Page 20

“What’s the message, Miles?”

I get up and sit back down on the wheel well.

“Two parts rye, half a part sweet vermouth, a dash of bitters. Add a cherry if it’s your birthday.”

She nods.

“Good boy. Now get him out of here.”

The six creeps get back in the van. Two sit up front. One sits on either side of me on the floor. The other two are across from me, leaning on the door. The one on the right pulls the blindfold back over my eyes. Each of them has a distinctive bulge under the arm—aside from the rifles, they have pistols in shoulder holsters.

We pull out of the warehouse, crunch across the gravel, and head who the fuck knows where. Goddammit. I need to get back in the warehouse before the interrogator gets too far away.

A moment later I hear lighters flick and matches scrape. This is followed by the smell of cigarettes and weed. I hold my hands out and say, “Think I could have one of those? I promise I’ll keep quiet. And about the fire thing earlier, that was uncool and I’m very sorry.”

There’s silence for a minute, then someone up front says, “If it will shut him up, give him one.”

Someone takes a step toward me. From the sound of it, it’s one of the two across from me. I hold out my hands and he puts a cigarette between my fingers. I hear a lighter flick on and lean into it. My hands are still bound together with plastic cuffs, so this is really going to hurt.

The moment I feel the cigarette spark, I grab his arm and pull him toward me. His head smashes into the side of the van hard enough that I hear his skull crack. I push him back against the far wall, then pull him down on top of me. I’m strong enough that I snap my hands out of the plastic cuffs. My prosthetic left arm doesn’t feel a thing, but it hurts like hell as the cuffs cut into my right wrist.

Still under him, I get the pistol from his holster and fire blindly in every direction until the thing is empty. Then I drop it and yank off my blindfold. The other shooters in the back are all down on the floor. The guy in the passenger seat turns to take a shot, so I kick the guy whose skull I cracked into his face. His gun goes off into the roof.

I spin around to find the other door shooter with his pistol a few inches from my face. I move my head just as he fires. My ear goes deaf, but I get my hands around him so when he tries to fire at me, he ends up spraying the back of the van. The moment he stops shooting, I roll, pull his arm across me, and break it. His pistol falls and slides away. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the goon who was sitting on my right try to get a shot at me. I can’t reach the fallen gun, but the shooter I wrapped around myself has a knife in his belt. I pull it and use him as a battering ram, stunning him and pinning the other shooter against the wall. He tries sneaking an arm around his pal to get a shot at me. I grab the hand. Lean in and jam the knife into his throat, twisting the blade. When I pull it out, arterial spray jets onto the wall and he twitches like a dying bug. My human shield has been working on my back and sides with his one good fist and elbow. I slit his throat and push him at the other shooter on my left. But he’s flat on his back with a bullet in his head. Someone got lucky. Hope it was me.

I grab the pistol that slid into the back of the van. Dive on the floor as the passenger up front fires at me. One of his shots grazes my side and I empty the pistol into the back of his seat. When he falls, he bounces off the dashboard and lands on the driver. The van swerves and slam into something. In the back it’s a water park of blood. The crash sends me Jet Skiing up front. I crash into the passenger seat as the van comes to a stop.

The airbag explodes in the driver’s face, knocking his head back. I hurt like I just climbed out of a cement mixer, and the shot that grazed my side burns like hell. But I don’t have time to whine right now.

I slap the driver until he wakes up. When he sees me, he lurches back against the door. I let him get a good look at the bloody mess in the back before putting the knife to his throat.

“Take me to the warehouse.”

The van is resting against a stop sign on a service road. He doesn’t say a word but hits the ignition. The engine grinds. I press the knife harder.

“You better hope it starts or I’m going to carve off your face and make you eat it.”

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nbsp; He tries it a couple more times before the engine catches and holds. In a few seconds, we’ve turned around and are running back the way we came.

While he drives I take the pistol from his shoulder holster and put it in my waistband. The rifles are tangled up in the meat market in the rear of the van and it takes a few seconds to pull one free. I check it to make sure it’s loaded, then jam it into the back of the driver’s head.

“How much farther?”

He points with his free hand.

“Around that corner up ahead.”

“Don’t go all the way to the warehouse. Stop where I tell you.”

When we’re about thirty yards from the warehouse driveway I tell him to pull over.

I move around the seat and put the rifle in his face.

“Did you shoot the limo driver?”

He shakes his head. Hooks a thumb at the mess in back.