Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,42

us.

“What are we going to do?” she asks in a normal tone of voice.

I slap my hand over her mouth and bug my eyes out at her, wishing I could scream, but whispering instead. “Would you be quiet, please?”

May nods her head and reaches up to take my hand off her mouth.

I let her, against my better judgment. I wish I could duct tape her trap closed until we’re back at the warehouse.

Her next comment is whispered. “Are we going to try to drive away, or are we going to wait this out?”

“Just wait.” I shake my head at her to discourage any further conversation.

I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. In several years of doing surveillance with Bourbon Street Boys, I’ve had a few run-ins with various neighborhood people who saw the truck and were curious enough to investigate, but I’ve never had an actual target approach me. Of course we’ve trained for the eventuality, but as we’ve all learned at one point or another in our careers, training can only approximate the real deal. There’s always a lot more adrenaline pumping through the veins when a truly bad guy is walking up to your hiding spot.

Gravel and sand crunch under his feet. I’m silently praying that his footsteps are going to just keep on going by, but of course my bad luck holds, and they don’t. He stops just next to the front seat area. At first there’s nothing, but then there’s a tapping on the glass.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

May grabs onto my wrist and squeezes for all she’s worth. Six months ago that wouldn’t have meant much because her grip was equal to that of a four-year-old’s, but today, it means a lot. She’s been doing a ton of weight training with Dev. I have to pry her hand off with my fingernails. At the same time, I’m shooting daggers at her with my eyes, telling her she’d better not dare answer him or whine about me forcing her hand off me.

Her head swings left and then right.

I know the fight-or-flight instinct when I see it, and she’s ready to fly. I put my hands on either side of her face and stare into her eyes. Shaking my head very slowly, I say as softly as possible, “Don’t . . . do . . . anything.”

May blinks a few times and then seems to get a grip on herself. She nods, her expression a little less panicky.

When I’m certain I can trust her to keep her damn trap shut, I let go of her face.

Another sound comes at the window, this time more insistent. “Knock, knock! I know you’re in there!”

May opens her mouth, but I put my finger over the gaping hole in front of her teeth and shake my head. Speaking in a low volume, I say, “Let me handle this.”

May has had a lot of training, but I still don’t really trust her at crunch time. Maybe I never will. Ozzie would never forgive me if I let something happen to her while we were out on a job together. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t like having her on the team; when she’s along, none of us can function autonomously or without worry. I always feel like I’m babysitting, because if she gets hurt, I’ll get blamed. And what Ozzie thinks and cares about is important to me.

I stand, hunched over, moving to the back of the van. Our target is at the front, and I don’t want him to see what we have inside, even though to him it won’t look like much . . . just a big case and a computer on a desk. My plan is to jump out the back door and lock up before he has a chance to see anything. And then somehow I’m going to talk my way out of this shitstorm we’ve found ourselves in the middle of. I have no idea how, though. Hopefully, inspiration will strike.

I lean toward May so I can whisper in her ear. “I’m going out the back. Lock the door behind me.”

May grabs me, shaking her head vigorously, but I push her away. If we don’t answer this guy, he’s going to start damaging the van, and I know Thibault would appreciate me avoiding that if possible. He’s always bitching about keeping our unnecessary expenses down.

We’ve got our surveillance in place here now, and anything else we do for this case won’t require that I