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Paul sat in front with Henry. Tom’s rage simmered. He didn’t trust himself. He was going to tear Vlad’s face off. He was going to break his windpipe, then his nose. Then he was going to gouge out both his eyes.
If Paul thought Terry could punch, wait until he saw Tom take this motherfucking pimp-arsed coward apart. There’d be nothing left of him in the three minutes it would take the agents to arrive.
Neither Paul nor Henry spoke. Henry drove as if he was going to the library. He even stopped at red lights and pedestrian crossings. Now and again, Paul glanced at Tom.
“So, Paul, what’s the story you were going to tell me?” Tom said.
“I’m waiting, mate.”
“Waiting for what?”
“That pen I gave you monitors your blood pressure and heart rate. I need it to lower to your resting heartbea
