“No.”
“Have you got a knife?”
“No.”
“I think you should beat those guys up that beat you.”
“I don’t have any weapons,” Simon confesses quietly.
Her lips make a little pursed line. “Well, whathaveyou got? You’re not small like me, you can fight ’em.”
Simon squeezes his head with one hand: He’s locked in a warehouse storage room with a bloodthirsty seven-year-old. Unfortunately, she’s got a point. There’s no way they’re getting out of here without violence.
And what exactlyhashe got? Simon moves to the desk and goes through his pockets. Cash, no. Sunglasses, no. Cigarettes and lighter, possible—or, at the very least, he can have a cigarette and make himself feel better. A squishy bundle of paper—he’s still carrying around the ground beef and steak for Sofia Rosa. Wonderful, eminently practical. He can’t find his keys, which would’ve at least had sharp points. His inside coat pockets hold lint, and ...
Yes—the box cutter he used to open the package at Nomi’s apartment yesterday.
He snicks out the blade. “Here’s a start.”
“Awyeah,” Brittany hisses.
But then Simon thinks about it. He’s one guy with a box cutter against four mafia men who are all probably armed. With limited resources, he has to be smart about this. Overwhelming force, he is not, and even if he tries attacking with the white barrels or throwing the desk, the space in here is cramped, with limited maneuverability. Brittany could get hurt, and Lamonte’s men will fall on top of him.
What can he do with what he’s got?
Ohmigod, if his head wasn’t pounding like this, he could think better ...Concentrate.
His biggest vulnerability is actually Brittany. If Ameche or any of the others get hold of her, she’ll be the ultimate leverage—Simon will be forced to back down immediately. What can he do to remove her from play?
There’s nowhere in here she can truly hide, and he’s sure she’s tried it. What’s the best thing to do if fight, flight, and hide are all out of the question?
“Play dead,” Simon whispers.
Brittany is looking at him worriedly. “What?”
“Okay, I have an idea,” he says, crouching to her level. “But you’ll need to help me with it.”
“I can do that.” She looks so optimistic, it almost kills him.
“Good. Because if I’m going to fight, I have to know that you’re safe or it won’t work.” He stands, head pulsing, and looks around again. Rain lashes the roof in waves, and they may not have much time. “All right, maybe in this corner? This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to sit here, flopped over with your head down. I’m going to make you look dead.”
She grimaces. “That’s not gonna work—”
“It will, because I’m a good actor and we have a disguise. Only thing is, it’ll be kind of gross.” He shows her the paper-wrapped parcel he’d intended to give his landlady.
Brittany gets it straight away, makes a face. “Oh yuck.”
“Yeah. But it’s fresh, and a little yuck won’t hurt you.”
He gives instructions, and she cooperates pretty fast. He likes this kid, which will only make things worse if this all goes belly up.Put that thinking away.
Once Brittany’s slumped against the wall in the corner, by the door, he quickly gets to work on the set dressing. Ground beef clumped on her Care Bear tee, yellow staining to red from her throat to her stomach ... Beef juices dripped to create gore ... Chunks and strips of steak, judiciously placed ... Floor dirt to darken everything ...
It’s not quite enough.
“Okay, we need some authenticity,” he mutters, and rolls up his left sleeve.
“What’re you doing?” Brittany whispers, peering from beneath her front braids with her head flopped as instructed.
