At the City's Edge (38 page)

Which only made his anger seethe hotter. Just like in the war, the real players were invulnerable. People talked about the
immovable object and the unstoppable force. But the real story belonged to the people caught between the two. People like
his brother.

‘“A complicated financial venture”, eh?’ Jason shook his head. ‘You realize you’re talking about people? You’re killing them,
burning their homes, ruining their neighborhoods. To make money. Just another rich white guy who can’t get enough.’

Kent snorted. He stood up, went around the desk, dropped in the chair. ‘It’s not love that moves the world, Mr. Palmer, and
the only color that matters is green. Black, white, brown, who gives a shit? It’s about rich and poor. I’m very rich, so I
win. You can spout coffee house crap all you like. But first decide whether you’d prefer to die to night or to see your nephew
grow up.’

Think, goddamn you. Think.
He looked away. Grit his teeth and tugged at his wrists. The zip-tie was unyielding, and his fingers thick and heavy. Every
fiber of his body screamed to fight. To stand and make a move, to throw himself at Kent or DiRisio. He’d lose, but he’d go
out fighting. A soldier’s death. Not this terrible choice.

Not having to make a deal with the man who murdered his brother.

If he agreed, and Kent was honest, they’d be free. He could watch Billy turn nine, have another porch-lit drink with Washington,
explore the thing between him and Cruz. And even if Kent decided to kill him, at least Billy would be safe. With the evidence
gone and the witnesses dead, there would be no reason to come after the boy.

Kent spoke softly. ‘I know you hate me, Mr. Palmer. But you’re a smart man. So do what you have to do. Tell me where those
papers are.’ He ran long fingers through his hair, then laced them behind his head.

Sometimes you had to fold the hand. Jason dropped his head, stared at his lap.
Forgive me, Michael. I tried.
He opened his mouth to speak.

And saw Kent’s gesture again. Running his hands through his hair.

‘The big one was bald,’ Billy had said two days ago, sitting in the sunlight of Jason’s apartment, telling a story that tore
him apart. A story of two men that had come into the bar and killed Michael. One balding and big. The other thin and plain-looking,
with black and gray hair.

And he realized that no matter what he said, Kent would never stop hunting his nephew.

DiRisio had been one of the guys in the bar. He’d bragged about it. The other man they had just assumed was Galway.

But Adam Kent’s hair was also black flecked with gray.

‘It was you.’ The words came as a snarl, an animal roar. His mind screamed at him to stop, to slow down, but his anger had
control. ‘Mother
fucker
.’ He started to lunge from his chair, willing to give it a shot now, knowing it didn’t matter. That there was no deal. No
hope.

Something slammed into the base of his neck, at the right-hand side. The whole world went watery. He struggled through it,
his legs out of his control and far away, the weight enormous. His body told him it couldn’t move. He moved anyway. Moved
for Michael, and for Billy. Moved even though it was impossible.

Until DiRisio hit him with another open-hand chop at the other side of his neck, and his legs just gave.

Agony shot through his body, lightning bolts and pyrotechnics, the Fourth of July behind his eyeballs. He felt a hand in his
hair, yanking, and then he was falling back into the chair. Landing heavy, his arms flopping useless in front of him.

‘Don’t kill him.’ Kent’s voice was firm, none of the soft sell he’d been peddling.

‘He’s fine.’ DiRisio’s voice seemed to echo and warp. ‘I hit the pressure points behind his carotids. No permanent damage.’

Jason closed his eyes, fought for breath and
balance. He felt like his center of gravity was doing flips. Gagged and coughed. Struggled.
Get control. Do it
now,
soldier.

Deep breaths. Visions of melting ice, faint blue that washed everything away. That countered the fire in his head.

He opened his eyes. Hate like hundred-proof liquor raged through his veins. ‘It wasn’t Galway in the bar. It was you.’

Kent gave him an amused look. ‘Your brother had evidence that could have derailed everything I’d been working on. It might
even have been enough to prosecute me.
Me
.’ He shrugged. ‘A business arrangement that important I’m going to see to personally.’

His body rubber, Jason struggled to rise.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ Kent’s cool slipping, finally. ‘Sit down. We can shoot you without giving you your wish.’

Jason glared at him, his hands pulling useless at the zip-tie. ‘My wish?’

‘To die.’ Kent smiled at him. ‘That’s what you want, right? I know all about your discharge from the Army. I know what you’ve
been doing since. And I know that if your nephew hadn’t been holding you back, you’d have let yourself get killed already.
Well, guess what? To night’s your lucky night.’ He buttoned his tux jacket and turned to DiRisio. ‘Let’s end this costume
drama, shall we?’

DiRisio jerked his head at Scarface. The man pushed off the wall and padded out the door.

What was this? Something he hadn’t anticipated. Then he realized. Cruz. They were going to use Elena against him.

He bit his lip till he tasted blood. All right. It was time to get dying. When she came in, they’d make their play. Go out
in a blaze of glory and end this thing before anyone else could get hurt. Frankly, he welcomed it.

But when he looked back, it wasn’t Cruz framed in the doorway.

Billy’s eyes darted and his skin glowed feverish. He held Washington’s hand so tightly both their knuckles were white. The
old man wobbled on his feet, a trail of blood running from his temple.

‘No.’ The word slipped from Jason’s mouth. His chest felt like it was in a vice, and liquid fire burned in his bowels. ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry, son.’ Washington sounded tired. ‘They came out of nowhere. Ronald tried to fight, but –’ His voice tightened.

‘Uncle Jason?’ Billy’s voice was ribbon thin. ‘What’s happening?’

The trust in his voice tore like fishhooks. Jason stared. His lover and his father and his brother and his nephew, all of
whom he’d failed to protect.

Liar.
It was worse than that. He hadn’t just failed them.

He’d doomed them.

None of this would have been happening if he’d just left well enough alone. If he’d simply gotten the
boy out of danger, instead of pretending he was a soldier, chasing the monster in hopes of slaying it. Running from his home
may not have been much of a life for Billy, but at least he would have been alive. But now…

He realized that Billy was staring at him. He forced his hands to stop shaking. ‘It’s okay, kiddo. Everything will be okay.’

DiRisio chuckled.

‘Bring them in.’ Kent gestured. ‘The woman, too.’

Scarface put a meaty hand against Washington’s back and shoved, sending him staggering into the room. Billy clung to his hand,
his eyes lasered on Jason’s. Scarface followed, a gun held to Cruz’s side. The mercenary guided them to a leather couch against
the wall. Washington sat stiffly, Billy close beside him. Scarface dumped Cruz on the far side, her arms zip-tied in front
of her. Last in the door was Galway, his face drawn and pale.

‘Don’t do this.’ Jason said it softly. ‘Please.’

Kent sighed and leaned back. ‘You know what I want.’

Truth time. ‘I don’t have the evidence anymore.’ Said it fast and sure, staring Kent in the eyes. ‘We found it in the basement
of Michael’s bar. But Playboy came after us as we left. They drove our car into the river. We couldn’t get the briefcase out
in time.’

‘That’s not what you told the alderman.’

‘I didn’t tell him I had it, either. I just sort of hinted at it.’ He kept his gaze perfectly level. ‘I wanted to win
him over, and I was afraid if I told him the truth, he wouldn’t listen.’

Kent slowly ran a tongue around the inside of his lip. ‘You’re sure of that?’

‘I swear to you.’ Sweat soaked his body, and his skin felt tight enough to tear.

The fire’s flickering light cast dark pits across Kent’s eyes. His hands were folded in his lap, one finger tapping a metronome
beat as he weighed Jason’s words. Finally he shook his head. ‘I need to be certain.’ He sighed, then nodded at DiRisio.

The man made the SIG vanish, then reached into the pocket of his tux pants, came out with something. With a flick of his wrist,
he snapped a four-inch ser-rated blade open, then winked at Jason.

Jason closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Michael, I need you. Give me strength. Please.
Kent would want him to scream loud and long and tell the same story every time. He couldn’t pretend he was somewhere else,
couldn’t try to think of his body as meat. He would have to embrace the pain, let it push him past his breaking point. It
was the only way to make them believe.

But when Jason opened his eyes, DiRisio wasn’t leaning over him.

He was by the couch.

With Billy’s tiny arm in his hand.

Despite the sickness in his legs and the pain sloshing in his head, he fought to his feet. Scarface came off the desk, raising
his pistol. Jason didn’t care, wouldn’t let a little thing like dying stop him now.

Then he saw DiRisio touch the knife to Billy’s soft wrist. A tiny motion could open the boy’s arm to the bone. Jason stood
trembling ten feet away, a gulf that may as well have been an ocean, and watched DiRisio smile at him.

His mind raced and darted. A thousand plans and possibilities stampeded past, none of them enough. He could pick up tiny details,
Cruz’s awkward posture on the sofa, half up, half down, locked in place the same way he was. Washington’s face screwed into
a wince, his hands reaching sideways. Billy’s eyes bugged white, the tension in his shoulder from the angle DiRisio twisted.

A thin ripple of silver dancing along the ridged blade as it pushed into flesh.

‘Stop!’

The voice came from behind, an order that ripped the air. A voice as a weapon, a cop’s voice. Galway.

DiRisio froze, the knife just breaking the skin of Billy’s arm.

‘Stop.’ Galway spoke again. ‘Stop this now.’

Jason craned his neck back to look at Galway, the weary face with its sagging jowls and stern chin. His suit was rumpled,
hair unkempt. He looked a hundred years old. No match for a monster like DiRisio, a trained and eager killer.

The moment hung, delicate and pregnant. Finally, Kent said, ‘Tom, why don’t you go have a cigarette?’

Galway shook his head. ‘When it was just bangers dying, I could live with it. They would have killed each other anyway. But
I never should have let you murder Michael Palmer. And I won’t let you do this. Not to a child.’

DiRisio’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re going to stop me?’

Everything seemed stuck in amber. Emotions flickered across Galway’s face: fear, guilt, responsibility, disgust. Then he drew
his gun with a whisper of metal on leather, and said, ‘I guess I am.’

Jason looked over at Cruz, saw her staring at her partner, the tiniest of smiles playing on her lips.

‘I understand how you feel,’ Kent said, voice honey. ‘This is more than you signed on for. And you know what? No problem.
You want out, fine. I’ll even give you the bonus we discussed, enough to put your son through grad school. But for now, be
reasonable. Turn around, walk out the door.’

Galway didn’t answer. Just rocked the hammer back and steadied his aim. Scarface held his own gun level on the cop’s chest.
Jason dared a step forward.

DiRisio’s eyes beamed hate like a wave of heat. He
looked back and forth between Scarface, Kent, and Galway. Finally, he shook his head and pulled the blade from Billy’s arm.
Jason let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

‘Okay, Tom.’ DiRisio straightened. He folded the knife, then slid it into his right pocket, a metal clip holding it in place.
His eyes were flat and unreadable as he raised his hands to chest level. ‘You win.’ He turned to Scarface. ‘Drop your gun.’

Galway glanced over at the other mercenary. Just a split second. A tiny twitch of his eyes. But in that moment, Jason saw
DiRisio gesture with his left hand, a flamboyant sort of wave.

‘Look out!’ Jason threw himself at Scarface, knowing what was coming.

DiRisio’s first shot took Galway in the arm, the impact a hammer blow, spinning him. The second bullet punched his chest.
A third and fourth rode the echo of the second.

Jason didn’t wait to see him fall. He barreled into Scarface, using his momentum as a weapon. The mercenary started to twist,
but Jason threw a knee, and the connection bent his opponent over just as Jason jackhammered his bound hands up as hard as
he could. He felt something snap in the mercenary’s neck, saw the muscles around his eyes go limp.

Then everything exploded. The world fell to fragments, sight and sound out of sync. Snippets of scenes flickered past his
eyes.

Cruz launching herself off the couch toward him.

Galway’s face framed in a flash of sodium white, teeth clenched and chest blooming red as he fired a wild dying shot.

The bullet cracking drywall like the finger of an invisible giant.

DiRisio turning with a fun house grin, weapon raised, sniper eyes.

Scarface falling, drooping like a child’s doll, his weight and mass a lead blanket.

Kent rising behind the desk. Shirt impeccably white.

The dark hole of the SIG, a chasm he could lose himself in.

Billy squirming on the couch.

Jason’s hands fumbling for the gun Scarface held, the grip slick, his hands slow, so slow, he could see the pistol dropping,
knew that he wouldn’t make it.

DiRisio’s finger tightening on the trigger.

A blur of pale skin and brown hair connecting with DiRisio’s arm. Oh God. Billy, trying to help.

Fire jerking sideways.

DiRisio’s snarling growl, mouth wide and feral. Left hand reaching for Billy’s neck.