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He wiggled his head. “Might have tipped off ICE that there was an illegal alien living in a certain hotel in Manhattan.”
“Keegan’s out of the country?” I questioned, sitting up.
“He is for the moment. I don’t think it will keep him out, but it buys us some time.”
“Or pisses him off even more. Look, the ECD hired several sharpshooters to kill a high-profile target. That target has yet to be killed. I’d have heard.
“Don’t think they’ve gone for good, because they haven’t. They might have gone underground for the moment but that just means they’re planning something.”
“Fucking know-it-all, James Bond.”
Eoghan grunted then flipped me the bird. “Da’s wrong. You don’t manage the ECD.”
“Not saying you do,” Conor denied. “I’m saying that you put roadblocks in their way.”
“That won’t work forever.”
Frowning, I asked, “Eoghan, what aren’t you telling us?”
“I’m telling you what I know. The ECD were shopping around for a sniper for a high-profile target. There have been no assassinations so far.” He got to his feet. “This is a waiting game.”
“Isn’t life a waiting game?” Conor asked, his tone almost wistful.
I squinted at them both then shook my head. “It’s too early and I’m too hungry for conversations like this. Let’s get some food.”
The sooner we ate, the sooner I could get the fuck home, and my new pool table had just arrived.
I had plans for it. Very specific, very detailed plans.
