The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(84)

Felix stood up the hand truck, then took the weapon, his face alive with interest. He dropped the magazine, checked the load, racked the slide to eject the live round, pushed the round into the magazine, and popped the magazine into place, all in under a count of five. Then tucked the gun into his belt at the small of his back and bent to reload the hand truck.

Whatever was wrong with the guy, thought Peter, some parts of him were clearly still highly functional. The wrong parts.

Midden walked through the door with a black-plastic-wrapped rectangle in his hand. When he saw Zolot dead on the floor, he stopped. “I told you not to kill anyone.”

Lipsky took the package from his hand. “You don’t make those decisions, Sergeant. I do.”

Something flickered across Midden’s face and was gone just as quickly. But Peter saw it.

Lipsky must have, too. “Look, I’m sorry. The man was in pain,” he said. “And he’d seen all of us, Midden. You killed him when you brought him in here. You know that. Hell, he killed himself when he braced you outside. I put him out of his misery, and ours, too. All right?”

He didn’t wait for a response. He carried the package to the table and tore open the plastic, exposing two beige rectangles. “Only two,” he said. He turned to Midden. “This is it?”

Midden shook his head. “That’s all I found.” He glanced at Peter. “Good hiding place, too.”

“Not good enough,” said Peter.

“That’s only half,” said Lipsky. “Where’s the rest?”

“I got rid of it. And that’s the truth.”

Lipsky looked at Peter with his X-ray eyes and seemed to accept it.

“It’s enough, anyway,” he said. “Midden, thank you.” Lipsky took his phone from his pocket and hit a button. “We’ve got it. Bring them in. You need to finish the detonator.”

“Wait a minute,” said Peter. Although this was what he had known would happen. “You said they hadn’t seen any faces. You said you wouldn’t touch them if you got the C-4.”

“I said I wouldn’t if you provided the plastic. And you didn’t. Midden had to find it. And we’re missing half our goods.”

Peter was watching Midden with one eye and saw it again. That flicker across his face, a look of disgust that came and went so quickly Peter almost missed it. Then the empty coiled stillness was back. But there was something beneath it, Peter now knew. Something submerged.

Boomer, his face a mass of bruises, came through the door, towing Dinah by an elbow. Still handcuffed, Dinah had put the circle of her arms around Miles. They still wore their ragged blindfolds.

Boomer steered them into a corner. “Sit yourselves down right there,” he said. “Don’t move, don’t talk.” Then he went to the table and peeled the plastic facing off the rectangles of C-4.

Peter said, “I’m sorry, Dinah. It’s my fault you’re here.”

“Peter?” She turned her face, trying to find the direction of his voice. She’d pulled Miles into her lap. “Peter, where are you?”

“No talking,” called Lipsky. He was on the phone again.

“I’m cuffed to a chair,” said Peter. “Keep your blindfold on. It’s going to be okay.”

“I said don’t talk.” Boomer came over and backhanded Peter across the face. “You gotta learn to do what you’re told.”

Peter tasted blood. “Fuck you,” he said. “Cut these cuffs off and hit me again. I’ll have you pissing blood for a week.”

“Please, Peter,” said Dinah, arms wrapped tight around Miles, her face shrouded by the blindfold. “Do whatever they say. They told me they’ll let us go when they have what they need. I just told them where the money is.”

Lipsky turned to the scarred man. “Boomer, get that detonator finished. Midden, go keep an eye on Cas. Help him get the bags dumped into the drums.” Midden nodded and walked out to the warehouse.

Dinah buried her face in Miles’s neck.

Boomer took another folding chair and sat at the table across from Peter, a cruel smile playing across his ruined face. “I’m looking forward to watching you turn into pink mist.”

Peter smiled pleasantly. “That’s funny. I’m looking forward to tearing off your head and using your neck for a latrine. I think it’ll improve your looks.”

Boomer stood up again, reached under his coat, and brought out a gigantic revolver. “I think I’ll just shoot you now, fuckface.”

“Boomer.” Lipsky’s voice cracked like a whip. “We keep him alive for now, remember?”

“What is the plan, anyway?” asked Peter. “Sure seems like you’re making this up as you go along.”

Lipsky looked at Peter. “I take it back, Boomer. Go ahead and hit him. But with your hand, and not in the face.”

Boomer came around the table and drove his fist into Peter’s stomach.

“Ooogh.” Peter doubled forward as much as the plastic handcuffs would let him, and tried to sound as if all the air had gone out of him. He’d hardened his gut muscles when he’d known where the punch would hit, and it wasn’t that bad. He’d had worse during sparring.

Boomer puffed up in triumph. “Now who’s the asshole?”