Fortz elbows Krieger. “Is this guy serious?”
“The boss said it was a long shot.”
“So he doesn’t have the package. Who cares? We’re getting paid on both ends.”
I am insulted that they doubt my integrity. “I do have that package. I was delivering it for Mike Madden. Why don’t you pull it out, see what we have?”
Krieger and Fortz go into a routine.
“Why don’t we do that?”
“Yeah, why don’t we do that?”
“Seems reasonable?”
“Totally reasonable.”
Fortz conducts with the scalpel as he speaks. “We would have to be total retardos not to go ahead and act on your suggestion.”
Krieger laughs at the word retardos, which is probably a new wrinkle in their double act.
“Do we look like retardos to you, McEvoy?” Krieger demands.
This seems like a trick question.
“No. Look, it’s in my pocket.”
I figure if I get away from Krieger and his partner, I can worry about Mike killing me later. Also if I do get away, then I will come back almost immediately and kick the living shit out of these two clowns.
“My package is worth two hundred large, which is a hell of a lot more than whatever you’re pulling down here. And there’s more where that came from.”
Give a little truth to sell a lie.
“Save your breath, McEvoy,” says Krieger. “You’re gonna need it for screaming.”
Fortz pats Krieger’s shoulder in silent approval for this segue.
“Do you think we just happened to pick you up at random, Danny?” he asks, and then answers. “No, we were told to pick you up and see if you knew where the package was. And it’s obvious to me that if you think the package can fit in your jacket pocket, then you don’t even know what the package is. That being the case, we are to dispose of you however we see fit and make sure the body is never found.”
“They ain’t ever gonna find you,” says Krieger with some certainty, like this might be worrying me.
“We’ve read your file,” continues Fortz. “We know all about your Special Forces tricks. I go into the jacket for whatever your package is and it explodes and covers me with acid or some shit. No. Not happening. We do our thing, then we take our time extracting that envelope with tweezers. But hey, thanks for filling us in on its pedigree. That information could come in very useful when we’re negotiating.”
Bastard. Turning a man’s own five syllable word against him.
“Hey,” says Krieger. “Now we’re getting paid three ways. The boss, the perverts and his package.”
Fortz tosses the scalpel in the air and catches it neatly. “Who doesn’t love a good three way?”
I was stupid and Fortz burned me.
You’re panicking, Dan. Getting sloppy.
In a previous life, when I was eager to serve my country by getting the hell out of it, my army shrink gave me a spiel on being a hostage. Apparently UN peacekeepers were snatched with the same regularity as Robin the Boy Wonder, which was about once per week. Unfortunately for us, we did not survive with the same consistency.
Always negotiate from a position of power, or at least a position of perceived power, Simon Moriarty had advised. Failing that, it’s amazing how many of these klutzs don’t know how to tie a knot.
None of which applied to me now, as I was cuffed hand and foot and not technically a hostage. I was a commodity whose life would be traded for cash, bit by bit, saving the balls for last.
“You can’t just snatch a guy off the street and think nobody will notice,” I say, trying not to bleat. “You guys are cops, for Christ’s sake. Ever hear of surveillance footage?”
Fortz’s response is snide. “Yeah, we heard of it, we know every camera in town. Why do you think we parked where we parked?”
“There’s gotta be witnesses?” definitely bleating now. I sound like a baby goat.
“Maybe,” admits Krieger. “But by the time anyone figures you’re missing, we, as stand-up cops, won’t even remember talking to you. You remember seeing that guy, partner?”
“What guy?”
“The Irish guy.”
“What Irish guy?”
“Exactly.”
And then they bump sweaty chests, and I notice some matted hair transferral.
Their celebration is interrupted by the laptop, which tweets stridently like a canary. This unexpected sonic squeak is greeted by the cops with sudden hushed reverence, as though it is the Angel Gabriel’s horn.
“A fucking canary!” whispers Fortz, and Krieger shushes him.
“Wait, Dirk. Don’t jinx it. Let me check.”
He rushes to the computer and checks the screen. “Private session,” he says in hushed tones.
“Cha-ching!” exults Fortz, pointing the scalpel skyward like Excalibur. “Tell me.”
Krieger enunciates so clearly you could slice apples on the consonants. “One hundred thousand dollars from Citizen Pain.”
Citizen Pain? I bet he doesn’t use that name on dating sites. If I do manage to extricate myself somehow from this evil little room, I am gonna track down the good Citizen and teach him something about pain.
“I knew Pain would lap up the preview video,” says Fortz. “He loves the Special Forces types. That guy is a slave to his dick, man.”
“Will I confirm?”
“Seal the deal, partner.”
Krieger wiggles his fingers like Oliver Hardy playing with his necktie, then sends an index finger diving toward the return key.
Click.
“Sealed and delivered,” he says. “We have accepted his offer, the money is in our account.”
Sealed and delivered, I think. They’re talking about me. My person.
I literally shudder at the thoughts of what was on that preview video they must have shot while I was out.
“When are we going live?” I ask, might as well.
“Right fucking now,” says Fortz. “As soon as I tape your fat Irish mouth.”
Of course. Tape. These guys don’t want their names flying around the Internet. Even with the volume muted there’s always some smart-arsed lip-reader.
Fortz has gotta get close to use the tape. This is my last chance to make a play.
“Cover this motherfucker,” says Fortz, snagging a roll of tape from his kit bag under the table.
Yeah, Krieger will cover me okay, but he’ll think before shooting now that I’m private show material.
I tighten my core, searching for focus.
One chance. What’ve you got, soldier?
My fingers crab under the rim of the office chair and all I find is chewing gum and the height adjustment lever. If I tug on that lever, this chair should drop suddenly, if it’s working right.
Krieger aims his gun my way, but half his attention is on the computer. Fortz is coming at me in ever-decreasing circles. Wary, like a hyena closing in on a dying lion.
I smell a pungent blend of talc, nerves and Speed Stick as Fortz closes in from the rear; drops of his sweat spatter my head.
A shadow falls over me and Fortz’s elbows rest on my shoulders. His pale hands descend, a strip of duct tape held delicately between the fingertips, trying to avoid the sticky side. Even when taping a kidnap victim, a person’s gotta pay attention to the sticky side.
When I see the tape in front of my face, I pull the lever. The chair drops down maybe a foot and I go down with it. Fortz, who had been leaning on my shoulders, is put off balance by the sudden drop and I feel his entire weight on my back. I have a little play in my legs now, not enough for anything more than a hobble but maybe enough to throw some chaos into this situation. I swivel the chair so that Fortz’s bulk is between me and Krieger’s gun, then focusing all my energy into my knees, I explode upward to the limit of my chains, which is enough to catapult Fortz toward his partner.
Over my shoulder I see Fortz go down heavy and awkward and he loses a shelf of teeth to the laptop’s keyboard, which is a bonus. Krieger is bowled backward and drops his gun in the tangle of limbs.