pay someone to keep their mouth shut. The threat of death also works nicely, but I prefer to let my money do the talking. Violence is a poor man’s game.

As the door cracks open and lowers into the sunny climate of Southern Africa, Honey places her small hand on the back of my arm. I turn to her, and she smiles as if to apologize for any tension between us on the plane. Maybe I’m the one who should apologize. I overreacted when I didn’t get the response that I wanted, thinking with my pride instead of my head.

I take a breath of the fresh summer air and step down the stairs, beginning the walk toward the line of taxis waiting to take all of us out to two separate hotels. The muscle of our operation is going to be staying at a hotel across the street from the leadership, to keep us from looking like the thugs that we are. We’ll move like tourists, and Honey already looks like one with that camera now swinging around her thin neck.

I hear the shutter snap of Honey’s camera go off the second my foot hits the crumbling pavement at the foot of the plane. I look back to see her taking pictures of the line of taxis parked at the edge of the runway. I chuckle and continue walking.

Under my suit jacket, I’m already sweating heavily, despite layering antiperspirant over my entire torso. It doesn’t work when your jacket is made of tightly stitched wool fiber. I’m going to have to opt for tourist clothes once I get to the hotel and start dressing like the dad I’m destined to be if Honey keeps swinging her hips like she has been every time she walks in front of me.

There she goes again.

Honey passes me, snapping more photos, all while looking like the perfect woman. Her shirt is small, and her shorts are even smaller. Coupled with her curvy figure and blonde hair, I find myself growing horny again. I’m seriously considering ditching the “beg me” act and taking her in the hotel bedroom when we get there.

She turns around and snaps a photo of me as I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a white handkerchief.

“I hope those are for personal use,” I say.

“I post them on my blog,” he replies cheerfully.

“Uh, in case you forgot, what we’re doing here isn’t exactly legal. I don’t even have a real passport,” I inform her, hoping she’ll put her camera away and stop gathering evidence that can be used against me in court. I’m not looking to do life in a desert prison.

“Why don’t you have a real passport?” she asks, cocking her head. “I have one.”

I shake my head. “Long story.”

She shrugs and turns around to take yet another picture of the white taxis as we approach them. They’re stout little vans, and they sort of remind me of Henry, although I would never tell him that. He has too much pride to accept snide jokes from me, unlike Dean. Dean was always up for a good laugh.

It would’ve been nice to have him here with us, but he’s the reason we’re out here at all. His death was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and now we’re going to have some of our own camels to ride to right the wrongs that have been committed against the Dormer-Calandro Mafia. Nobody gets away with killing our leaders.

We hand off our suitcases and bags to the taxi drivers, who load them up on the top of the van. I refuse to let go of my bookbag, however, because I don’t like the look of the luggage piled up on the thin roof railings with cords and strings. I’d rather keep it at my feet during the drive to the hotel.

“Do you have any water?” Honey asks as she slides up next to me on the cracked leather seat in the back of the van.

“Maybe,” I reply, unzipping my bag and rummaging through the collection of clothes, falsified documents, and weapons. “Ah,” I say, my hand finding a plastic bottle with half the contents remaining. “Here.” I hand it to Honey.

She takes it and unscrews the blue plastic lid, throwing it back and crumpling the thin plastic as she sucks it dry in half a second.

“Hey, you know there aren’t any bathroom breaks on the way,” I say as she lowers the empty bottle and lets out a sigh.

“I know, but the heat reminds me of being dehydrated in the desert. Better safe than sorry,” she replies, handing the crumpled bottle back to me.

“Sure,” I reply with a slight chuckle, tucking the bottle back into my bookbag. The drive isn’t all that long, so I’m not horribly concerned about Honey complaining about a bathroom break midway through. Besides, I’m beginning to think she might actually know how to handle herself.

The smell of dusty grey exhaust fumes floats through the open windows of the taxi van as we begin our drive to the hotel. It reminds me of the trip I did in Mexico when I almost got drowned by the cartel. God, I love the smell of an adventure.

Chapter Seventeen

Honey

Why does everyone assume that I can’t take care of myself? I mean, it can’t just be because I’m a woman, because Henry isn’t hovering around Amy like someone is going to pull her into an backstreet and harvest her organs. It must have something to do with my supposed lack of experience, which now that I think about it, must be less than everyone else has, even if it’s much more than any regular person. The people I roll with are far from regular.

“Could you, like, back up?” I ask Henry as he walks on my heels once again on the way to the hotel.

“Be nice, Honey,” Carter calls over his shoulder.

“I am being nice,” I call back. I turn to face Henry as we walk. “I really appreciate you protecting

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