Hit man. Or assassin. Whatever he called himself, he was geared for a close-range, silent kill.
Jack's first thought was that somebody wanted him dead and had hired this clown to make it happen. Then he realized that that couldn't be. No one had known he was headed here. Jack hadn't known himself. Hadn't made the decision until he'd landed.
So who was he after? And why had he come here?
The guy groaned. He'd been doing that and opening and closing his eyes for about ten minutes. This time they stayed open and focused on Jack for a few seconds, then up and around at his surroundings.
"What the fuck?"
He tried to sit up but then grimaced and slumped back to his original position.
"Headache?"
Jack had been through the post-concussion thing a few times. Early on, every movement sent a bolt of pain through your head.
The guy fixed on Jack again.
"The fuck am I?"
"Who, what, or where?"
"Where."
"A nice little house in Gateways. The one you broke into just a short while ago.
"And who the f—?"
Jack raised the pistol. "That's my question. One of many I'm going to be asking you." jack saw fear race through his eyes at sight of the Luger, but only for an instant. Then the hard-guy look returned.
"I checked your clothes and your bag," Jack said. "No ID. So tell me: What's your name?"
The guy sneered. "John Smith."
"Very funny." Jack hadn't expected a straight answer but felt obligated to ask. "Okay, Smith, what's going on here? What are you up to?"
Another sneer. "The Motel Six was full up and I needed a place to stay."
Jack had an urge to wing a slug past Smith's nose but didn't want to mess up the tile. He hadn't looked but assumed the pistol had a round in the chamber. He worked the toggle anyway—for effect. The ratcheting sound echoed off the tiles as a cartridge spun through the air and bounced along the floor.
Jack gestured with the pistol. "Now we'll try again, Smith. What are you doing in my father's house?"
The tough-guy facade cracked a little. "Your father? Shit, I heard it would be empty."
"Heard from whom?"
"No one and nobody." He stared at Jack. "You mean you and your father live here?"
"Nope. My father's gone and I'm just visiting."
"But why are you a day early?"
That came from so far out in left field that it knocked Jack off balance.
"What?"
"You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow."
"I wasn't supposed to be here at all. You sure you're talking about me? Did someone show you a picture of me?"
His tone turned uncertain. "No… never seen you before in my life."
Smith put his head back and closed his eyes. "Shit! I just can't believe he could screw up like this."
"He who?"
Smith's eyes snapped open as if he'd received a shock. He glanced at Jack with a worried look.
"No one. No one at all."
Jack studied his face. He thinks he said too much. And maybe he did. But about what?
Jack waggled the pistol at him.
"This is a hit man rig."
The sneer again. "How would you know?"
"Oh, I know. I know." Jack turned the pistol over in his hands. "An American Eagle Luger. Not the original—this is the Stoeger recreation—but a pretty piece, no less. Put a couple of hollow points through the back of the head, let them bounce around inside the skull to make Swiss cheese of the brain, and that's all she wrote, right?"
He saw a look of worry and wonder ripple over Smith's face. Seemed it was finally dawning on him that he'd broken into the wrong house at the wrong time and wound up at the mercy of the wrong guy.
"I'm not with the mob."
"Okay then, an assassin. Am I right?"
"You have no idea."
"Who were you supposed to hit?"
Jack hoped the "were" got through to him.
"Nobody." He raised his taped wrists and knuckled an eye. "That's just for self-defense."
"Yeah, right. Who sent you?"
"Nobody. Like I told you, just looking for a place to crash."
Jack had a feeling he'd learned all he was going to from this clown. Unless he applied a little pressure. He rummaged through the gym bag until he found the suppressor. He pulled it out and held it up.
"Nobody needs one of these for self-defense. So come on, Smith. Let's stop dancing around and put a few facts on the table."
"Told you all I know," he said as he rubbed his eyes again.
"We'll see about that. And keep your hands down."
With studied deliberation, Jack began threading the suppressor onto the end of the barrel, glancing at Smith with every turn.
"My, my… I do believe you're starting to sweat."
"Hot in here."
Yeah, it was kind of close in here, but not hot.
"Afraid of dying, Smith?"
"Not really. I'd regret it, but it doesn't scare me. Put one in my head and get it over with. You're boring the shit out of me."
"'Boring the shit out of me.'" Jack had to smile. "I'll have to add that to my list of favorite last lines."
He hoped the subtext wasn't lost.
"You kill me, you get double nothing."
Jack offered what he hoped was a sadistic smile. "Who said anything about killing you? As long as you've got knees and ankles and elbows—"
Jack didn't know what type of smile Smith was going for. Whatever it was, it looked pretty sick.
"Same difference. You shoot me anywhere, I stop talking."
Those words, combined with the look on his face, struck a sour note in Jack. He looked around for the bullet he'd ejected and found it. His stomach dropped when lie saw the tip: The hollow in the point had been filled with something and sealed over.
His thoughts flashed back a month—to a figure lying dead on the floor of the LaGuardia baggage claim area… dead of a flesh wound in the thigh that should have caused pain and some blood loss but no more.
Dead for one reason: He'd caught a cyanide-filled hollow point.
This looked like the same thing, except it was a 9mm Starfire instead of the 5.56 NATOs used at the airport.
Still… an assassin's bullet.
He held it up. "Cyanide tipped?"
Smith's mouth tightened into a thin line, but he said nothing.
"You connected to Wrath of Allah?"
Smith frowned. "Who the fu—oh, those Islamic assholes who did LaGuardia?" He looked insulted. "You gotta be kidding."
Jack set the round on the edge of the tub, point up.
"Those Islamic assholes used cyanide hollow points to do the job. You sure you're not connected?"
"Absolutely. On my mother's grave—wherever that is."
"Then who are you connected to?"
"No one."
Jack sighed. "You're pushing me. That bullet puts a whole new spin on this situation. Someone very close to me was killed by a similar round. Before the night's over I'm going to know who sent you. We can do it easy or we can do it nasty. My father left a well-stocked toolbox out on the back porch. I'm especially fond of his variable-speed electric drill. Do I have to go get it?"
Smith paled and broke out in another sweat. But he wasn't backing down.
"I've told you all I can."
Jack made note of the fact that he didn't say all he knew.
He wondered if his bluff would work. He wasn't in a black enough mood to drill into someone's shinbone. This jerk most likely broke into the wrong house. Under other circumstances Jack might have loaded him in his trunk and dumped him in the swamp, leaving him to get out of the tape himself and find his way home. But that cyanide-tip changed things. Jack wanted more. Maybe plugging in the drill and revving it a few times as he brought it toward Smith's kneecap would prove a tongue loosener.