Page 17

Tee Time

When Hank had arrived at Padma’s office, he’d stopped mid-whistle when he’d heard the voices coming from within.

Her tea had been hot, and he’d shifted it to his other hand while he’d hugged the wall and eavesdropped, inching back to be outside the security camera’s range.

His heart had stopped when he’d heard those words float out from the crack in her door: “Yes.

Send the men from Mumbai.

Let them come.

All three.

The big, bald one—Yes, the second one is a banker.

I said, all three of them. Send your men and let them take their best shot.”

Hitmen were coming for them.

From India! On Saturday.

Yep.

He was gonna end up one of those missing middle managers he’d read about on the internet.

He hoped to God he wouldn’t be hung naked from some bridge.

Hank could tell from the strain in Padma’s voice that these men were being forced on her.

She wasn’t even thirty years old.

What kind of power could she have, up against whoever was calling the shots at Indo-USA Gaming Inc.? So she did the only thing she could in the situation—she warned him.

Again.

The first time, to let him know he was under suspicion.

But this time, to let him know how it was going down.

As he had waited for Padma to return from the ladies’ room, Hank had congratulated himself again for having done whatever it was that had earned her loyalty.

He had delivered her tea like clockwork, every morning, so she knew he would overhear her call.

Most likely, she had watched him approach her door on the hallway camera.

Again, what a calculated move to rush out of her office just as he had arrived and leave the headshots of the Indian hitmen on her desk.

She was something else, all right.

He could have scooped her in his arms and hugged her, he was so grateful.

Now, thanks to Padma’s craftiness, he had a timeline.

Two days.

Saturday.

He had to tell Larry and Andre he finally knew exactly what they were up against.

He texted: Got us a tee time—it’s Saturday!

He had hoped they’d understand what that meant. He’d have to connect with Hector, so the barber would have time to prepare.

Hank had sat in Padma’s office, his heart thumping, his leg bouncing up and down.

Thinking.

What to do next? Out of habit, he had straightened his tie, and an image had flashed across his mind.

Would the next person to touch his tie be a funeral director, adjusting it in his coffin? He knew he tended to be a touch morbid that way.

Would he even need a tie? The way things were going he’d most likely have a closed-casket funeral just like Dave’s.

He had shaken off the thought and returned his focus to not ending up in a coffin.

When Padma had returned from the restroom, Hank had gone through the motions of updating her on the hiring status, then headed to his office.

He had closed the door and leaned against it.

He couldn’t remember walking down the hall, but there he was.

He looked at the photo atop his credenza, of Pam and their daughter.

Would he ever see Claire again?

He knew he had to talk to Larry and Andre and then get to Hector.

Fast.

The barber needed to know the new timeline.

Why had Padma asked about his wife? Had she been warning him that Pam wasn’t safe either? No.

Pam had to be safe.

She didn’t know a thing.

None of the wives did.

That was Rule Number Four.

Tell no one.

And they’d made damn sure they’d all obeyed it.

Hank had always hung on to the hope that when they had their ten million and he was finally able to tell Pam what they’d done, his wife would forgive him for losing everything, and come back to him.

And they’d reunite with their daughter.

If only he wasn’t too late.