“Great,” I said. “Where are we going?”
“Brussels Airport. There’s a private jet waiting.”
“The airport?” More alarm bells went off in my head. Too many. “Where exactly is this meeting taking place?”
“No idea,” said the first guy again. Other than checking his watch, the second guy standing behind him might as well have been a cardboard cutout. His presence was far from insignificant, however. Two guys made backing out more challenging. Two guys made it less of an invitation and more of an order.
“Our instructions were to pick you up here and drop you at the plane,” the first guy said. “Whatever happens after that . . .” he shrugged to indicate his guess was as good as mine. There really wasn’t a choice. The second guy made sure of that.
I opted to play this out, at least as far as the airport, without making a fuss. Diplomacy was always my default tactic. I could handle myself if things got physical—it was a prerequisite when dealing with my clientele—but I am not James Bond. I had no urge to escalate the situation.
Until I stepped into the hallway.
Guy #1 put his hand on my chest before I had my other foot out the door.
“Sorry,” he said, “we need to take your piece.” He reached under my coat, toward the Glock holstered beneath my left armpit, but I slapped him away and stepped back.
Guy #2 drew his gun, but Guy #1 held his hand toward him and told him to be cool. He had his other hand, the one that had reached under my jacket, stretched out to me, trying to keep things civil.
“No need to get worked up, Mr. Carter,” he said. “Just precautionary. Take it out and leave it here, if you’d rather not have us hang on to it.”
“Thanks, but I prefer to leave it right where it is,” I said, patting the grip. Guy #2 flinched. Guy #1 never broke eye contact. “Just precautionary.”
“Sorry,” he said again. “Can’t let that happen.”
“Well then you can tell your boss that I respectfully decline his meeting request.”
“Can’t let that happen either.” He dropped his hand and rested it on the butt of his own weapon. That made it official. Rejection was not an option.
“I don’t know how your employer does business,” I said, “but I only agree to a pat-down when I know what I’m walking into. This right here,” I motioned in a circle encompassing the three of us and our little standoff, “is not the way you make a potential partner feel comfortable. So either my peace of mind comes with me,” I tapped it again and this time both men flinched, “or you can go fuck yourselves.”
Guy #1 dropped his eyes and bent his mouth into a half smile. I saw the move coming a half second before he made it. He pulled his gun and I grabbed his arm in the same motion, yanking it hard into the edge of the doorframe. His hand popped open and the gun went skidding across my apartment floor toward the kitchen. Still holding his arm, I ducked as he swung at me with his other fist, then stood up straight, driving the crown of my skull into his chin. His legs went wobbly, making it easy to grab two handfuls of his shirt and toss him into my TV stand. The set crashed to the floor with a flash of sparks, a pop of smoke, and the sweet smell of burnt electrical components.
Nice job, genius, I thought. I guess pushing him out of the apartment made too much sense.
With his partner on the ground, Guy #2 had a clear shot at me. I flung the door shut and stepped to the side as two bullets splintered the wood where my chest had been. I clicked the dead bolt just as he tried to ram through, shaking the entire frame. A second later it shook again as his partner, back on his feet, lowered his shoulder into my spine and drove me into the wall. The air rushed out of my lungs, and I dropped to my knees after he landed two point-blank kidney shots. I turned just as he was raising his knee to deliver the knock-out blow and was able to block it with my forearms. Before he could reload to try again, I shot my hand out, grabbed his testicles, squeezed, and twisted.
The cry that came out of him was part animal, part wounded child. He collapsed without even trying to brace the impact. His head smacked on the hardwood floor but I don’t think he noticed. Both hands clutched his ruptured genitals and didn’t move to defend his face as I stomped it with the bottom of my foot. There was a single, sharp snap, like a pencil breaking in half. Nose, orbital bone, jaw—something was now in worse shape than it had been when he woke up that morning.
The door shook as his partner collided with it again.
“Mike, you okay?” he shouted.
I heard wood crack and saw the frame around the dead bolt curve outward. One or two more good hits and he’d be inside. It was a miracle it had held up this long. Putting two in his chest as he entered the room would have ended things quickly, but I still didn’t know who they worked for and didn’t want to step into an even bigger pile of shit by capping one of their people or holding him at gunpoint until I figured out what to do next. There was also the serious question as to whether or not I’d even be able to pull the trigger when it mattered. I talk a good game, but the next person I shot would be my first. All I wanted at that moment was to get somewhere safe, call Leon, and demand to know who the fuck he sent to my apartment and why.
The window.
I ran to it and pulled it up as Guy #2 slammed into the door again. My apartment was on the third floor and there was no fire escape. Jumping meant a broken leg at best, so that was out. I looked around, my head outside in the frigid winter air, hoping to find anything resembling a viable option. That’s when I saw the drain spout.
It was about four feet to my left, secured to the side of the building by metal clamps bolted into the brick. No idea if it would hold my weight, but I was out of time. Not thinking, just moving, I stepped onto the windowsill, pushed off, and caught the pipe with both hands. Tore the skin off all my knuckles as they scraped between the brick and the spout, but I got a grip. The bracket closest to where I grabbed bent outward and the bolts pulled free, but the ones above and below it maintained their hold. I half rappelled, half fell down the pipe, and landed on the sidewalk hard enough to lose my balance and tumble onto my back. When I looked up, I saw Guy #2 leaning out my window. I scrambled to my feet and ran, waiting for the sound of gunshots.
Would the bullets ricochet off the concrete around my feet, sending up little puffs of debris like in the movies? Or would this bad guy actually have decent aim and put one in the back of my head on the first try?
As it turned out, neither of those things happened. I had just enough time to wonder why before I rounded the corner and the large man blocking my path jammed an electric stun gun into the side of my neck.
It was an interesting sensation. First there was the pain, sudden and blinding and unexpected. It felt like two white-hot needles had punctured my skin and began burning my flesh from the inside.
After the initial jolt, the electricity worked its way through my muscles, seizing every one of them. My body went limp and I crumpled into the behemoth who I assumed was the third member of my collection party. He caught me under the arms and put the stun gun back in his pocket. Then he removed my Glock from its shoulder holster and tucked it into his belt.
All that and they still took my frigging gun.
Feeling started to come back—quicker than I expected—but everything was pins and needles, like when you’ve been sleeping on your arm and roll over, allowing the blood to rush back in. Though I could stand on my own, doing much else was out of the question. Guy #3 made it a moot point when he pinned my arms behind my back and secured my wrists with a length of white plastic zip tie.
He grabbed my elbow and led me to a black, four-door sedan idling at the curb by the entrance to my building. Guy #2 came through the front doors as we approached, his arm beneath his partner’s shoulders, dragging him along.
“What the fuck happened?” my guy asked.
“Asshole freaked out,” Guy #2 said. “Broke Mike’s nose.”
Among other things.
Mike attempted to lunge at me, but it was half-hearted. More for show and to salvage what was left of his pride than anything. Guy #2 restrained him, but it didn’t take much effort.
“So what do you want me to do?” Guy #3 asked.
An elderly couple shambled toward us on the sidewalk, bundled tight beneath coats that looked as old as they were, their arms around each other as much for warmth as affection. Otherwise, the street was empty. In my neighborhood, anyone not at work by 11:00 in the morning was either drunk, high, or dead from doing too much of both.
Guy #3 squeezed my arm hard enough to bruise and shot me a sideways glance. Don’t try anything, it said. He flashed a thin smile to Ma and Pa Kettle, who nodded politely and crossed the street, wanting no part of our little congregation.
