Chapters (46)
- COVER PAGE
- PRAISE
- DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- SNEAK PEEK: EXIT .45
The dining area was an L-shape along two sides of the kitchen. Three couples were eating on the right side facing State Street, and Lamar and the big man were over to his left, on the Cabrillo side. Lamar with his back to the door and the big guy facing him hunched, forearms on the table in a hairy, eight-inch stack. His back-up man was in the booth behind Lamar, meaning Vincent would have to walk past him to reach the business table. Now he was closer, he was sure the guy had done time. He was wearing a white sweater—a size too small, the better to exhibit muscle—and a tattoo was edging past his collar: something thin and crude in black ink. Maybe a phrase, circling his neck.
Vincent started down the aisle toward them—booths on his left and tables on his right—and saw the big guy lift his chin at his minder. It was a subtle move, but Lamar caught it, and when he turned and saw Vincent, he closed his eyes and said something short on his breath.
But Vincent was committed now. Situations had gravity, and he’d reached the point where he couldn’t just turn around and walk out. And he had the advantage anyway, because the back-up man had his back to him—no doubt thinking it was best to keep his eyes on the boss instead of the door. He could have sat at a table and had a view of both, but the booth let him stretch out and look cool. That was an important part of being a bodyguard: you had to look like you didn’t care what came your way. You could deal with it.
To deal with the situation now, Vincent figured the guy would bring his right arm out as a barrier, and then stand up through a tight one-eighty and get right in his face, like a boxer at the pre-bout press conference. He could see him tensing for the motion, leaning and sliding slightly toward the aisle, ready to bounce up off his quads.
And Vincent let him do it.
Most of it, anyway.
Except as the guy put his arm out and stood upright—clenched fist to Vincent’s chest—Vincent grabbed his elbow and yanked him closer. It put the man off-balance through the second half of his turn, and as he came around toward the full one-eighty, Vincent swung through with a big right-hand uppercut.