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CHAPTER 4

Parviz had exchanged his Kalashnikov for his Glock, which was...interesting. On the other hand, the distance wasn’t much. Maybe Parviz was a good shot. Actually, given how clean those new weapons were, John thought the man probably knew what he was doing.

What was also a sure bet was that the three newcomers—two on the right, one to Parviz’s left and all with rifles—probably did, too.

The guy on the left was young, maybe early twenties: narrow face, cold light blue eyes, small mouth, a sparse thatch of ginger beard. Judging from the lack of vapor, the guy was breathing through his nose. Mouth closed. Not nervous. Which was sort of a problem. The guy was less apt to panic, make a mistake. Or he might just figure the odds were in his favor…which they were .

“On the right, the big guy from the restaurant,” Davila muttered. “Same hat.”

The embroidered taqiyya, yes, and the same big guy who’d followed Parviz into the men’s room. Probably why Parviz had to pee so often.

The boy was there, too, by his master’s side, gripping a Kalashnikov.

Oh, honey. A stone formed in John’s gut. He had pegged the child for a couple of things, but not a killer.

“I no give you hand. ” Parviz spat, a gesture that was not necessarily an insult in these parts, except he aimed the foamy white gobbet to the left, changing the meaning. Spit to the right, you were just spitting. But do that to the left, and you were warding off Satan and demons.

Which Parviz seemed to think they might be. Especially since the driver had let his mask of servility drop away to reveal disdain and naked hatred.

“But what I think is, maybe,” Parviz said, “ you give us money.”