“Scoot over,” said Barney.
“Awww... shit,” said the driver, resigned.
Barney took note of the obvious bulge of gun saddle on the man’s right hip. He was a southpaw. Once they were safe and cozy behind tinted windows, Barney said, “Gun. Take it out, right hand, two fingers on the butt. Go on, belt yourself in. Good. Now sit on your hands, palms down. Good.”
The driver rolled his eyes, torqued at being blind-sided, knowing this would reflect badly on his rating. “What the fuck you want, man?”
“I want you to keep doing what I tell you.”
The driver’s gun was a simple Browning Hi-Power in nine millimeter, no jazz. Barney quickly found a backup piece in a drop door under the dashboard — a polymer-framed Cobra Patriot, also in nine. He hooked them through the open privacy divider into the cabin of the limo.
The driver did not have an ankle gun. He was not packing cuffs, a stun gun or a telescoping baton. Too much gear for the fit of his suit. About all he carried besides a wallet was his personal cellphone, which was in a slot on the dash. Barney popped the battery and chip and tossed that, too.
Barney quickly located the driver’s side “panic button” transmitter and disabled it. Then he neutralized the car phone.
“Fuck, dude, you gonna cost me my job, you know that.”
“No I’m not,” said Barney, scanning the perimeter. “Question One: Is he armed?”
The driver knew the advantages of all-business when facing down a gun. “No sir. He never carries a weapon. He voted for that asshole Schumer—”
“Pay attention,” said Barney, keeping him on track. “Question Two: How long?”
“Five minutes tops, from when he beeps me, sir.”
“Stop calling me sir. That leaves us about a minute and a half. What’s your name?”
The guy looked around as though he’d just taken a bite of pizza and lost a pepperoni in his clothes. “Uh, Malcolm, sir... I mean, Malcolm.”
“Okay, Malcolm. The man who pays your salary is a piece of shit, a Wall Street player who damned near got me perished. Play this wrong and you perish, my friend. You perish first. The slugs in this gun will go through anything you can get behind, and if you fuck me, you won’t be able to take cover fast enough, because I’m pissed off, and you don’t want me pissed off at you instead of your boss. You copy?”
Malcolm nodded, a single up-down head bob. “I have to get out of the car to—”
“No you don’t,” said Barney. “Let him be irritated. He’s always in a hurry, am I right?”
“Generally.” A massive sigh escaped the big man. “Shit... he gets in half the time by himself, anyway, unless there’s, y’know, somebody with him.”
“Somebody with him today?”
“No, sir. Dinner at Le Cercle Rouge at eight-thirty. He’s meeting people there.”
“Well, he’s going to be a tot late, I think.”
Felix Rainer, positive match on the photo, exited the revolving doors across a tiled promenade and beelined for the limousine.
“Okay, Malcolm, it’s shit-or-git time. You run and your boss is dead for sure, and so are you — I’ll make sure you’re first. You drive and do as you’re told and we all walk away. You try anything fancy — erratic driving, speeding, anything out of the ordinary trip back up to Capitol Towers — and I’ll put two in your back and one in your brain pan, right through the divider. You are to keep both hands on the wheel. Pretend they’re glued there. You move them off the wheel, and you catch three. You wink funny at the next car at a stoplight, and you catch three. You got all that?”
Malcolm nodded.
Before Malcolm could slip his shoulder harness, Barney was out of the driver’s side door and making a quick scuttle for the back of the limo — inelegant, but necessary since Barney knew on approach the rear doors would be locked until needed. Felix Rainer could not see a thing over the roof of the car. Barney knew Malcolm’s impulse would be to bolt, to dive out the passenger side, to telegraph some kind of warning, and it would take him a couple of seconds to figure it out and act in favor of his continued survival. Before Malcolm could fully resume the pilot position, Barney was slotted into the upper starboard corner of the cabin, where he could keep an eye on both driver and passenger. He swept the scattered cellphone parts and Malcolm’s guns into a bar cabinet just as Rainer opened his own door and climbed inside, oblivious, impervious to any drama other than his own.
“Malcolm, goddammit, are you asleep?”
Rainer had the door closed before he fully registered another person in the cabin with him. Businessman sort, with a slightly weathered (or battered) face, fair suit, attaché case.
“Just sit. Don’t talk. Malcolm: drive.”
It would take a few moments for Rainer to process his own outrage, and Barney had to tell him to shut up three more times.
A few more moments, for Rainer to think about diving out of a moving vehicle. No good. Several more moments, to fret. To look out the window at anything except the gunman sitting before him.
Finally: “I presume I’m being kidnapped.”
That was a laff riot. “I need one thing from you, Mister Rainer. I need the location of Carl Ledbetter. Can you provide that?” The SIG was trained unwaveringly on Rainer’s solar plexus, since he probably didn’t have a heart.
Rainer looked left, right, to the heavens. No help or guidance seemed imminent. Up close his face was even redder than the photograph, now going deeper crimson with barely suppressed fury. He blew out a breath like a snort. “Carl? That loser? Why, did he ass-rape you, too?” He seemed to rearrange his body to reassert his dominance, getting huffy. “And, Malcolm? You’re fired.”
To lend this man even a sense of his own superiority when confronted with lesser beings was a mistake, so Barney put a .357 round into the seat near Rainer’s shoulder. The blast boxed their ears with concussion in the airtight seal of the limo cabin. Barney was used to the noise; most people were not. Malcolm flinched but kept his cool. Sit, stay. His hands jumped off the wheel but quickly reseated themselves. Rainer had contracted into a fetal ball, knees in his face, almost ready to evacuate his bladder all over his nice leather seats. Nobody outside the vehicle noticed the flash-pop of muzzle blast. Rich folks, probably, taking snapshots.
“Malcolm says you have a dinner date. Now you can be late as in tardy, or late as in deceased. Pick one. I don’t want to kill you right now, but I will. Carl Ledbetter. Where?”
“You fucking asshole!” Rainer fumed. “Who are you?”
Barney leaned forward with the gun as if to fire again, feeling the neck strap cinch tight to make his aim rock steady. Rainer tried to astral-project and failed. “All right, all right, Jesus!” He was meekly reaching into his coat pocket.
“That hand comes out with anything on the end of it but a manicure, you’re done,” said Barney.
“Phone,” said Rainer. “You can talk to him yourself. I don’t want anything to do with whatever it is.”
“Slide it,” said Barney, not dumb enough to reach for it.
Carl Ledbetter had a New York City number.
“Can I have a drink, please?” said Rainer.
“No. Stay put. Malcolm, keep driving. Go around the park.”
Barney punched the number. Something in his gut roiled. Carl answered on the third ring. Moment of dead air. Showtime.
“Hey, Carl. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.”
Pause, for disbelief. There was no mistaking Barney’s voice, no save and no waffle leeway for Carl.
It would take every ounce of fiber Carl possessed not to hang up and run. Barney knew Carl knew that, or was realizing it right this second. He had just enough free time to try sucking air. Maybe he would faint.