone?”
Arnie had to laugh too. Some of the biggest idiots on the planet ended up being the most dangerous terrorists.
She thumped him on the back. “Don’t worry, big guy. I’ve got you. We’ll trim the mess and bam! It’ll be like the horror never happened.”
Uncomfortable tingles danced along his shoulders when she called him big guy. He took it as a sign from the universe to get his act together quickly, sit through whatever ass-numbingly boring debrief he had to, and then get his butt to California immediately after.
He had some serious groveling to do.
“I need my phone, Dottie. Did they return it?”
“It’s in the safe. I pawned your watch, though.”
It was crazy, but for a second, he wasn’t sure if she was serious or just messing with him.
“Got it,” Milo announced. He showed off the paper-thin piece of foil removed from Arnie’s thigh. “Slap some ointment on that, will you, Izzy?”
“Thanks.” He eyed the scary-smart tech wizard, and said, “Your alien-looking little extraction gizmo gives off a Tony Stark vibe.”
Holding up the thing in his hand, Milo grinned. “The fruit of a wild imagination, half a bottle of rum, an impressive development budget, and the latest in 3D printing.”
“Well, whatever and however,” Arnie drawled. “The Brits wanted to cut it out of me,” he said half-jokingly. “Had a hankering to take a look at the technology.”
Milo honked with sarcastic-sounding laughter. “Fuckers. Would’ve been funny if they tried. Not for you,” he admitted. “And you know why? Because the second you were clear, I terminated the signal. They’d have to shred your leg searching for it.”
“Has anyone told you that you’re a sick fuck?”
“No,” Milo replied dryly. “You’re the first.”
Everyone laughed. Milo had a T-shirt he wore frequently. In big block letters on the back, it read SICK FUCK.
Arnie finished off one last slice of pizza, suggested Izzy hurry the fuck up with her nursing duties, and pinned Dottie with a look.
“What happens next?”
She appeared to anticipate the question and gave him a short answer.
“Debrief downtown. Nobody wants your ugly mug on their security cameras.” She laughed. “And you’re no longer welcome at the Federal Plaza in Manhattan. The FBI has a bone they want to pick with you.”
He snorted. “Yeah, I know which bone they wanna pick. Sexism is a two-way street.”
“True,” Izzy cut in. “But in your case, Arnie, spurning the advances of an agent on her way up the ranks just got you blackballed sooner. It took King years to earn the same distinction.”
“Yeah,” Milo said, “but he also shot one of their undercover guys.”
“Collateral damage,” Dottie reminded Izzy and Milo. “And he didn’t shoot him, for Christ’s sake. He got nicked. Band-Aids don’t count.”
Arnie smiled his first real smile in months. He knew all about King’s adventure in FBI-land. The subject came up whenever they got drunk together. The guy had a perverse sense of humor. He was also a top contender for badass of the year and hands down winner of the international scary motherfucker award. His tattoos didn’t help. Kingsley Maddison’s penchant for tribal tats gave a lot of people the creeps.
But body ink and nicked FBI agents aside, he respected the co-founders of NIGHTWIND. King and Jon Weston were good men and solid scoundrels—just the sort of guys he felt most comfortable with. He was lucky they took him on and even luckier that they gave him a free hand to use his unusual skill set as he deemed fit and without interference.
Dottie snarled. “Those cheap bastards tried to steer the debrief to a no-name motel in Hoboken. Can you believe that shit? You save everyone’s ass, and they say thanks with a bag over your head. I know what their expense accounts look like. Bunch of jerks. But I digress. After wearing them down, they settled on the Sheraton in Times Square. I expect it’ll take a couple of hours, tops.”
“Is that it?” he asked tersely.
“For now,” Dottie replied in an understated tone.
She wasn’t going to