Buchanan looked. Near the white-capped waves, he saw, were the distinctive outlines of several palapa sun shelters. Each small structure had a slanted circular top made from palm fronds and held up by a seven-foot-tall wooden post. Plastic tables and chairs, as white as the caps on the waves, were distributed among them.
“Yes,” the first twin said. “Over there.”
The Hispanic stepped from the concrete onto the sand and shoved Buchanan hard enough that Ed Potter could not have resisted the thrust, so Buchanan allowed himself to stumble backward.
“Move! Damn you and your mother, move!” the first twin said.
Continuing to stumble, Buchanan turned toward the deserted shelters. Immediately the Hispanic shoved him again, and Buchanan lurched, concentrating to maintain his balance, his shoes slipping in the sand.
The effect of adrenaline made his stomach seem on fire. He wondered if he’d been right not to defend himself earlier. Things had not yet gotten out of control. But the first twin was working himself into a rage. The insults and shoves were occurring more forcefully, more often, and Buchanan had to ask himself, Is this an act? Or is it for real?
If he’s acting, I’ll fail the test by ignoring some of those insults. If this guy shoves me any harder, if I don’t anticipate and absorb the impact, he’ll knock me down. He’ll dismiss me as unworthy of respect if I don’t make a pretense of resisting.
But how much resistance can I show and still be Ed Potter? And how much resistance is enough to satisfy the twin without truly making him angry?
And-
The question kept nagging at Buchanan.
What if this is for real?
As Buchanan reached a shelter, the first twin shoved him again, knocking him across a plastic table.
Buchanan straightened and spun. “Now that’s enough! Don’t shove me again! If you’ve got questions, ask them. I’ll explain whatever’s bothering you! I can settle this misunderstanding! But damn it, keep your hands off me!”
“Keep my hands off you?” The first twin stepped close to Buchanan, grabbed Buchanan’s shirt and twisted it with his fist, then raised the shirt so that Buchanan felt suspended by it. “What I’d like to do is shove my hand down your throat and pull out your guts.”
Buchanan smelled the tequila on his breath.
Abruptly the twin released his grip on Buchanan’s shirt.
Buchanan allowed himself to topple, sprawling again across the table, this time on his back instead of his chest. It took all his discipline to restrain himself from retaliating. He kept reminding himself, The mission. You can’t jeopardize the mission. You can’t fight back until you’re certain he intends to kill you. So far, all he’s done is shove, insult, and threaten you. Those aren’t good enough reasons for you to abort the mission by responding with deadly force.
Surrounded by darkness, glimpsing the lights of the hotel beyond the twins and their bodyguard, Buchanan stared up at the first twin, who grabbed him again, jerked him to his feet, and thrust him into a chair. Buchanan’s spine banged against the plastic. Waves splashed behind him.
“You promise that you can explain? Then do so. By all means, explain. It will be amusing to hear”-the twin suddenly pressed the muzzle of his 9-mm Browning pistol against Buchanan’s forehead-“how you intend to settle what you call this misunderstanding.”
That almost made the difference. Buchanan’s pulse quickened. His muscles compacted. Inhaling, he prepared to-
But the twin hasn’t cocked the pistol, Buchanan noticed, and the Browning doesn’t have a sound suppressor. If he intends to kill me, isn’t it more likely that he’d want to avoid causing a commotion? He’d use the bodyguard’s Beretta, which does have a sound suppressor, so he wouldn’t attract a crowd from the bar.
It’s still possible that this is an act.
Sweating, mustering resolve, Buchanan watched the second twin approach.
The man stopped beside his brother and peered down. Even in the gloom, his eyes were vividly hawklike. “Listen carefully,” he told Buchanan. “We are going to talk about names. But not the name that the drunken American called you in the restaurant. Not Jim Crawford, or at least not only Jim Crawford. And not just Ed Potter. Other names. Many other names. In fact, so many that I find it impossible to remember them all.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his suit coat. “You gave us a list of names of our associates whom you claim betrayed us. Well, I have a different list, one with other names.” He unfolded the paper and aimed a penlight at it so he could read. “John Block. Richard Davis. Paul Higgins. Andrew Macintosh. Henry Davenport. Walter Newton. Michael Galer. William Hanover. Stuart Malik.”
Oh, shit, Buchanan thought.
The second twin stopped reading, scowled at the sheet of paper, shook his head, and sighed. “There are several other names. But those will do for purposes of illustration.” He refolded the piece of paper, returned it to his suit-coat pocket, and at once thrust the penlight close to Buchanan’s face, aiming it into Buchanan’s right eye.
Buchanan jerked his face away to avoid the light.
But the bodyguard had shifted behind Buchanan and abruptly slammed his hands against the sides of Buchanan’s head, making Buchanan’s ears ring. The sudden, stunning pressure of the hands was like a vise. Buchanan tried, but he couldn’t turn his face away. He couldn’t avoid the blinding glare of the slender beam of light aimed into his eye. He reached up to grab the bodyguard’s smallest fingers and snap them in order to make the bodyguard release his grip.
But Buchanan froze in midgesture as the first twin cocked the Browning, the muzzle of which was now pressed against Buchanan’s left temple. Christ, Buchanan thought, he just might do it.
“Bueno. Muy bueno,” the first twin said. “Don’t make trouble.”
The penlight kept glaring at Buchanan’s eye. He blinked repeatedly, then scrunched his eyelid shut, but he could still see the light through the eyelid’s thin skin. He scrunched the eyelid shut tighter. A rough hand grabbed the side of his face, clawing at the eyelid, forcing it up. The light again glared. Buchanan’s eyeball suddenly felt hot, dry, and swollen. The light felt like a bright, hot needle that threatened to lance his eyeball as if it were a festering boil. Buchanan needed all his self-control not to struggle, not to attempt to break away from the hands that bound him-because he knew without doubt that if he struggled again, the first twin would blow his brains out.
“Bueno,” the first twin repeated. “Muy bueno. Excelente. Now, if you wish to live, you will tell us what all of those names that my brother read to you have in common. Think well before you answer.” He nudged the muzzle of the Browning harder against Buchanan’s temple. “I cannot respect, do business with, or tolerate a liar. The names. What is their secret?”
Buchanan swallowed. His voice was hoarse. “They’re all me.”
11
Except for the splash of the waves and the pounding of Buchanan’s heart, the night became silent. Then, in the distance, laughter echoing from the hotel’s outside bar broke the quiet. The twins and the bodyguard seemed frozen. At once they moved, the first twin lowering his pistol, the second twin releasing his grip on Buchanan’s right eyelid, then shutting off the penlight, the bodyguard removing his viselike hands from the sides of Buchanan’s head.
The first twin studied Buchanan. “I did not expect the truth.” He sat on a chair near Buchanan, placing his Browning on the table so its muzzle was pointed at Buchanan, leaving his hand on the weapon. “I asked you earlier. I’ll ask you again. Who are you?”
“Ed Potter.” Buchanan closed his right eyelid, massaging it, still seeing the painful glare from the penlight.
“And not John Block? Or Richard Davis? Or Paul Higgins?” the first twin asked.