Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

“Good point,” MacD said. “Let me see that phone. Stay with him.” He took the gun, leaving Trono holding the knife to the Haitian’s throat. He also took a spare roll of toilet paper with him.

“What are you going to do?” Hali asked.

“Not sure yet. Keep your phone handy.”

MacD walked back into the bar and edged up to the front window but stayed out of sight. He typed a text in French saying “All three are coming out the front in two minutes. Honk twice to acknowledge.”

The text went through. Seconds later, two short beeps came from the left. He poked his head around and saw a Toyota SUV with two Haitians inside waiting at the curb. Both of them were staring intently at the front door.

MacD went up to a table of American college students who had a collection of beers on their table. One was wearing a Panama hat and a plaid shirt over his T-shirt. He and MacD were about the same size.

“Ah’ll give you a hundred dollars for your hat and shirt,” MacD said.

The student looked at his three buddies, then back at MacD. “Is this a joke, man?”

“No joke.” MacD held out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “Right now.”

“Yeah!” the student said, laughing, and shucked the clothes. He plucked the bill from MacD’s hand and high-fived the other guys before ordering another round.

MacD donned the hat and shirt. The two men in the car wouldn’t expect only one of them to come out, and the different clothes would make him invisible.

He sauntered out the door as if he were simply taking a stroll, keeping his eyes toward the open window and away from the Toyota, the hat shielding his face from view.

He passed the Toyota and another car before ducking and circling around. Through the side mirrors, MacD could see that the SUV hitmen were still focused on the Waterfront’s door.

He strode up to the Toyota and flung the rear door open. Before they could react, he was inside the SUV with the SIG Sauer against the driver’s neck.

“Don’t move,” he said in Creole. “You understand?”

They nodded. He sat back and put the pistol’s barrel against the toilet paper roll.

“Poor man’s silencer,” MacD said. “Don’t make me use it.” Each of them had a Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun laying across their laps. “Now, as slowly as you can, take the magazines out of your weapons and drop them behind you. Then pull back the bolts and show me they’re empty.”

The two men exchanged glances, then complied with MacD’s instructions.

“Good. Now drop them on the floor back here one at a time. We’ll start with the driver.”

The driver twisted in his seat and held the MP7 up. Then he shoved it down while the passenger lunged toward MacD with a knife he’d been palming.

The sudden attack left MacD with no alternative. It was him or them. He shot the passenger first, then the driver, through the back of the seats, the blasts muffled by the thick toilet paper. Both men slumped forward. The smell of gunpowder filled the SUV. He checked to make sure they were dead, then scanned the street around him. No one had noticed the brief battle.

“Ah really hate that you made me do that,” he said to the two corpses, then called Hali.

“The front’s clear. You can bring him out.”

“Do we have transportation?”

Even though MacD wanted to take the SUV, there was no way to remove the dead body from the driver’s seat without being seen. “We’ll have to cab it.”

“We’ll be out in a minute.”

&n

bsp; MacD strapped the two bodies into their seat belts and propped them up so that it looked like they were napping. Then he wiped down the SUV for any possible prints.

Trono and Hali exited the bar with the Haitian in front of them. Trono had the Haitian in a Krav Maga finger lock that allowed him to control his captive while he held the knife in his other hand.

MacD walked up to them and said in Creole, “Your friends didn’t want to cooperate.”