He thought about it. He was armed. So were his guys. We
weren’t. But nobody wants to shoot people in the middle of an
airport. Not unarmed people from your own unit. That would
lead to a bad conscience. And paperwork. And he didn’t want a
fistfight. Not three against two. I was too big and Summer was
too small to make it fair.
‘Deal?’ he said.
‘Deal,’ I lied.
‘So let’s go.’
Last time he had walked ahead of me and his hot-dog W3s
had stayed on my shoulders. I sincerely hoped he would repeat
that pattern. I guessed the W3s figured themselves for real
bad-ass sons of bitches and I guessed they were close to being
correct, but it was the W4 I was most worried about. He looked
like the genuine article. But he didn’t have eyes in the back of
his head. So I hoped he would walk in front.
He did. Summer and I stayed side by side with our bags in
our hands and the W3s formed up wide and behind us in an
arrowhead pattern. The W4 led the way. We went out through
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the doors into the cold. Turned towards the restricted lane
where they had parked last time. It was past two in the morning
and the airport approach roads were completely deserted.
There were lonely pools of yellow light from fixtures up on
posts. It had been raining. The ground was wet.
We crossed the public pick-up lane and crossed the median
where the bus shelters were. We headed onward into the dark. I could see the bulk of a parking garage half-left and the green
Chevy Caprice far away to the right. We turned towards it.
Walked in the roadway. Most other times of the day we would
have been mown down by traffic. But right then the whole place
was still and silent. Past two o’clock in the morning.
I dropped my bag and used both hands and shoved Summer
out of the way. Stopped dead and jerked my right elbow backward
and smashed the right-hand W3 hard in the face. Kept my
feet planted and twisted the other way like a violent calisthenic
exercise and smacked the left-hand W3 with my left elbow.
Then I stepped forward and met the W4 as he spun towards the
noise and came in for me. I hit him with a straight left to the
chest. His weight was moving and my weight was moving and
the blow messed him up pretty good. I followed it with a right
hook to his chin and put him on the ground. Turned back to the
W3s to check how they were doing. They were both down on
their backs. There was some blood on their faces. Broken
noses, loosened teeth. A lot of shock and surprise. An excellent
stun factor. I was pleased. They were good, and I was better. I
checked the W4. He wasn’t doing much. I squatted down next
to the W3s and took their Berettas out of their holsters. Then I
twisted away and took the W4’s out of his. Threaded all three
guns on my forefinger. Then I used my other hand to find the
car keys. The right-hand W3 had them in his pocket. I took
them out and tossed them to Summer. She was back on her
feet. She was looking a little dismayed.
I gave her the three Berettas and I dragged the W4 by his
collar to the nearest bus shelter. Then I went back for the W3s
and dragged them over one in each hand. I got them all lined
up face down on the floor. They were conscious, but they were
groggy. Heavy blows to the head are a lot more consequential
in real life than they are in the movies. And I was breathing
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hard myself. Almost panting. The adrenalin was kicking in.
Some kind of a delayed reaction. Fighting has an effect on both
parties to the deal.
I crouched down next to the W4.
‘I apologize, chief,’ I said. ‘But you got in the way.’
He said nothing. Just stared up at me. Anger, shock,
wounded pride, confusion.