Finally, irritability replaces prudence.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I snarl, throwing my weight to make the chair jump and slam against the floor with a crash, drawing attention. "Are we just going to fuckingsithere? If you're not going to kill me, then let me go. But one way or another, stop wasting mygoddamntime!” I lift and slam again, and discover that the action causes the zip ties to shift and twist, which means I might be able to wrench them hard enough to snap. “I am not a patient man. Make a move."
Pugli, across the building, ends his call and strides over to me with the slow ambling pace of a man seeking to make a point by appearing laconic. It is an utterly transparent ploy. He produces a Walther PPK from under his jacket and presses the barrel to my forehead. "I would not be in such a hurry to die, CalebIndigo. Your death is on its way. I would enjoy these last minutes of life."
I feign indifference—I do not want to die. Not yet, at least. Not until I'm sure it will have value, until I'm sure my death will serve its intended purpose.
"Enjoy what? The amazing view?"
Pugli sighs as if I am particularly stupid and he has no more patience for it. "Being alive. Drawing breath. It is a privilege I shall soon withdraw." The man’s hubris is breathtaking.
I decline to answer, because there's no point.
Pugli glances at one of his hench-goons. "Check the perimeter."
The man frowns, blinking. "Um, but boss, is all open. No perimeter. Is why we pick this location?”
Pugli's face betrays a glimpse of a simmering rage bubbling away just beneath the surface. "Go out and fuckinglookwith your fuckingeyes. When Lash comes, location will not matter.Go outandlook! All of you!” He gestures with the pistol at the gathered mercs. "Spread out. You cannot underestimate the danger our enemy presents."
Hmmm. Nowthatis an interesting statement. And what it tells me is that Pugli is scared shitless of Nico.
Which is valid. I would be too, if he weren't on my side. And I might be a little afraid of him anyway, even though he is on my side.
"Yeah, best go keep watch." I jut my chin at one of the hench-goons—the one who was winning all the hands. “He was cheating anyway. He's got an ace up his sleeve."
My comment has the intended effect—instead of dispersing to do Pugli’s bidding, they devolve into a nasty, loud, and rapidly escalating argument. Pugli attempts to calm them, but they ignore him entirely, and it swiftly turns into a physical altercation. I watch with unrestrained glee as fists are thrown,noses are head-butted, guts are slugged, and jaws are elbowed. Pugli, trying to break it up, has his nose bloodied, which has the delightful effect of ruining his custom-tailored suit.
BAM!
The cheater staggers backward from the scrum, clutching his belly. Another goon swaggers after him, grabs his right wrist, and yanks at his sleeve. Vindicating me, not one but several cards flutter to the floor.
Cheater drops to his knees, blood seeping from his belly. The one who shot him, his pistol still in hand, scoops up the cards, finds the ace, slaps it against Cheater's forehead…and blows his brains out from point-blank range, sending the bullet through the center of the spade on the card.
Pugli, predictably, loses his shit, going on a tirade in four languages, most of it incoherent French, sprinkled liberally with "fuck" in English.
By the time he runs out of steam, I'm cackling out loud—or rather, trying not to because it hurts worse than actually getting shot did; that felt like a giant fist slugging me in the stomach, knocking me backward and smashing the breath out of me. The real pain didn’t come till a bit later, after the initial shock wore off.
He stomps to me, face a rictus of hate, all of his megalomaniacal calm erased. "You! You fucking—" and here he trails off into more incoherent French cursing and ranting.
"What?" I ask, innocent as you please. "He was cheating. I watched him."
Pugli's left eye twitches, and a vein in his forehead pulses. If we're lucky, he'll just have a heart attack or an aneurysm and just drop dead right here.
"Any pain in your left arm?" I ask, hopeful. "Shortness of breath? Numbness or tingling in your fingers?"
"What?" he asks, puzzled. "No. What are you on about?"
"Oh, I was just hoping you were having a medical emergency. That vein on your forehead is really going crazy."
I must be delirious from blood loss. It's the only explanation for my behavior. I have not spoken so casually in my entire life. My tutor punished me mercilessly for speaking—in any language—like a "plebeian peasant." My family is ancient, you see, on both sides; I descend from a long line of wealthy, landowning merchants on my father's side and from the tribe of Levi on my mother's. Thus, I was expected to comport myself as such. Which meant speaking with eloquence, elocution, and elegance.
He snarls at me wordlessly, whirling away. "Take care of him," he gestures at the dead man. "Then, if you please—CHECK THE FUCKING PERIMETER."
Two of the goons drag the dead man out of the building by his arms, leaving a gory smearing trail in his wake.
They drag open the large double sliding doors at one end of the facility—we're in what was the warehouse section, where goods were once stored.
Daylight lances into the dim, echoing space in a widening slice. They drag the corpse out into the sunlight.
