Anton hated running. Guys who were six-five were either built for lifting, like him, or they were pencil-necks built for running.
That hadn’t stopped Ricardo and Jesse from rousting him before the crack of dawn this morning—midnight in San Antonio. “You have ta get yourself switched on over to the right clock.”
He’d rather die peacefully in bed, but they hadn’t let that be an option.
His attempts to beg off had only extended the run. They’d started with a stiff climb out of town on Mousehole Lane, Maw-zel. He was soon trapped. Ricardo’s sense of direction was Delta Force honed. He and Jesse had flown helicopters in the service. Put him up at a fifty meters and clipping along at a couple hundred klicks an hour, and he’d be on it.
Running through these twisting English lanes, at midnight
