Read HardWind for Free Online Page A

“Sunglasses,” he pleaded.
    “Already on it,” Jackson said, swiping the dark Ray-Bans from the console table
    beside the front door. He held them out to Dáire.
    “You are a fucking hell of a gentleman, Jack Off.”
    “I live to serve, pretty boy.”
    From the closed-circuit camera over Star’s door, she was watching the men as they
    waited for the elevator. Dáire was weaving as he stood there, but at least he was erect.
    She watched them until the elevator doors closed then went in to get dressed for the
    day.
    The ride down in the elevator’s overly bright light had Dáire leaning against the
    wall, his eyes behind the dark glasses squeezed shut. Pain was beating through his head
    and his stomach was still threatening to revolt.
    “I left a note for Consuelo to throw out your sheets,” Jackson said as the cage
    settled. “No way was I going to wash those things.”
    “That’s fine,” Dáire agreed.
    Thankfully no one was about in the lobby other than the morning concierge to
    waylay the two men as they walked outside. As soon as the humid heat struck Dáire he
    gagged, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up.
    “You might want to sit up front with me, Mr. Jackson,” the driver said, sweeping
    his sunglass-covered gaze over Dáire. He was holding the rear door open. “I put a basin
    in the back for him.”
    “Does the whole world know I’m hungover?” Dáire complained.
    “Just get the hell in and lay down,” Jackson advised. “I’ll sit up front with Allen.”
    Daire climbed inside and promptly stretched out as best he could fold his six-feettwo frame into the confines of the sedan. He was grateful Allen, the driver, had not only
    provided a basin but a thick pillow.
    “Better than he deserves,” Jackson said as Allen gently shut the door.
    “I have some Steppenwolf tapes in the glove box if you feel up to listening to them
    this early in the a.m.,” Allen joked.
    “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve no desire to smell him puking all the way to the
    airfield.” He got in and slammed his door as hard as he could.
    “Jackson, please!” came a faint beseeching from the backseat.
    25
    Charlotte Boyett-Compo
    “Go back to sleep,” Jackson ordered. “And try not to puke down your shirt.”
    Allen was a bit less enthusiastic about shutting the driver-side door but he too was
    rewarded with a complaint from the backseat.
    The ride to the airfield where the chopper was berthed took roughly thirty minutes.
    By the time Allen had driven the twenty miles from the Farraige to the Bay County
    International Airport, Dáire was sound asleep, snoring softly.
    “Don’t he look cute?” Jackson asked, twisting around to look at the sleeping man.
    “Makes me feel inadequate and all,” Allen said dryly.
    “Yeah, me too,” Jackson said.
    “I don’t feel cute,” Dáire said. He’d awakened as soon as the car stopped. “I feel like
    shit.”
    “So you’ve said,” Jackson commented. “Stop belaboring the point. Don’t nobody
    feel sorry for your ass.”
    Struggling to push himself up, Dáire groaned. The vicious agony in his head was
    still there but at least his nausea had subsided. He ran a hand over his forehead, wiping
    away the sweat that had formed there.
    “Try not to get slapped in the head with the blades, okay, Dairy Crow?” Jackson
    warned as he opened the back door and held out a hand to help Dáire from the car.
    “Although I think a buzz cut would look adorable on you, I doubt Gentry would.”
    “I’ll try to remember to stoop to your height,” Dáire returned.
    Beneath the rotating blades of the Agusta 109C, the air was a bit cooler, but the
    wash of the wind did nothing to make Dáire feel any better. He climbed into the twin
    engine, multi-blade helicopter and buckled in. He began to feel even worse as the
    chopper took to the skies and arced out of the Gulf.
    “Hang in there, dude,” Jackson told him.
    “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Dáire whispered.
    His