Killer Move - Michael Marshall [34]
A small group of men, standing around a woman.
That time when he and Katy hitched a ride down to Key West and got burned to crap watching the rays swim in the harbor and then watched the sun go down and he didn’t mind feeling like one of the crowd for a while.
A half-naked woman, drunk on martinis, her hand raised to a young boy.
When he nods back into full awareness, he’s already accepted that he is going to have to give someone up. Everything about Hunter and the way he is conducting himself says he isn’t about to go away. That decision’s made. Done. He’s got a choice of only three, or so he thinks at first—and given that he’d already started to move against these people himself, he could not care less. The only question is whether the selection he makes will have any influence on his own chances of survival.
But then he realized there was another option, a name he could reveal that would not appear to involve betraying decades of trust, and that might even send a message that could bring help. The idea felt like a draught of cool water flowing briefly through his mind. Even strapped to a chair, shot and dehydrated, the icicle in his soul schemed how best to provide.
He thought it through and decided the new plan was good. He’d spent his life making judgment calls. On this, his judgment said yes. So it became a matter of timing.
The how, and the when.
Back to now, in the hot, late afternoon, and Hunter is standing closer, looking down.
“I don’t want to hurt your girlfriend,” he’s saying. “Lynn, right? Partly because she’s innocent, except for the adultery. Mainly I’m just not convinced you care about her. So it could be a waste of effort. And a waste of a pretty woman, and god knows there’s little enough beauty in this world. I just dropped by her house when she wasn’t home, picked up that robe to show you I’m serious.”
The man in the chair says nothing.
“But now, time’s moving on. I don’t have any experience in this so I don’t know exactly how long you can last. I Googled it, though, and it sounds like forty-eight to seventy-two hours is when the really bad stuff starts to kick in. You look like shit already, though, to be frank, and they’re saying tomorrow’s supposed to be real hot for this time of year. So why don’t you just tell me who else I need to talk to, and we’ll see where we can go from there?”
The man in the chair remains silent. He can tell that Hunter is making an effort to keep his temper down but that he’s finding it increasingly difficult. Silence is a risk, but one he has to take. He looks up at Hunter and winks, for good measure.
Hunter takes a couple of steps toward him. “You’re beginning to piss me off.”
The man in the chair smiles.
Hunter looks at the man’s right shin. He sighs, and gives it a kick. The man in the chair takes a sharp breath, grits his teeth, and waits for the stars of white pain to fade.
“I don’t like doing this stuff,” Hunter says, sounding strangely sincere. “I stopped being that guy long before I ever even met you. But I’ve made it clear what I need, and you’re just not cooperating. You see how that makes things hard for me, right?”
The man in the chair raises his head. “You know what you sound like? You sound like the kind of father who’s going to hit his kid, hit him hard, who knows he’s going to do it, and for no good reason except he’s hungover and an asshole, but wants the kid to take the blame.”
Hunter opens his mouth, but shuts it again—so fast and hard you can hear a click.
“Ring any bells?” the man in the