need to do this all over again.”
“They don’t believe you,” muttered Hansen.
“I can see that.”
“Then why don’t we get in your car and get the hell out of here?”
“Yeah. I think I need a hospital.”
“What about him?” Hansen asked, lifting his chin at Stingray.
“He doesn’t need a hospital.”
Hansen made a face. “The body?”
“Forget him. I got ballistics covered. And so do you. Get in the car.”
Moreau smiled at the throng of onlookers, then rose with Hansen.
“This ain’t no movie,” said a portly black man wearing a polo shirt two sizes too small. “You guys just killed our neighbor, and you’re not going anywhere.”
“You’re probably glad he’s dead, aren’t you?” said Moreau in a steely voice. “You wrote that letter complaining to the HOA about him. That gives you motive.”
“I didn’t write any letter.”
“Oh, no? Better call the HOA… ”
The guy recoiled and stepped out of the way. Moreau and Hansen got in the car and hauled ass out of the neighborhood, leaving the smoldering Corvette, the shocked neighbors, and the dead spy/car enthusiast behind.
Hansen frowned at Moreau. “I just want to say, that was a brilliant piece of fieldwork. No witnesses, no footprints, just beautiful.”
Moreau sighed. “Cowboy, I’m not proud of what I did back there. But let me ask you something… Did you know Ames was tailing you back in Korfovka? Setting you up to die? If you had a chance to take him out, would you?”
“Hell, yeah.”
Moreau cocked a brow. “All right, then. You and I have a lot to talk about.”
“Don’t you mean you, me, and Grim?”
Moreau drew in a deep breath. “No, Son, I don’t.”
