CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” Bo whispered.
“Trust me,” I said. “By the way, give me the gun.”
“Sheeeet—”
“Bo!”
Bo reached into his tracksuit pants and handed me the gun. The cold steel was heavy in my hand.
A floorboard creaked as footsteps tracked toward the door. Thank God it didn’t have a peephole.
Bo straightened his sunglasses and put his dukes up. “Just in case,” he said.
The door swung open.
Boy, if I had a picture of Thad’s face when he saw us, I could have submitted it to a contest of funniest faces. He looked as if he saw a ghost, ate a bad meal, and saw a dolphin riding a bicycle—at the same time. There was no single word in the English language to explain what had to have been going through his head—it was one of those emotions that only German c
