He pulled into the fast lane and floored the accelerator. The blip returned to his scanner, clear as a bell. His prey was maybe two miles ahead of him, moving fast. Excellent. Wherever the blip went, so would he.
He lightly fingered his pistol, his ammunition, his Puukko knife. Noting that the sun was setting, he checked his infrared glasses. Still operational. He was ready. All he had to do was tag along and wait for the right moment.
This time Travis Byrne would not get away from him.
61
5:05 P.M.
MARIO AWOKE IN A flash of panic. His body was suspended horizontally, but he couldn’t tell where or how. He couldn’t feel anything beneath him or above him. It was as if he was floating in midair. But that was impossible. If he was still alive.
He opened his eyes, but couldn’t seem to get his bearings. Everything was black; he couldn’t see anything, or touch anything, or hear anything. He was totally disoriented. He tried to move, but found his hands and feet were locked tightly in place. He was helpless, pinned down like a bug in the middle of … nothing.
What had happened to him? He remembered thinking he should call Tony to guard his home. But before he could lift the phone, his worst nightmare walked into the den—Al Moroconi, back from the dead. Moroconi had clubbed him over the head with his pistol, and Mario had awakened here. But where the hell was here?
Mario felt beads of sweat dripping down his face. If this was supposed to frighten him, it was working. He was terrified. And he was sweating profusely. It was extremely hot, especially beneath him.
He swung his body back and forth, as much as the restraints on his hands and feet would allow. He heard a rushing sound. Something trickled inside his shirt and down his shorts. Water? What the hell?
Suddenly the overhead lights burst on. Mario squinted, trying to shut out the offending light. His head began to throb. He heard a shuffling noise, then a soft, horrifying chuckle.
Mario slowly opened his eyes. He knew where he was. He should—it was his own basement rec room. He could see the pool table, the sauna, the high-tech exercise equipment. Of course—he was in the hot tub! Moroconi had tied him down in the goddamn hot tub!
“Get me out of here, you sick motherfucker!” Mario bellowed.
He saw Moroconi’s leering face emerge over the edge of the Jacuzzi. “You ain’t in a position to give orders.”
“After my boys get here—and that won’t be long—you won’t be in a position to walk, you slimy bastard.” That was it, Mario told himself, keep it rolling. His bluff had worked on Kramer; maybe he could cow Moroconi, too. “Get me the hell out of here!”
“Hot tubs are supposed to be relaxing, Mario. You don’t seem relaxed at all. Here, lemme add some, more water.”
Moroconi disappeared momentarily from view. Mario heard the squeak of the faucet as Moroconi turned up the water flow. Twisting his head around as much as possible, Mario saw that he was stretched clean across the hot tub, floating atop the water, tied down to the jet hooks on the bottom. His head was already much higher than his hands. Soon the water would rise and stretch his arms to their full length.
The horrible truth struck him like a blow to the head. That was Moroconi’s plan, of course. Once Mario couldn’t rise any higher, the water would rush over his head—and he would drown. In his own hot tub.
“I called my boys just before you arrived, Moroconi. They should be here in five minutes. Ten at the outside. If you’re still here, you’ll be dog meat.”
“Izzat so?” Moroconi’s grin was sickening; yellow teeth were visible between his lips. “Lemme tell you somethin’, Mario. You’ve been out cold for over an hour. Your boys are runnin’ late. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were lyin’ to me.”
Mario put on his nastiest sneer. “You’re a dead man, Moroconi. Might as well go buy your coffin. When my boys are done, you’ll be less than a smear on the carpet. We should’ve taken you out four years ago—”
“Yeah, you probably should have,” Moroconi agreed. “You should have done something for me. But you didn’t. You fucked me over and hung me out to dry. And now you’re gonna pay for it.”
Moroconi pursed his lips and spat, missing Mario’s face by less than an inch. “How’s the temperature in there?”
Mario swallowed. “It’s … fine. Why?”
“Well, you still seem tense.” Moroconi bent down and checked the thermostat on the side of the hot tub. “Only a hundred degrees? And they call this a hot tub?” He placed his fingers on the dial. “Here—let’s crank it up to a hundred twenty, maybe one thirty. Oh, what the hell. Let’s just go all the way.” He turned the dial into the red zone.
“You crazy bastard! That’s scalding!”
“No,” Moroconi said. “One thirty would’ve been scalding. At this temperature, the flesh will peel off your bones.” He folded his arms across his chest. “This kinda confuses matters, don’t it? I’m not sure now whether you’ll die from the heat or from drowning.”
Mario felt his respiration increasing, his perspiration working overtime. Could it be that much hotter so soon? Or was he just losing his grip? He felt a drop slide down the side of his face and realized, to his utter humiliation, that it was not sweat. He was crying.
“Oh, poor little Mario,” Moroconi said in a baby voice. “He’s gettin’ all upset. Awwww.”
Mario tried to speak, but choked. “What do you want, Moroconi?”
“I’m sure you know already.”
“I don’t have any idea!”
“I wanna square the record. I wanna piece of what everyone else got. And I wanna get even for what you and Jack did to me.”
Mario could feel the water lapping at his cheeks. The temperature was definitely hotter. “If it’s money you want, help yourself. I don’t have much, but—”
“But Jack does? Goddamn right. He’s living high off my fuckin’ money!”
“Fine—get Jack! Let me out of here!”
Moroconi made a tsking sound with his teeth and tongue. He was savoring every minute of his sweet revenge. “That’s my problem, Mario. I don’t know where Jack is. But you do.”
“You’re wrong. I haven’t seen him since he turned state’s evidence. You’ve got the list. Or had it, at least. Can’t you find him?”
“The list is wrong. I went to the address on the list, and he wasn’t there. He’s relocated himself.”
“Maybe he has. What’s that got to do with me?”
“I think you’ve been in contact with him, Mario. I think you must’ve helped him relocate.”
“Me? Help that traitor? If I knew where he was, I’d cut his heart out.” The water was trickling around his neck, burning his throat.
“It pains me to say this, Mario, but I think you’re lyin’ through your goddamn teeth.”
“Al, if I knew where he was, I’d tell you. What do I care what happens to him?”
Moroconi leaned in close. “Don’t fuck with me, Mario.”
“I’m not! I wouldn’t do that to you, Al.”
“Liar.” Moroconi reached down and pressed Mario’s head beneath the water.
The steaming water flowed over Mario’s face, his eyes, his lips. It was hot, much too hot. It burned. It felt as if the water etched into his flesh. He wanted to scream, but he had to keep his mouth shut tight.
Moroconi jerked Mario’s head out by his thinning hair. “Enjoyin’ yourself, Mario? Ready to talk?”
“I’m telling you”—he coughed, sputtered—“I don’t know where—”
Moroconi lowered Mario’s face back into the boiling caldron. Mario tried to keep his eyes clenched shut, to prevent the water from burning the skin off his eyeballs. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait.