“I agree to your terms.”
Colby shifted in his chair to find a more comfortable position. It was his worst tell when playing high-stakes poker and had lost him a lot of money through the years. What cards does Dorn hold?
“Those fees are unreasonable,” Colby said, cautiously.
“Are you that good?”
“Yeah, I’m that good, but…”
“Others have failed. I need results.”
With two million dollars cash, Colby could buy his way off the continent without a passport. He could start life over in a country without an extradition treaty. He could even set up a trust fund for Tory, try to make up for being a lousy father. He had just been handed a way out of the mess that was his life.
“You can wire these funds internationally?” Colby asked.
“Even to Antarctica,” Dorn said, smiling.
“Tell me more about the kid.”
“I have never seen the child. His last known location was Dutchess County, New York, thirteen years ago. He bears a red birthmark above his left scapula. Symian will provide a detailed file.”
“Symian?”
“Our colleague. He is taking care of business with your woman.”
Colby grinned. “Ms. Hernandez is engaged to be married to a Marine. He’s back from Afghanistan next week.”
“Symian is adept at winning women’s hearts,” said the swarthy twin in the corner, with an amused expression.
“This boy,” Colby started, getting back to the job that would save his life, “are you his biological father?”
“Relative,” Dorn said.
“You’re a relative, but you’ve never seen him, you’re not sure of his name, and you believe he was somewhere in Dutchess County about thirteen years ago.”
“You’re on top of the situation already.”
A heavily swathed man Colby assumed was Symian walked in from the reception area and gave Dorn a nod. “Just them,” he said, in a raspy whisper. He wore gloves, his hat was too big and his raincoat collar and a scarf hid much of his face. Colby noticed that under the brim’s shadow, where the whites of the man’s eyes should be, they were egg-yolk yellow.
“The file,” Dorn ordered.
Symian placed a portable flash drive on the desk.
“Is this kid in witness protection?” Colby asked. “Those FBI guys are hard to crack.”
“Why would they be involved?” Dorn asked.
“Well, I assume… the mother took off with the kid because she didn’t want him raised in a ‘connected’ family.”
Dorn laughed. “A compliment, Mr. Dretch. Alas, I do not bear the honor of belonging to that distinguished group.”
Colby was amused. After years on the job, he knew a thug when he saw one. If Dorn hired him for his scruples as he claimed, then he’d also know working for organized crime posed no problem.
“I guess that’s not important, as long as your money is good,” Colby said.
“Shall we secure his commitment, my lord?” Symian asked.
“And your loyalty, Colby, how do we ensure that?” Dorn’s tone changed, making the previous conversation until now seem almost jovial. “Are we to trust you with our secrets?” Dorn’s voice exuded a deep severity.
For the first time, the detective wondered if he was in over his head. He wished he’d replaced the clip in the Beretta sitting in his bottom drawer.
Colby took a deep breath and convinced himself he had the upper hand. After all, if other detectives had failed before him, and they went out of their way to hire an indicted, unlicensed detective, he must be exactly what they need.
“Look, Mr. Dorn-I’m smart enough to know who not to screw with. I promise, the retainer will assure my loyalty.”
Dorn gave a nod to Symian. The bundled-up man pulled a small velvet sack out of his coat pocket.
“I disagree,” Dorn said. “Where I come from, fealty is a matter of life and death. Since your oaths mean little, you have to give us something very important to you. Something you could never live without.”
That’s a new twist. Colby had never been asked to put up collateral for a job. “I thought you read the Post article. I put up most of my money for bail. The government took my passport and froze my assets until the investigation is complete. I sleep on that fold-out couch over there. I got nothing to give you.” Colby glanced at the photo of Tory, and immediately regretted it. “My boy’s a quadriplegic. I won’t lift a damn finger if you bring him into this.”
“I do not want your son,” Dorn said. “Some creatures throw their young to the wolves if it means one more day for themselves. I have something more dear to you in mind. Hesz.”
The large man scurried behind the detective in a flash, faster than Colby thought possible for someone so big, and locked him in a full nelson.
“What the hell are you doing?” the detective shouted. “Carla! Call the cops!” The detective struggled, but Hesz’s grip was like refrigerated steel. It was only when Hesz was breathing right on top of him that Colby finally realized the mist coming out of his mouth wasn’t cigarette smoke… it was frost. As was the “dandruff” on the man’s suit.
“Call the cops!” Colby shouted again.
Symian walked up to him. He glanced at Dorn and said, “Bet you a purse of Krakens it bursts. He doesn’t look too healthy.”
Dorn gave Symian a fierce look and said, “If he dies, I’ll braid your liver into a rope and hang you with it.”
Symian’s grin revealed canine teeth. He turned back to Colby and put two small pills into the detective’s mouth and said, “Swallow these.”
Colby spat them out. “Fuck you! Carla!” A frightening thought occurred to Colby. Carla might be dead.
“It’s just nitroglycerine,” Symian said. “Trust me.”
Symian gripped the detective’s face, pried his mouth open, slipped two fresh pills under the detective’s tongue, and Hesz clamped the detective’s jaw shut with a massive hand.
When Symian was sure the pills had dissolved, he ripped Colby’s shirt open and drew a circle in the center of his chest with a foul-smelling, thick, cloudy liquid that he seemed to be scraping off his own forearm. Using a Sharpie marker he drew five symbols around the circle and then spread more of the goop over the symbols. Then he placed the fingers of his right hand on the circle under each symbol. He uttered an undecipherable word.
Pushing forward, Symian’s hand sunk into Colby’s chest up to his wrist. Colby’s eyes almost came out of their sockets. He anticipated the agony of such a violation, but as the seconds passed, he realized it was a numb sensation, like pins and needles.
At the door, a shocked, hysterical Carla crawled in, sobbing. Her torn blouse revealed symbols drawn around a red welt on her chest. “Give it back!” she cried at Symian. “Oh, Colby, make him give it back!”
Colby never screamed louder in his life. He could feel the gray man’s hand clamping his heart, but was too gripped with terror to realize there was little blood coming forth. Symian’s hand pulled the organ free of its attachments. Within moments, Symian held Colby’s still-beating heart in front of his face. He put it in the velvet bag, thumping like a trapped rat, and pulled the drawstring shut.
CHAPTER 1
1
Callum MacDonnell woke up in a cold sweat and managed to stifle a yell at the last minute. He caught his breath, then rolled out of bed as softly as possible so as not to disturb Cat. Not easy at six foot five, and two hundred and fifty pounds. The light from the street tinted him the same shade of blue as his eyes, like snow under moonlight.
“You don’t really think I’m still asleep?” his wife said groggily from the other side of the bed. Catherine MacDonnell propped herself up on her elbows. “You were thrashing around like shark prey.”
“Sorry,” he said, and sat back down on the bed.
Cat hoisted herself up from the mattress and rested her chin on his shoulder straining to keep her eyes open. “Bad dreams again?” she asked, rubbing his back.