23Erika said, “Danièle and Hilly-Anne are here.”
Van Hoof said, “If you’re going to run this place like a convention center, I better set up a guard post.”
“My friends will make excellent sentries,” she said, opening the door.
The Vespa idled ten feet from the entry. The two women were both in motorcycle leathers now, their heads and most of their faces covered by glistening blue-black helmets with smoky plastic shades over the eyes. But their mouths were visible, their teeth gleaming. Erika stepped outside to talk to them.
I shut the door and dropped the hammer back on the counter. I pointed at van Hoof’s weapon. “Got one of those for me?”
“Certainly,” he said, moving to a padlocked storage locker. When he opened it, I smelled gun oil. Inside were at least a dozen Browning pistols an
