Page 113 of The Devoted Game

“You keep saying you’re not a murderer,” Ryan reminded. “This is murder.”

Fincher shook his head adamantly. “I won’t be a murderer. You’re going to take your own life, McBride.”

“If you’re not a murderer,” he countered, “then I can just get up and walk out of here and you can’t shoot me.”

A smile spread across Fincher’s lips. “That is correct. But then Agent Grace would die. And that would be your fault for failing to obey me.”

“How can I be sure you’ll do what you say you will?” Ryan argued, barely,barelyhanging on to his fury. “Let’s face it, it’s a lose-lose situation for me.”

Fincher pressed the weapon’s muzzle against his forehead. “You don’t have a choice, McBride, you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Can I at least have a smoke first?”

“Suit yourself,” Fincher said impatiently. “Just remember that the longer I wait to give Grace’s location, the less time help will have to get to her.”

Ryan tamped out a Marlboro, fished out his Zippo, and lit it. He took a long deep drag. “I cut one wrist, whichever I choose, and you make the call. Then I’ll do the other one. No negotiation.”

Fincher considered his offer. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “One cut, then the call.”

That was probably the best deal he was going to get. Might as well get this over with. He positioned the blade but hesitated. “Put it on speaker.”

“You’re wasting time, McBride.”

That was all too true. Might as well get this part over with. Ryan could think of better ways to die, but he couldn’t think of a better reason.

“Just one other thing,” Fincher said.

Ryan exhaled a lungful of smoke. “What’s that?” If this bastard didn’t hurry ...

“Do it right the first time,” Fincher warned. “If it’s not deep enough, I won’t make the call. Seventeen minutes are remaining, McBride. How fast do you suppose the police will be able to respond?”

Ryan made the swipe. Pain seared along his nerve endings despite the buzz the alcohol had provided.

Fincher watched in morbid fascination.

“Make the call, asshole,” Ryan demanded, resisting the impulse to stop the blood flowing from the gash on his left wrist.

Fincher entered the three digits, set the phone to speaker.

The first ring strummed the air.

Ryan’s heart started to pound. He ordered it to slow. Didn’t work.

Second ring.

“911 operator, what is your emergency?”

Relief almost numbed the pain.Almost.

“This is Martin Fincher. Please inform the FBI that Agent Vivian Grace is being held at the U-Store-It facility downtown. They have fifteen minutes to save her.”

Fincher ended the call and smiled down at Ryan. “Your many sins will be atoned with the second swipe, McBride. You will have made the ultimate sacrifice. Given your life for another. Now, make the other cut.”

Ryan struggled to hold the blade. The fingers of his left hand didn’t want to work now. Somehow he maneuvered the blade to his right wrist, watched as Fincher’s attention settled there. Then he made his move.

Ryan swung his leg hard and wide, swept the man’s feet from under him. Fincher hit the ground like a rock. The weapon flew across the grass.

Holding his cigarette tight between his teeth, Ryan scrambled on top of Fincher. The older man was stronger than Ryan had expected, or maybe he was just weak. They rolled, and it was all he could do to keep him pinned down with his right arm. He jammed the fiery end of the Marlboro into Fincher’s cheek. Fincher screamed.