He looked around the small room, remembering that even the most unlikely object could make a good weapon. Stuffed animals don’t count.
There was a single drawer in the bedside table; he opened it, revealing a scattering of cosmetics and a metal nail file, which he slid into his pocket.
The only loose object in the room was the wooden chair, which he lifted and found heavy enough to crack a skull or two. As he put the chair down on the pink carpet, he noticed the electrical cord that led from the lamp to the wall socket, and he wrapped the cord around the chair leg.
Before he could do any further exploring, he heard the bolt slide and the door opened, revealing not Pia but one of the MBR-200 guys he’d seen in the lounge, complete with red beret and bandana.
The man, who was in his late twenties and muscular, shut the door and stared at Brodie. “Sit.”
Brodie sat in the wooden chair and made eye contact with the man, whose face was not friendly.
The man remained standing near the door and asked, “Who are you?”
“Clark Bowman. I didn’t get your name.”
“What is your business here?”
“I want a woman.”
“You have a woman.” He let Brodie know, “You were seen with your woman at the clínica.”
“We’re just friends.”
“You were told to leave this barrio and not return.”
“Sorry. I thought this was a different barrio.”
“We control this barrio and we decide who is welcome here.”
“Right. I’ll leave.”
“I will decide that.”
“Right again. Look, amigo, I just came here to have a woman, and I have money, which I can give to you if you go get Pia for me.”
“There is no Pia.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“But you may call me Pío, which means ‘pious,’ which I am not.”
“Clark means ‘clerk,’ which—”
“I am going to ask you some questions, and if the answers you give me are not the same as the answers we are getting from your driver, then someone is lying, and one of you will pay for your lies. Perhaps both of you.”
“My driver knows nothing about me.”
The man reached behind his back and produced a gun, which Brodie recognized as a Beretta M9 with a silencer screwed into the barrel. Not good.
The man raised the gun and Brodie saw a flash, followed by the muffled sound of the bullet exiting the muzzle, then the thud of the round hitting the cement wall above his head. He felt a chip of concrete or bullet hit the back of his neck.
The man said, “The next one goes into your kneecap. The next… who knows? Maybe your cojones.”
Brodie had no doubt that the guy meant what he said. Brodie also didn’t think the Clark Bowman persona was coming through, so he tried pleading: “Please, señor, take my money and accept my apology—”
“Shut up!” The MBR guy raised the Beretta and took a two-hand aim at Brodie’s right knee. “Now I will ask you an important question and you will answer in truth—or lose your knee. Comprende?”
“Sí.”
