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Myron was tied to a chair in the center of the room. His left shoe and sock were off.
Next to his bare foot was a set of pruning shears.
There was also a protective plastic sheet under the foot.
Oh, this wasn’t good.
There were four men. One was Sal. Two were the men who’d jumped in from the sides. And there was a new one, clearly the leader, who stood in front of him.
“Saw the pin drop to your friend,” the leader said. “Sal stuck your phone in the back of a truck heading west. Your friend is probably tracking you to the California border by now.”
The leader’s appearance screamed old-school bad guy. He had the greasy two-day growth on his face. His hair was slicked back and his shirt was unbuttoned. He had gold chains ensnared in his chest hairs and a toothpick clenched in his teeth.
“I guess you were some hotshot basketball player back in the day,” the leader said. “But I never heard of you.”
“Wow,” Myron said. “Now you’ve hurt my feelings.”
The leader smiled, gave the toothpick a good chew. “We got ourselves a comedian, boys.”
“I’m also a gifted vocalist,” Myron said. “Want to hear my rendition of ‘Volare’?”
“Oh, I’m going to hear you sing all right.”
Again the smile. Myron didn’t look away. Rule Two of Engagement: You never show fear. Not ever. That was what Myron had learned. These guys feed off fear. It arouses them. It gives them strength.
Assess. That was what Myron knew to do. Take it in. Figure out what he could. Myron checked out the space quickly. The walls were concrete. There was a tire pump against one wall. A shovel too. There were tools on the wall.
Could be a garage.
He could hear traffic outside, the occasional loud radio as a car speeded by. The leader stepped forward. He kept chewing the toothpick.
“Where is Bo?”
“The toothpick,” Myron said. “Don’t you think it’s a bit much?”
“What?”
“The Badass gnawing on a toothpick,” Myron continued. “It’s been done. A lot.”
That made the leader smile. “Good point.” He spit out the toothpick and moved closer. “Let me tell you how this is going to play out, okay? See your foot? The one with no shoe or sock?”
“I do, yeah.”
“So here’s the thing, hotshot. We’re going to cut off your pinky toe. That’s not open for discussion. You can’t get out of it. It has to happen. It’s our boss’s thing. Like it’s his slogan or something.”
“His MO,” Sal corrected.
The leader nodded. “Yeah, that’s better, thanks. His MO.” Then: “What’s MO stand for anyway?”
“Operating method, I think.”
“Then it would be OM.”
“Right,” Sal said. “Wait. I think it’s Method of Operation?”
“Then it would be MOO.”
“Moo,” Sal said. “Like a cow.”
