Assassin
“The pleated shirt with the gold doodads down the front had to go. A man doesn’t feel so damn resplendent when he is all wet and cold and shit, soaked to the bone.They had made a run for the car the same moment as the furious storm finally unloaded over Miami Beach. Stoke and Ross raced out of the hotel and made a mad dash down the drive, looking for Preacher’s Lincoln. Torrential rain and wind lashed them, and the near-hurricane-force winds of the tropical squall were strong enough to rock the ...cars parked along the drive. Even though Trevor was flashing the high beams, man, you couldn’t see a goddamn thing.“What’d I tell you ’bout the tropics, Ross?” Stoke asked as they jumped inside the Town Car and pulled the doors shut, straining against heavy winds.“I can’t remember,” Ross said, jumping in the rear.“Three little words is all I got to say,” Stoke said, fumbling with the AC controls. “Humidity, humidity, humidity.”“Call this humidity?” Ross said.“Wet, ain’t it?MoreLess
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