[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
smelled the gasoline, this whole place'd be up in smoke, and we'd all be out
of a sweet gig." Baker pointed the knife at Kenny's chest. "He shouldn't have
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got in in the first place."
"Guy must be a magician. We never saw him, and I swear we weren't goofing
off."
"Swear all you want, but don't expect any sympathy from the rest of the crew.
If this place had gone up, they'd have lost ahundred percent of their bonuses.
You too. So maybe this'll keep you on your toes during your next shift."
"That sucks, Sam."
"Don't feel so bad. I'll see that it goes to Grandma."
Kenny made a disgusted face. "Yeah, right. Think she'll remember to send me a
thank-you note?"
Suddenly furious, Sam grabbed the front of Kenny's shirt and jerked him
close. Family or not, he was ready to do a tap dance on his nephew's head.
"You watch your tone when you mention your grandmother, kid. Got that?"
Kenny looked away and nodded. "Sorry. I didn't mean it."
Sam released him. "I hope not. Now, lug the rest of this accelerant upstairs
and wait for the others."
As Kenny stomped up the stairs, Baker looked around the cellar and shook his
head. Too close. Too damn close. He'd damn near shit his pants when Kenny had
called to say they'd caught a firebug in the house. He'd run over and found
this weasel-faced wimp tied to a chair in the basement. The guy had been
carrying a couple of gallons of accelerant in quart bottles stashed in pockets
inside his overcoat.
Hadn't taken long to break him down. Amazing how persuasive a filleting knife
could be. Remove a couple of wide strips of skin and the words tended to pour
out. The torch said some broad had hired him. Someone who fit the Clayton
babe's description to a tee.
Shit!
Didn't that bitch know when to quit? What did it take to scare her off?
Baker had been so pissed, he'd gone a little crazy. Grabbed the nearest
pistol and started bashing away. Softened the torch's skull real good. He was
out cold. Maybe he'd never wake up.
Baker had considered calling Kemel, but changed his mind. Little ol' Ahab the
Ay-rab was turning out to be something of a wimp. Look how bent out of shape
he got over that itty-bitty car bomb. Probably work himself into a pretzel if
Baker told him how he planned to take care of the torch.
Kemel just didn't get it. You don't play footsy with problems youeliminate
them. That way they don't come back to haunt you.
Like this firebug.
This guy had been taught his lesson maybe permanently. But that wasn't
enough. Baker wanted to send the Clayton babe another message. Her PI
splattered on the street hadn't done it. Her lawyer blown to pieces right in
front of her hadn't done it. Maybe the third time would be a charm.
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But he wasn't doing this one alone. He was gathering all eight of his crew
for this. With the body count rising, it was time to take out a little
insurance. Get everybody involved. Raise the stakes all around.
Baker knew these were tough, stand-up boys. Not of the caliber of the SOG
teams he'd accompanied into Laos and Cambodia in the early seventies but they
knew their stuff, all veterans of mercenary ops in Central America, Africa,
and the Gulf. Over the years he'd used them when he'd hired out to the various
players in Medellin and Cali to do their dirty work along the drug routes in
Central America.
But now the Mexicans had pretty much taken over the trade, and they preferred
to use their own boys when they needed muscle.
The Mideast was the place. Saudi Arabia, especially. Plenty of money to
spend, but no infrastructure. And feeling pretty paranoid after what Iraq did
to Kuwait. His contacts over there kept telling him they didn't want or need
mercenaries, but Baker knew different. Every Saudi he'd met thought he should
be a prince.No one wanted to do the dirty work. That was why the country was
full of Koreans and Pakistanis, imported to do all the menial work. If your
Mercedes broke down, there was no one to fix it. But so what? You bought [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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smelled the gasoline, this whole place'd be up in smoke, and we'd all be out
of a sweet gig." Baker pointed the knife at Kenny's chest. "He shouldn't have
Page 95
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
got in in the first place."
"Guy must be a magician. We never saw him, and I swear we weren't goofing
off."
"Swear all you want, but don't expect any sympathy from the rest of the crew.
If this place had gone up, they'd have lost ahundred percent of their bonuses.
You too. So maybe this'll keep you on your toes during your next shift."
"That sucks, Sam."
"Don't feel so bad. I'll see that it goes to Grandma."
Kenny made a disgusted face. "Yeah, right. Think she'll remember to send me a
thank-you note?"
Suddenly furious, Sam grabbed the front of Kenny's shirt and jerked him
close. Family or not, he was ready to do a tap dance on his nephew's head.
"You watch your tone when you mention your grandmother, kid. Got that?"
Kenny looked away and nodded. "Sorry. I didn't mean it."
Sam released him. "I hope not. Now, lug the rest of this accelerant upstairs
and wait for the others."
As Kenny stomped up the stairs, Baker looked around the cellar and shook his
head. Too close. Too damn close. He'd damn near shit his pants when Kenny had
called to say they'd caught a firebug in the house. He'd run over and found
this weasel-faced wimp tied to a chair in the basement. The guy had been
carrying a couple of gallons of accelerant in quart bottles stashed in pockets
inside his overcoat.
Hadn't taken long to break him down. Amazing how persuasive a filleting knife
could be. Remove a couple of wide strips of skin and the words tended to pour
out. The torch said some broad had hired him. Someone who fit the Clayton
babe's description to a tee.
Shit!
Didn't that bitch know when to quit? What did it take to scare her off?
Baker had been so pissed, he'd gone a little crazy. Grabbed the nearest
pistol and started bashing away. Softened the torch's skull real good. He was
out cold. Maybe he'd never wake up.
Baker had considered calling Kemel, but changed his mind. Little ol' Ahab the
Ay-rab was turning out to be something of a wimp. Look how bent out of shape
he got over that itty-bitty car bomb. Probably work himself into a pretzel if
Baker told him how he planned to take care of the torch.
Kemel just didn't get it. You don't play footsy with problems youeliminate
them. That way they don't come back to haunt you.
Like this firebug.
This guy had been taught his lesson maybe permanently. But that wasn't
enough. Baker wanted to send the Clayton babe another message. Her PI
splattered on the street hadn't done it. Her lawyer blown to pieces right in
front of her hadn't done it. Maybe the third time would be a charm.
Page 96
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
But he wasn't doing this one alone. He was gathering all eight of his crew
for this. With the body count rising, it was time to take out a little
insurance. Get everybody involved. Raise the stakes all around.
Baker knew these were tough, stand-up boys. Not of the caliber of the SOG
teams he'd accompanied into Laos and Cambodia in the early seventies but they
knew their stuff, all veterans of mercenary ops in Central America, Africa,
and the Gulf. Over the years he'd used them when he'd hired out to the various
players in Medellin and Cali to do their dirty work along the drug routes in
Central America.
But now the Mexicans had pretty much taken over the trade, and they preferred
to use their own boys when they needed muscle.
The Mideast was the place. Saudi Arabia, especially. Plenty of money to
spend, but no infrastructure. And feeling pretty paranoid after what Iraq did
to Kuwait. His contacts over there kept telling him they didn't want or need
mercenaries, but Baker knew different. Every Saudi he'd met thought he should
be a prince.No one wanted to do the dirty work. That was why the country was
full of Koreans and Pakistanis, imported to do all the menial work. If your
Mercedes broke down, there was no one to fix it. But so what? You bought [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]