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from the pack. This snick of a blade opening whispered through the night. The man
with the knife held it with his fist close to his hip. If he went in with the blade, he was
going in to eviscerate Miguel. Another man held a bat. The other two seemed to plan on
using their fists. Nobody was messing around.
Remy vaguely registered the sound of Miguel s voice, his placating tone working
to resolve the situation without violence. Even as he spoke, the two men without
weapons moved in, pinning Miggy between them. The larger of the two grabbed
Miggy s arms and yanked them behind his back by the elbows, preventing him from
protecting himself. The other man started dancing and throwing jabs and upper cuts,
fists thudding against flesh, as though Miggy were a heavy bag and he was preparing
for the welterweight championship.
There was nothing he hated more than a bunch of bullies who ganged up on one
man. Remy was out from behind the dumpster, moving fast and silent, and aiming
straight for the man with the bat. Knife boy might be more dangerous, but the bat had a
longer reach. Remy didn t want to draw his weapon, but he wasn t about to go in
against a blade unarmed. The man held the bat in a loose grip, attention focused on the
beating. Remy reached him before the others were aware that Miguel had an ally. He
yanked the bat free and shoved the man into knife boy. They crashed together in a
tangle of arms. A howl and a muffled curse told him that one of the men had likely met
the tip of the blade. He needed to get Miggy free. Four against two was better odds, but
everyone was doing damage.
Still moving, Remy took the bat, swung around, and connected with the legs of
the man holding Miggy. Miguel took advantage of his captor s downward motion and
scream of pain. He let himself fall backwards then kicked up with both feet, connecting
with the jaw of the wannabe boxer. Then everything became a blur as fists pounded and
men swore. Most of the words were in Spanish, but Remy had no problem
understanding. They cursed his mother, which he agreed with and said he would die,
which he highly doubted. At least not tonight.
It came as a shock when the knife sliced into his side, deep enough to scrape rib.
Out of sheer reaction, Remy twisted and felt the satisfying thud as his bat connected
with the knife arm of his assailant. The switchblade clattered to the ground, and Remy
dove for it. His head snapped back when the boot of the last man standing connected
with his face. Then Miggy was behind him, reaching into the waistband of Remy s jeans
and drew the gun from the concealed holster. With an arm around Remy s waist, he
pointed the gun at the thugs and started backing them out of the alleyway.
 You tell your fucking boss the next time he sends pricks like you to discuss a
serious business opportunity, we will bury them. He wants to do business, he better
send a gesture of good faith.
Miggy shoved Remy into the passenger seat and raced around to climb in the
driver side.  Fuck, Remy put the towel against your side. You re bleeding like a stuck
pig. Goddamn Cortez. Should a known this was a set up. Fuck. We need to get you to a
hospital man. That cut needs stitches. Fuck!
 No. No hospital. Remy reached for his cell phone and sucked in a breath at the
sharp pain in his side. He jammed the towel against his ribs and tried to ignore how
much blood there was soaking his shirt and jeans. He pressed the speed dial button for
the number Director Forsythe had pre programmed into his phone. This might not
relate to his case but it definitely counted as an emergency. After relaying their
situation, Remy was directed to a small clinic well away from the neighborhood where
they d had the fight.
Four hours, seventy odd stitches, and a pint of blood later, Remy sat by the curb
in front of their hotel and waited for Jamie to emerge. There was no hiding the marks on
his face and arms, but he wasn t saying a word about the stitches or the bruised ribs. He
knew he looked like shit, but it couldn t be helped. He just hoped Jamie wouldn t asked
too many questions and the whole thing could be written off as a bar fight.
* * *
Jamie checked his watch again and poured what remained of the coffee on the
room service trolley into his cup. Where the fuck was Remington? Probably picked up a
piece of ass and was sleeping it off in some seedy motel. Jamie pushed his inner voice to
the back of his mind and pulled his suit jacket on, smoothing down his tie with agitated
fingers. What was the asshole playing at? They were on a fucking job, not starring in
Remington Does New York. What s up, Jamie? Don t like the idea of someone else touching
your stuff?  That was business, not pleasure, he ground out into the silence of the
room, surprised by the vehemence of his voice. Don t forget, he s not your cowboy.
 Oh shut the fuck up, Jamie mumbled, picking up the room phone and dialing
down to reception.  Hello, this is Lord Fordham, could you arrange for a car to take me
to the American Embassy. It would appear my driver is running a little late.
Jamie replaced the handset and checked his briefcase to make sure he d not
forgotten anything and shoved his cell into his pocket. Crossing the room, he yanked
open the door and started when he saw Remington getting out of the elevator.  Where [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]