8.
Carlos pulls his cell phone from his pocket, makes a call. Within three minutes, a big black sedan with tinted windows pulls up to the corner of Prince and Houston.
“Excellent service,” I say.
Carlos opens the back door for me.
“After you,” he insists, smiling that bee-lipped smile again.
“You first,” I say, reaching into my pocket, pressing the barrel of the .45 outward so that it tents the fabric. “I’ve had enough surprises for one day.”
“Of course,” he says, slipping inside.
I follow.
The driver sitting behind the wheel is big and bulky. He’s wearing a black suit and his thick dark hair is slicked back with product. His eyes are covered with aviator sunglasses.
“Mr. Keogh has just landed, Carlos,” the driver says into the rearview. “Will you be notifying him of our early arr
