“Give me a minute,” the mercenary said.
The man must have placed his hand over the phone because Krantz could only hear muffled voices in the background, but he knew exactly what they were arguing about. Seconds later, he was proven right.
“Frank and I want to get a cut out of the other guys’ payments.”
Krantz’s lips curled in a defiant sneer. “That wasn’t part of our agreement—”
“Then change the fucking agreement,” the mercenary spat, interrupting him. “Or we’re coming after you.”
If the two South African mercenaries had been in the car with Krantz, they would have seen his coal-dark eyes dance with cruel amusement. He had given these two way too much credit. Van Heerden would have never renegotiated the terms of an agreement while under stress, especially trapped in hostile territory. These two guys were well-trained brutes, but poker players they were not, and they held none of the good cards. Oxley had made the right call.
“I understand,” Krantz replied, waiting just long enough to give the mercenary the impression he had indeed considered his offer. “Very well. Send me the instructions at the number appearing on your phone, and I’ll see that you get your money by the time you reach your first waypoint.”
“Good,” the mercenary grunted in satisfaction.
“One more thing before you guys take off,” Krantz said. “Did you leave the two SUVs where you were supposed to?”
“Yes, but they’re still dirty.”
Krantz knew what the mercenary meant. The bodies of the Secret Service special agents they had murdered were still in their respective vehicles, and they hadn’t wiped clean their fingerprints.
“Understood. I’ll take care of it,” Krantz said. “But you need to go now before the authorities cordon off the entire area.”
“We’ll call from our first waypoint, Phoenix. Don’t you forget our money.”
Krantz dropped the phone into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and tossed his baseball cap on the passenger seat. These two twats were caught in the middle of a cyclone, and they were threatening the only person able to get them out. Not that Krantz had any intention of helping them, but they didn’t know that.
Krantz kept an eye on the rearview mirror of the Jeep Cherokee, looking at the main entrance of the building. It took the two men less than five minutes to pack up their stuff and exit onto the sidewalk. They scanned their surroundings before taking off in the direction of the Honda. Krantz lost them a few seconds later, their dark silhouettes disappearing behind a large panel van. But it didn’t matter. He’d know soon enough if he’d done a good job or not.
The ground under the Jeep Cherokee shook as the Honda exploded in a brilliant flash, sending a pillar of fire into the night. The old car lifted off the ground and came to rest upside down in the middle of the street, a burning heap of twisted metal.
Krantz suppressed a smile. Clearly his demolition skills were stale. He had used way too much explosive on the Honda. If he’d been back in training and this mission had been an assessment, his SAS instructors would have failed him.
And rightly so, he thought, driving off.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
San Francisco, California
White slowly rubbed his face, trying to massage away the numbness. As he waited for the paramedic to return, he thought again about how courageous Veronica had been to come out of hiding to defend him. She had unequivocally, and heroically, saved his life. If it wasn’t for her, he would have been punched to death.
Despite the number of pills the paramedic had given him, the beginning of another headache was gnawing at his temples. The muscles in his neck were tense and sore, and his back was killing him. With a groan, he got up from the chair he’d been sitting in for the last fifteen minutes and carefully stretched his back. The hotel room he’d been ordered to stay in was similar to his own on the fifth floor, minus the connecting doors. The FBI agent in charge had made it clear to White that he wasn’t permitted to leave the room. A quick phone call to the special agent in charge of the Secret Service San Francisco field office had confirmed that White was to abide by the FBI directive. White had also been relieved of his service pistol. It had been placed in an exhibit bag along with his spare magazines, Spyderco knife, and radio. At least he’d been able to sneak back into his room to get his ankle holster and snub-nose revolver from his safe.
“We’re just following protocols,” one of the FBI agents had said, his discomfort apparent. “Sorry about that.”