Page 41 of Killer Bones

I can feel Death moving in. Too soon. It’s way too soon. Please no.

I am not ready.

“Stop questioning me, Mr. Smith. You are. Just. The middleman here. You pair! Take her outside.”

Montez makes a disappointed face then shrugs. “Okay. Just go shoot her outside, you two. In the head. Pew!” He mimes that to me with a finger-gun at his head, as my escorts hook their hands under my arms and drag me higher. “Tie her again, before you shoot her. No mistakes.”

“Yes, sir.”

As they propel me toward the atrium, they argue over what to tie me with.

“We’re not using a belt. It’s not secure.”

“That doorman then. Ask him. It’s not needed for long.”

“If she runs away, it’s on you.”

“She can’t outrun a fucking bullet.”

16

Adelmo

The waitresses have edged over to stand like pillars to either side of the dining-room entry. Well-trained, wary, and mine.

Kasimir thinks he is being merciful, and he is. He’s not into harming women any more than is necessary. His morals are gray, but they do exist. Normally, I would commend him.

Not today. How do I rescue this from fucking disaster? We are supposed to do this on a precise schedule. There has not been time for everyone to get into place.

In five minutes or less, I will hear a gunshot, and then it will be too late for her.

I watch as she is urged forward, pushed until she falls. My heart thuds into vivacissimo time. The back of my neck is sweating. The men caught her before she met the floor with her face. With their hands gripping beneath her arms, they pull her toward the rear doors that look out over the bay.

The yacht is out there, and six of Montez’s bodyguards are still armed.

My jaw is clenched, and I wonder why I cannot hear my teeth creak.

Her feet drag, scraping over the tigerwood floor.

If I run to her, I may destroy this. I may get some of us very dead.

“Mr. Smith!” Kasimir pounds my back, and I can tell from the subtle tightness of tone that he is completely not amused. “This way, please. Stop thinking about your cock.”

He indicates the room we set up for the talks and takes a step, expecting me to follow. Montez stands in the opening, puzzled by my delay.

The men and Izzy are exiting. They make her stand then ask for their guns. The words are muffled but decipherable. The doorman turns and bends over the collection.

Eight of his men will be armed, in a few seconds. They will be outside, and I will be here, stuck inside, waiting for a gunshot with my guts churning. There is so much glass, so many windows, I may even see her execution.

That pitiful sob, it’s hers.

“Shrike!” I scream it to the rooftop, hear it reverberate then Kasimir curse. I thrust out my hand, and the waitress on my right tosses a gun to me. The grip slaps into my palm.

Contrary to plans, I ignore dick-wad Montez, leave him to the others, and I sprint toward the entry where the men with Izzy have spun to look for the reason for the shout.

Izzy, good girl that she is, has fallen to the ground. They’ve found their guns, and the smarter, faster man has armed his and raised it. I skid to a halt, brace, and fire off two quick shots that hit gut and chest. He cries out, staggers, and topples into the doorman. They fall together, crashing into the bench.

Weapons spill across the pavers, scattering about the feet of the slower escort.