Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(108)

“Gag them. Gag them both.”

The security men rammed balls of cloth into their mouths, then bound them tightly with duct tape.

“Blindfold them, too.”

“Yes, Mr. Bullard.”

Bullard looked at D’Agosta. “Remember how I promised to pay you back? Now your finger’s as short as your dick.”

D’Agosta struggled, making inarticulate sounds as the blindfold went on.

Bullard turned to his assistant, nodded at the table. “Clean up that mess. And then get the hell out of here.”





{ 55 }


Gagged and blindfolded, hands cuffed behind his back, D’Agosta was herded along by one of the two security men. He could hear the chink of Pendergast’s shackles beside him. They were moving through what seemed a long, damp underground passageway: the air stank of fungus, and he could feel the chill humidity soaking into his clothes. Or maybe it was his own sweat. His middle finger felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. It was pulsing in time to his heartbeat, the blood running freely down the small of his back.

There was something unreal about the whole situation. At any other time, the thought he’d just lost the end of a finger would be all-consuming. Yet right now only the pain itself registered. Everything had happened so quickly. Just hours before, he’d been relaxing in a luxurious suite. Just a few hours before, he’d been almost tearful at seeing his own native land at long last. And now here he was—a dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth, his eyes blindfolded, arms bound, being led to an execution-style death.

He couldn’t really believe he was about to die. And yet that was exactly what was going to happen unless either he or Pendergast could think of something. But they had been thoroughly searched. And Pendergast’s most powerful weapon—his tongue—had been silenced. It seemed impossible, unthinkable. And yet the fact was he had only minutes left to live.

He tried to force the sense of unreality away; tried to forget the searing pain; struggled to think of some last-minute escape, some way to turn the tables on the two men that were so matter-of-factly leading them off to their deaths. But there was nothing in his training, nothing even in the detective books he’d read or written, to give him a clue.

They paused, and D’Agosta heard the groan of rusty metal being forced open. Then he was shoved forward, and the trilling of crickets and the humid night air hit his nostrils. They were outside.

He was prodded forward by what was undoubtedly the barrel of a gun. Now they were walking on what felt through the soft shoes like a grassy trail. He could hear the rustling of leaves above his head. Such small, insignificant sensations—and yet they had suddenly grown unbearably precious to him.

“Christ,” said one of the men. “This dew is going to ruin my shoes. I just paid two hundred euros for them, handmade over in Panzano.”

The other chuckled. “Good luck getting another pair. That old geezer makes like one pair a month.”

“We always get the shit jobs.” As if to underscore this, the man gave D’Agosta another shove. “They’re soaked through already, goddamn it.”

D’Agosta found his thoughts stealing toward Laura Hayward. Would she shed a tear for him? It was strange, but the one thing he most wanted right now was to be able to tell her how he went out. He thought that would make it easier to bear, easier than just vanishing, than never knowing . . .

“A little shoe polish and they’ll be like new.”

“Once leather gets wet it’s never the same.”

“You and your f*cking shoes.”

“If you paid two hundred euros, you’d be pissed, too.”

D’Agosta’s sense of unreality grew. He tried to embrace the throbbing pain in his finger, because as long as he could feel that, he knew he was still alive. What he feared was when the pain ended . . .

Just a few more minutes now. He took a step forward, another, then stumbled against something in the grass.

A slap to the side of the head. “Watch your step, *.”

The air had grown cooler, and there was a smell of earth and decaying leaves. He felt a terrible helplessness. The gag and blindfold robbed him of all ability to make eye contact with Pendergast, to signal, to do anything.

“The trail to the old quarry goes that way.”

There was a rustling, then a grunt. “Jesus, it’s overgrown in here.”

“Yeah, and watch where you put your feet.”

D’Agosta felt himself shoved forward once again. Now they were pushing through wet foliage.

“It’s right up ahead. There’s a lot of stones near the edge, don’t trip.” A guffaw. “It’s a long way down.”

More pushing through bushes and wet grass. Then D’Agosta felt himself brusquely halted.

“Another twenty feet,” his man said.

Silence. D’Agosta caught a whiff of something wet and cold—the exhalation of stale air from a deep mine shaft.

“One at a time. We don’t want to f*ck this up. You go first. I’ll wait here with this one. And hurry up, I’m getting bitten already.”

D’Agosta heard Pendergast being pushed forward, heard the swish of wet footsteps through the undergrowth ahead. The first man had a tight hold on his cuffs, a gun barrel pushed hard into his ear. He should do something, he had to do something. But what? The slightest move and he was dead. He couldn’t believe what was happening. His mind refused to accept it. He realized that, deep down, he’d been certain Pendergast would manage to do something miraculous, pull another rabbit out of his hat. But the time for that was past. What could Pendergast do: gagged, blindfolded, a gun to his head, standing at the edge of a precipice? The last small bit of hope drained away.