“Not all of it. Part of it was me feeling you out. The other two — they were good soldiers, period. You were the only one with any real ability. But no cold-bloodedness. The military had infected you with this thing known as ‘honor.’”
“So you’re just a sociopath.”
“When did that become such a bad word? People use that term like it’s a disease. Think about it. It brings me no harm. Only power. That’s not a disease, that’s a gift.”
The shock of seeing Maven had worn off, Royce getting some of his bravado back.
“You think this is it for me? Kingpin of this shitty town — you think this is the top? This is just the beginning, Maven. I have ambition like you can’t even fathom. Kings in exile — remember? You’ll always be a peasant. A dangerous peasant, but a peasant nonetheless.”
Royce’s voice fell away as Maven picked up the knife at his table setting. Maven turned it point-down against the table, the end of the handle against his open palm, slowly rotating his flat hand, cutting a tiny hole in the table linen.
Maven said, “I figured I’d end up getting screwed by the army. The government — I expected that. But never by a fellow vet.”
Royce glanced again at the front window. “You try anything here, you’ll be dead before you reach the door.
“Not as dead as you’ll be.”
As Maven pressed down harder on the knife handle, linen threads snapped, widening the cut. It was going to happen — right here, right now. Nothing could stop it. Maven realized, for the first time, that nothing existed beyond this moment. His life had no meaning beyond this final act of vengeance. He was looking at a big door marked EXIT with nothing — nothing — beyond.
A woman appeared at the table near Royce. Maven thought it was the server and did not look up at first, his eyes staying hard on Royce. When nothing was said, and no food was set down on the table, Maven glanced up at the interloper.
Danielle stood there in a loose top and jeans, carrying a clutch, back from a long trip to the bathroom. Maven did not need to look into her eyes to know that she was high — but look into her eyes he did.
Danielle appeared run-down, shrunken. The spark had gone out of her attractiveness. She could have been anyone now.
Her stare back at him was one of horror.
“This must come as a surprise to you,” said Royce. He stood, aping gentlemanly manners, pulling Danielle down into her chair. “When she called me to dime you out, I guess I realized how much I missed her. How valuable she is to me.”
Seated, she continued to stare at Maven, his eye patch, his one good eye.
Maven thought he had died all of his deaths already. He was wrong.
Royce continued, “This is a reunion I never thought I’d see. Anyone feel like champagne?”
The oysters arrived on a platter with an artful assortment of condiments. The knife was still under Maven’s hand, and he gripped the handle, slipping the blade point inside the oyster shell, twisting until he heard the pop. He slid the oyster into his mouth and swallowed, tasting nothing.
In this way he was no different from Danielle. All the flavor had gone out of their lives. They were both dead inside.
Royce said, “And here I thought you two would have more to say to each other.”
Maven said to her, “Why?”
Her gaze fell to the table.
“You knew what he would do.”
She could not look at him.
“Between you and me, Maven” — Royce sipped his Pellegrino — “I think she’s smoking it now.”
Danielle’s eyes flashed up at Maven. Trying to tell him something. Admitting she was in the grip of a thing she hated. Drugs, or Royce. Both.
“The weak exist to be exploited, Maven.” Royce sat back, one arm firmly on Danielle’s leg. “And what with you running all around town, opening fire hydrants, acting recklessly — I figure she’s safest with me for now. I know you wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. Not like that other girl...”
A killer calm spread through Maven. Royce had pushed him to the edge. To a place beyond insult. Where the only recourse was direct action.
For the first time since leaving the military, Maven saw that his mission was evident and clear. He was a soldier again.
At the front windows, the cops appeared satisfied with Termino and the other gunman, their licenses and permits. Maven wished he hadn’t dumped his Beretta.
He swiped his lips with his napkin, dropping it onto his plate. Royce kept Danielle close as Maven got to his feet, standing over the table. Pain seared in his missing eye, but the rest of him was at peace. Maven took one last look at both of them — Danielle looking away, unable to meet his one good eye — then turned and started out of the restaurant.
“Now don’t go away angry,” said Royce to his back.
Maven reached the sidewalk as the cops were starting away. He made certain Termino saw him, the direction in which he was headed, then he walked the short distance to the Parisienne.
Standoff
Maven drove straight back to Quincy. His head start wouldn’t last long. He left the Parisienne in the driveway and moved quickly up the back steps. Inside, he jammed a chair underneath the second doorknob, then used his key in the lock he had installed on the spare bedroom. He unzipped one of the two duffel bags there and pulled a Glock 19 from the bag of weapons. He double-checked the load on his way out across the apartment to the street-facing windows.
He saw no one below. Not yet.
He lowered the torn shades and kept a vigil through one of the open flaps.
Twenty minutes later, a dark blue minivan turned the corner, signaling a turn in the middle of the street. A sedan pulled out from the curb, opening up a space that the minivan then took.
Ricky emerged from his bedroom. He saw Maven at the window with the Glock in his hand, and then the chair propped up against the back door. Through the open door to the always locked spare room, Ricky saw the oversize duffel bag full of stolen guns and rifles, and the regular-size duffel bag zipped shut next to it.
Ricky said nothing. He returned to his bedroom and shut the door.
Maven sat down in the easy chair facing the back entrance and waited.
Minutes became hours, and Maven’s anxiety turned into annoyance. His head still throbbed, all that adrenaline gone to waste. He checked the street again, and another car looked suspicious, but it was parked on his side of the street and he did not have the angle to see anyone sitting inside.
When night fell, he turned out all the lights, giving his sore eye a break as he sat in darkness.
Ricky emerged one hour before midnight. The light from his room was the only glow inside the apartment. “Um... I’m heading out.”
Maven, seated in the easy chair with the Glock on the table next to him, shook his head.
“Can I turn on a light in here?”
“No.”
Ricky swiped his nose on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “What’s up, what’s going on?”
“Outside. Some guys waiting for me to leave.”
Ricky saw duct tape patching holes in the drawn shades. “Okay.” He went into the bathroom to take a leak. When he came back out, he said, “So why can’t I go then?”
“They might think you are me.”
“And?”
“And shoot you dead.”
Ricky stood there a moment, formulating a comeback. He then returned to his room and closed the door.
Less than an hour later, they heard harsh thumping and muffled yells from the floor below. Ricky came out into the living room where Maven was standing in the dark, gun in hand.
“What the hell?” hissed Ricky.
Maven held out his hand to silence Ricky. “They just moved in on your neighbors downstairs.”