If The Seas Catch Fire(16)

Sergei shrugged. “Not my god.”

Nicolá’s eyebrows rose, his forehead creasing.

“Get in the car.” Sergei nudged him with the pistol. His accent slipped, but at this point, he had the upper hand, and this guy wasn’t going to live long enough to describe him to anyone. “You’re driving.”

The mark exhaled, and then nodded.

Slowly, both eyeing each other, they got into Sergei’s car. Sergei kept the weapon trained on Nicolá’s midsection as the Italian started the engine.

“What’s to stop me from driving into the ocean or crashing into a building?”

“Because you don’t know if I’m planning to kill you or not,” Sergei said coolly. “Or what might happen to Marguerite if I’m not alive to place a certain call later tonight.”

Nicolá sucked in a sharp breath, and Sergei knew damn well he’d won.

At Sergei’s instruction, Nicolá drove to the edge of town.

Sergei pointed at a deserted parking lot outside a supermarket that hadn’t survived the last recession. “Park here.”

The mark slowed down, but didn’t turn. “Why should I? You’re going to kill me either way, aren’t you?”

Sergei exhaled sharply. “Because a bullet to the stomach is one of the more painful ways to die?”

Nicolá’s eyes flicked toward the gun.

Impatiently, Sergei growled, “And Marguerite might—”

“All right! All right. Don’t hurt her. Please.” He cursed in Italian, and then pulled into the parking lot. He stopped, kept both hands on the wheel, and turned to Sergei. “If you’re going to do it, just be done with it.”

“I’m still waiting for orders. Cooperate, and you might walk away tonight. Irritate me, and, well…” Sergei lifted the gun slightly.

Nicolá regarded him uneasily.

“Listen,” Sergei said. “I’m not going to kill you unless you f*ck with me. I wasn’t sent here to kill you.”

“Then why—”

“Because someone needs to hold onto you until a decision is made.” Sergei shrugged. “If they decide to kill you, that’s up to the Georgian. Not me.”

“The Georgian?” Nicolá went white. “They’re sending him after me? I didn’t do anything!”

“Not my problem. All I know is that I’m supposed to keep on ice until the final decision is made, and that how well you cooperate with me will determine how much he’s supposed to f*ck you up before he kills you.”

Nicolá swallowed hard, as if pushing back a sudden wave of nausea.

Sergei held out his hand. “Keys.”

Expression blank, Nicolá killed the engine and surrendered the keys.

“Get out.” Sergei opened his own door without ever shifting his gaze away from Nicolá. Try anything stupid, and I’ll make you bleed until the Georgian’s ready for you. And remember what I said about your girl. Clear?”

The Italian’s nostrils flared and his jaw tightened, but he nodded.

Slowly, they both stepped out of the car. Sergei waved him around to the back of the car and popped the trunk.

Nicolá balked. His eyes darted this way and that, but he didn’t move—apparently he wasn’t going to challenge Sergei’s marksmanship. Good. He needed Nicolá alive for the time being.

Sergei put on a pair of thin leather gloves. Then he pulled a foil sheet out of his pocket. It was dotted with gray-blue lumps of a dried paste, and he popped two off. They were a mix of Ecstasy and God knew what else. His poison guy, Katashi, had been selling it to him for the past couple of years, and it worked wonders for subduing marks who needed to stay alive but compliant for a little while.

“Put these under your tongue.”

Nicolá arched an eyebrow. “How about you put them in your—”

The pistol pointed at his forehead shut him up.

“Under your tongue.” Sergei held out the tabs. “Now.”

Nicolá took them, but eyed them. “What are they?”

“They’re not bullets. Put them—”

“How do I know they aren’t—”

Sergei lowered the weapon and jammed the muzzle against Nicolá’s balls. “Both of those under your tongue, or one of these in each nut. Got it?”

Nicolá slipped the tabs under his tongue. He grimaced, probably at the taste.

“Don’t swallow it,” Sergei said sharply. “And just to make sure you don’t spit it out.” He held up a roll of duct tape.

The Italian’s grimace turned murderous, his lips blanching and nearly vanishing, but he didn’t stop Sergei from taping his mouth. If looks could kill…

But they couldn’t.

Sergei nodded toward the car. “Into the trunk.”

Nicolá hesitated for a split second. A muzzle tap against his dick got the message across, and he climbed into the back of the car.

Sergei bound his hands and ankles with tape. Then he slammed the trunk and went around to the driver side. He wasn’t worried about the mark getting loose back there. There were no sharp edges or anything in the trunk—he’d made sure of that. And even if he’d overlooked a potential escape route or a weapon, the drug would keep Nicolá from noticing anything beyond whatever blissed out hallucinations kept his subconscious occupied for the next few hours.