“Come on….we can still talk about this.” Face tries to keep his voice reasonable and relaxed—a remarkable feat when he has a gun in his hands and is staring down the barrel of one as well. “We had a deal—I brought you the money and you were supposed to bring Minnie. We could have a nice little exchange and you’d get a two-day head-start down to Rio before any law enforcement starts looking for you.”
The head man, a burly broken badge named Mac, just laughs. “Or we could shoot you, take the money and still lean on her old man for more. What’s an oil man going to do with all that dough he’s hoarding anyways? Might as well buy himself something important.”
Face grimaces, not liking the implications in the other man’s words. “Do you really think a Texas oil man is sitting on his hands by the phone, waiting for your ransom call? He’s mobilized half of the law agencies in the US to find his daughter, and he’s started contracting freelancers too.”
So that is an exaggeration. Like most men in tight spots like this, Mr. Stanwood feared calling the cops and located the A-Team instead. They are not law enforcement (they are better then law enforcement, Face insists) and they can get results no law man would even dream of.
“Like yourself?” Mac sneers and his bodyguard, the only other man in the room and the one with the other gun, snickers.
Face shrugs lightly, “Call me a Good Samaritan. I just hate thinking about a little eight-year-old girl being kidnapped by thugs like you, just so you can make yourselves a little money.”
“And send a message to fat cats like Stanwood.” Mac points out. “Though putting a hole in your chest the size of a grapefruit and taking his money will send a real nice message too.”
Several very un-Catholic words pop into Face’s head just then. He can likely take either Mac or his bodyguard but not both at once and not when the bodyguard is armed.
He needs some kind of diversion if he is going to get the upper hand on these creeps. Unfortunately, his usual tactics of babbling on about his suits will not work here—things have already escalated too far with a suitcase of cash sitting on the table and two guns drawn.
Faintly, over the noise of an over-worked AC unit and hungry puppies and kittens in their shelter cages, Face hears the front door of the animal shelter open.
No one is supposed to be here yet—the place has only been open for maybe five minutes by his calculation. Mac picked the location and has the owner in his pocket—he made it very clear that no one, period, is to go into the back areas until he gives the word.
Hopefully the people at the front desk will stall these early birds. Otherwise, Face’s complicated morning has just gotten a lot worse.