Page 101 of Deathtoll

Kate gulped the fresh air, leaning closer to Emma so she could shout into her sister’s ear. “Find the police! Tell them about the devices. Then find Mom and Dad and make sure they’re safe.”

She was already sliding to the ground when Emma called after her. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the warehouse to warn Murph.”

Kate dove into the confused crowd and yelled, “Bomb! Run!”

A panicked wave of people carried her forward, everybody shouting. A sign of the times that nobody for a second thought it was a prank. Which, actually, was damn lucky.

Kate separated from the mob at the first alley, darted through, then ran like the crow flies, through front lawns and back gardens. If she were at the Olympics, they would have given her a gold medal in hurdle jumping.

She didn’t stop until she was at the industrial park, dozens of hangars and warehouses occupying several acres.

She ran around, desperate.

Then she caught sight of an old sign on the side of a building in the distance to the left, a logo with a colonial-style sideboard and faded letters above it. Nowak’s Antiques.

Heart banging, lungs fighting for air, she took off toward that.

* * *

Murph

“I wouldn’t mind a coffee break.” Murph stretched the restraint that held his right hand to the table. The progress was maddeningly slow, one millimeter at a time, but it was progress. Asael only half paid him attention. He was discussing with his client what they should do to their torture victim next.

He’d started by cutting off Murph’s clothes and made such a theatrical performance out of it, it took at least three or four minutes. Fine with Murph. But then the rest was rougher. Asael had tried every tool he had on Murph’s skin for sharpness, slashing at least two dozen cuts of various depths. And that still wasn’t anything serious, just a test before they got going.

The distant client had an obsession with pliers. So far, Murph was missing a thumbnail and one of his bottom teeth. Both had been extracted with excruciating slowness, as if Asael couldn’t bear rushing the performance. Both had been saved in a jar so they could be mailed to the client later as keepsakes.

Murph focused on his breathing to block the pain. His body was brimming with adrenaline, so that helped. He turned his head sideways and spat blood on the floor. He was lying flat on his back and didn’t want to choke.

The client made up his mind. “Cut off his balls.”

Asael looked at Murph.

Murph said, “Let’s not be rash.”

Where the hell is the FBI?

Probably at the parade, and Murph couldn’t blame Cirelli. The lives of thousands of people were at stake. All hands were needed there. He hoped they’d found Emma and Kate.

Asael picked through his instruments of torture and lifted a carving knife with a smile. “How is this?”

“Better find something bigger.” Murph slurred a little because his mouth was swollen. “Match the size of the tool to the size of the job.”

“I didn’t think this would be so entertaining.” Asael sounded genuinely pleased. “I might do it again. Of course, I might not find another one like you.”

The hitman had started out with sneering arrogance and cold-blooded assholery, but the more Murph endured, the more the guy had warmed to him.

The most surreal part was how much he seemed like just a regular guy, going about an average job. The way the FBI had talked about him, Murph had expected more of a TV villain, a flamboyant psychopath.

If they’d run into each other at the Broslin Diner, Murph wouldn’t have looked at the guy twice. Maybe that was how it worked. Why he’d never been caught.

Asael picked up an antique screwdriver and held out the wooden handle toward Murph. “Want something for biting down?”

“Your carotid artery.”

Asael laughed. He set the tool down. “I guess then just relax. I don’t know if that makes it hurt less or not, but that’s what the doctors always say.”