by Marcus Sakey
Which meant they were his only chance. And every second they sat here, prisoners in her living room, was one closer to too late.
The scissors had gone warm in her hands, the metal slick. Though they were a lousy weapon, they were what she had, and some comfort.
The man pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, said, “I’ve got them.” A pause. “Yes.” His eyes were cold and steady as some deep-sea creature. “OK.”
Beside her, Ian whispered, “Are you all right?”
“I think so.” She saw the man watching them, didn’t bother to hide her words. “You?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
“Hold on. You have to hold on.”
“You remember the game I told you about?”
“Jesus Christ, are you kidding?”
“Prisoner’s Dilemma. Remember it?”
She sighed. “Yeah.”
“Remember what I said? It’s about iteration. The point is that you play over and over.” For a moment, she thought she saw the faintest crinkle of skin around his eyes, like he was trying to tell her something. “But if you know you’re only going to play once—”
“I know, I know. Then you betray.”
“Right.” He coughed long and hard. When he could breathe again, he said, “Especially if it’s the last game. Or if there’s something truly important at stake. Something larger. Then you betray. You make sure you get out.” His gaze locked on her.
“Jennifer, Ian, do me a favor?” The man smiled. “Say cheese.” He pointed his phone in their direction, and she heard a faint click. He’d taken a photo. A trophy, and another violation. They were toys for him, a way to amuse himself.
“If all you wanted was a picture, you could have asked,” she said. “I might have posed.”
He smiled. “That’s a generous offer. But this way is better, I think.”
“What do you want?”
“Little late to play innocent, don’t you think, sister?”
“Yeah, but what do you want? Why are you here?” It was part anger, part hope that he would tell her. “Did Victor change his mind? Because you can’t get into that safe-deposit box without me. Even if you have the key.”
“But we’re not trying to get into the bank, are we?” His eyes hardened. “Are we, Jennifer?”
“Oh God,” Ian said. “You’re here to kill us.”
Jenn looked over at him. He was wax and sweat, all pale and runny. How hard had he been hit?
“Alex has the stuff you want, and you know that. So once you get it from him, you’re going to kill us. Right?” Ian leaned forward. “Please. Tell me that much. I need to know.”
“Why?”
Ian’s arms were trembling. “Listen. I’m a trader. I make deals. Let’s make one.”
“Like what?” The man sounded genuinely amused.
“You know that we got the chemicals when we robbed Johnny Love.”
“So?”
“So we took money, too. That’s the reason we did it.” Ian’s eyes darted. “Promise to let me live, and you can have it.”
What the hell was Ian doing? He couldn’t possibly believe that a promise meant anything. Could it be some sort of play? Was he making a move, trying to distract him?
Then the words hit more clearly: Promise to let me live.
Was he selling her out? Was that what he had been saying, with his reference to the game? Explaining in advance what he was going to do, assuaging his conscience for betraying her?
Jenn stared at him: expensive suit spotted with vomit, skin pale and shiny, arms shaking. He didn’t look much like the cocky player she knew, the one who hid behind a mask of wit and sarcasm. The man she considered a friend.
She thought back to brunch, Ian talking about the game, its results. How if both people betrayed, they both got medium prison time; if neither did, they both got just a little. And the worst result of all, if one was faithful and the other betrayed. One walked free and the other suffered for a decade.
Is that what he was setting her up for? If so, then according to the rules of the game, the best thing she could do was betray him right back.
Only, what would that mean? How could she betray him?
More important, did she want to?
She’d no sooner thought of the question than she had the answer. It was like the dream she’d had earlier, the one where she was pregnant. When she’d woken, she’d been genuinely sad that it was just a dream. Not because she wanted a kid. Because she wanted things to matter. She wanted to live as though they did.
So screw the rules of the game. Whoever this guy was, he likely intended to kill them. Maybe they could get out, find a way to help Mitch. Maybe not. But either way, she’d rather go out being faithful.
Ian said, “I mean it. There’s a lot of money at stake. More than two hundred thousand dollars. You let me live, you can have it.”
“I know all about the money, Ian. You think you stole it from Johnny Love, but really, you stole it from me.”
“Well, this is your chance to get it back.” Ian paused, let the words sink in. “Look, I understand you don’t trust me.”
“Not too much, no.”
“Let me prove I’m serious.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Ian took a deep breath, then glanced at her. “If you look in Jenn’s right hand, you’ll find a pair of scissors. She picked them up when you weren’t watching.”
CHAPTER 33
VICTOR WORE THE SAME OUTFIT he’d had on earlier, a charcoal suit and a white shirt, the top button open. His hair was neat and his smile broad. Leaning by the entrance of the bar, he looked like a man who had already won.
And there was a reason for that, Mitch realized, looking at the four bottles on the bar top. Looking at himself, a busted rib and cut hand and screaming headache; at Alex, blood drying on the side of his face from the broken glass, the wound on his eye bound in butterfly bandages. Both of them unarmed and worn down and out of their depth. And, Mitch realized, not done with the discussion they’d been having. He wasn’t sure which way Alex would have gone. Which meant that, again, each stood alone.
Johnny Love was behind Victor. He had on a mauve silk shirt. The pistol in his hand was bright chrome.
Game over.
“Where are you off to, Mitch?” Victor slid his hands in his pockets.
“Just . . . away from here.”
“Away from me, you mean.” The man shook his head. “That’s not playing by the rules.”
“You’re selling chemical weapons, and you’re talking about rules?”
Victor’s eyes hardened. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Let me ask you.” He knew he should be frightened, and was, but there was more than that. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe it was just exhaustion, and the fact that he couldn’t think of any other way to behave. “How do you live with yourself?”
“How do I live with myself? You mean, as a nasty evil arms dealer?”
“Yeah.”
Victor smiled, then strolled across the room. For a second, Mitch considered tackling him, taking a shot, but Johnny had the pistol up and aimed. He’d be dead before he started moving. Think, goddamn it. You have to find a way. Victor walked behind the bar like he owned the place. Took a highball glass, set it on the back bar, then eyed the scotch. Chose a dusty bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. “Is this the part,” he said, his back to them, “where I’m supposed to tell you that I’m just a businessman, that people will find ways to kill each other whether or not I’m involved?”
“Is that true?”
Victor shrugged, then turned. “Sure. But you know what else?”
“What?”
“I don’t really care.” He sipped his scotch. “All that moral relativism crap, it’s for people who feel bad about what they do. It’s for little people.” He pointed with the glass. “Like you two.”
“We may be little people. But at least we don’t sell chemical weapons. Who are th
ey going to? Al-Qaeda? The Taliban?”
“The Michigan Militia? The KKK? MS-13? The next Timothy McVeigh or Ted Kaczynski?” Victor smiled, shrugged. “You know who they’re going to? You really want to know?” He leaned forward. “Whoever pays me.”
Though Mitch could hardly have expected different, the words still floored him. The simple ease of the man, his comfort playing such a monstrous role, it was unlike anything Mitch had imagined. If the man had been a true believer out for a cause, that would at least have made sense. But this?
And that wasn’t the really terrible part, he realized. The terrible part was that it was his fault. Their fault. Whatever happened, whoever this plain-looking poison went to, whichever poor crowd of innocents suffered and died, the weight of it was on them.
How many people had they murdered?
FOR A MOMENT, nothing happened. The room was silent. Then Ian felt the couch shift as Jenn threw herself at him.
He yanked his hands out from under his thighs, barely got them up in time to catch her wrists. The wicked curve of the manicure scissors gleamed inches from his cheek.
“You fucker, you motherfucker—” Jenn screamed at him. “What’s wrong with you?!”
He struggled backward, surprised at how strong she was, or how weak he was. It must have looked comic, him in a business suit, bent halfway backward over the arm of the couch while a hundred-and-fifteen-pound woman came at him with nail scissors. The man with the gun laughed. “Sister, you really are something.”
“Get her off me!”
The guy continued to laugh as he took the gun from behind his back. “That’s enough.”
Jenn continued to thrash against Ian’s arms, her face furious red, the shining edge of the scissors coming closer.
There was a loud click as the man cocked the gun. Jenn froze, then slowly looked up. She narrowed her eyes, then slowly eased back to her side of the couch.
“Drop those bad boys.”
Jenn tossed the scissors to skitter across the table. She turned back to him, glared, then reared her head back and spit a gob of wet phlegm on what used to be his favorite suit.
That set the man off again. “I hadn’t figured you for a fighter. I love a girl with spunk.”
“Fuck you,” she said, her voice gone sullen.
“Even if she isn’t too creative.” The man turned to Ian. “You, though, I’ve had pegged since I spoke to your bookie. A weasel.”
Ian held his hands up in surrender. “I just want to live.”
“And you’ll sell out your friends to do it. Hell, you’ve screwed them from the beginning, haven’t you?”
He felt the flush in his face, the sickness in his belly. “More than two hundred thousand dollars, cash. All but the money I gave Katz. That’s not bad for letting me go.”
“Where is it?”
“Here.”
“Where?”
“Do we have a deal or not?”
The man shrugged. “Sure.”
“You promise?”
“You’ve got my word.” He gestured with the pistol. “Let’s go.”
It was like he could feel the blood racing through all the miles of veins in his body. Dread and adrenaline and hope. That same rush that he got gambling, before the last card fell. Success or defeat just a turn away. Only this time, he was playing for stakes unlike any he had ever played before, and on a thinner hand. Sweat soaked the armpits of his designer shirt.
Hey, kid, don’t quit on me now. This is the game. Play it.
Slowly, he stood. His body hurt in a hundred places, and breathing took conscious effort.
“Remember,” he said. “More than two hundred thousand dollars. All of it right here.”
“So?”
“So please be careful where you’re pointing that thing.”
The man smiled. “Oh, I’ll be careful. But you should be too. If you’re wasting my time, I can promise you, the next hours of your life are going to be bad enough to erase every good thing you ever had.”
Ian shivered. No control over it, a feeling like an ice cube sliding down his spine. You have to do this. It’s the only chance.
He looked at Jenn, wanted to wink, to give her some sign, but didn’t dare. He could only hope that she had been listening, that she had heard him promise all of the money. The biggest bluff of his life, and he wasn’t sure if his partner was paying attention—or if she trusted him enough to follow his lead.
It didn’t matter. He’d made his play. No backing out now.
“You too, sister. On your feet.”
Shit. In his best-case scenario, he’d figured that the man might leave her here, figuring that he would be enough leverage to keep Jenn from trying anything. More likely, she’d be tied up, but that would still be better odds. It was a flimsy plan, but it wasn’t like he’d had a lot of time. He’d been winging it, hoping that if he could distract the guy, Jenn would have her chance. A better chance than a pair of three-inch scissors would have offered.
Now, though. What had he set them up for?
“Let’s go.”
Ian nodded, started across the room. He could feel every inch of his skin, every bruise and cut and blow and burn. A turn of the card. It all came down to a turn of the card. He moved as slowly as he dared, limping a little bit. His mind in overdrive, examining possibilities, looking for every option, coming up with nothing. The man kept a careful distance. No chance Ian could jump him.
Shit, shit, shit. What had he done? When the man realized he was bluffing, he would—
He had just started down the hallway when an idea hit.
More than a long shot. A Hail Mary.
And just like the game, it all came down to trust. Whether Jenn would trust him enough to see what he was doing. Whether he could trust her to recognize what was important.
Whether they had gone too far to ever make it back.
ALEX’S BRAIN WAS STATIC. Raw and unfocused and going nowhere.
Desperate to move, he sat still. He heard Mitch talking to Victor as the man poured himself a fifty-dollar drink. Trying to reason with him, or maybe just stalling for time, but not getting anywhere. Johnny had moved to the center of the bar, the gun held at arm’s length. Aimed with the loose ease of someone who had used a pistol before, who had looked down the barrel at another human being and pulled the trigger.
Alex’s head throbbed in time with his pulse, the pain back in full force, and yet the least of the pain he was dealing with. Thinking that all their discussion, all their debate, it came down to this. Four plastic bottles filled with death, and a man who had just admitted he’d sell them wherever someone was buying. That this might be used not in some faraway desert. That it might be used at an El station or a museum. A church, or a shopping mall, or a school.
That it might be used in the kinds of places Cassie went.
VICTOR SAID, “Now, if we’re done with the philosophy lesson, I’d like my merchandise, please. Put it in the bag.”
Mitch felt hollowed out. Pulled too hard in too many directions. He was standing in front of the devil, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Well, one thing. Small and pointless, but something. “No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You want it, it’s right there. I won’t be part of this.”
Victor laughed. “Won’t be part of it? You are part of it. All four of you. Don’t you see? You had it for days. You knew it was dangerous. I’m betting that you had to know in your heart more or less what it was. Right?”
Mitch shook his head, but Victor only smiled, said, “Sure you did. You knew. You just didn’t want to admit it. Because if you did, you’d have to do something about it. And doing something, well, that’s not what the four of you specialize in.”
“What do you know about the four of us?”
“I know that if you really wanted to stop me, if you truly wanted to keep this from hurting anyone, all you had to do was go to the police. And I know that you didn’t.”
>
Words like ball-peen hammer blows. Part of him wanted to argue, to say that it was more complicated than that. And it was. But it was also that simple. They had not only failed one another. They had failed hundreds, maybe thousands, of innocent people. They had become everything they used to despise.
“You see? If you had never gotten involved, then you’d be innocent. But you had a chance to stop me. And you didn’t take it. Which makes you guilty, Mitch. When my clients use it—and they will—it will be your fault.” Victor paused, took a sip of his liquor. “Now. Put those bottles in the bag and bring them to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to know that you’re beaten. That you lost completely.” Victor’s smile was broad and bright.
Mitch knew it didn’t make a difference, but he didn’t care. “I won’t do it.”
“Remember when I told you to believe every word I say? Believe this.” The man’s voice hard, pure alpha dog. “You will put those bottles in the bag, and you will bring it to me, and you’ll thank me for the privilege.”
“I won’t. And meanwhile, the police are on their way. We told them about you. They’ll be here any minute.”
“I don’t think so.” Victor reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone. “Amazing gadgets, these things. Used to be, a phone was for making calls. Now they can give you directions, play music”—he turned the screen to Mitch—“even take pictures.”
No. Oh, no.
The image was small but clear. Ian and Jenn sitting on the couch in her living room.
“So you see, no police. And I think at long last you may be starting to take my word.” His voice hardened. “Put the fucking bottles in the bag and hand it to me. Or I’ll have my people start cutting pieces off your girlfriend.”
SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE IT.
OK, Ian had had his problems. The drugs, paying off the bookie. But those things had made sense in their way. They had been mistakes, but they hadn’t been malevolent.
