CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The tall man in the UPS uniform gave Jake a slight nod. After that smooth move, the agent would be wise to hold on to that uniform.
Martin’s voice crawled inside Jake’s ear. “A friend of yours, Jake?”
He was close. Damn close. “Come again?” Jake scanned the crowd for anyone talking on a cell. That meant roughly ninety-nine percent of them.
“Don’t play me for a fool,” Martin said. “Is that blonde bitch to your left one of your guys, too?”
Jake instantly recognized the woman under the blonde wig. Agent Leslie Turnbull. Six years with Alan’s team. Not a natural blonde. But she looked pretty damn good as one.
Unlike UPS Man, Leslie played her part well. That of the attractive, somewhat privileged, shopper on a mission. Neiman-Marcus and Macy’s bags mixed with Gap and J Crew bags. Something for everyone on her Christmas list.
“You got me,” Jake said, knowing his bluff was futile. “I hand picked that one myself.”
“Bet you did more than hand pick her, you old dog. Listen hotshot, it seems we have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“This place seems to be swarming with your pals. Which means we need to get out of here. Pronto.”
Bud cracked another beer.
“You ain’t gonna be much use to us drunk as a skunk,” The Pig With Orange Hair said.
“So, shoot me,” Bud said and raised the beer can as if about to toast some happy couple. Instead he took a healthy gulp. What happy couples did he know?
The Pig With Orange Hair breezed by him. Bud took another swig. Maybe he’d pass out and wake up a millionaire. He stared through the smeared glass at the cold world. A world that was about to get a lot sunnier.
If Chance didn’t screw things up.
The whole solo thing made no sense. They didn’t need two of them watching the kid. Especially now that the kid was wrapped up nice and tight. Unless Chance was planning on skipping out on them.
Hell, he’d be tempted himself. What did Chance have to come back to? That chain-smoking whore in the other room? That’d get any guy on the next train home.
Bud’s heart danced.
Movement outside.
A man. Holding a gun. No more than twenty feet away. With nothing but one inch of iced-up, grime-stained glass between them.
