Into the Fire(28)

“Also,” the man said, “the adjective is ‘Hawaiian.’”

Papazian cocked his head. “You cray-cray, bitch?”

“You’re in a heightened state of alert,” the man said calmly. “Your heart rate’s up over a hundred beats a second. Which means your fine motor skills have already deteriorated and your gross motor is compromised.”

Papazian jabbed the gun at the air. “Say what, motherfucker?”

Evan stepped forward into the room. They faced each other across the couch.

Riding Evan’s back in a sling, angled like a samurai sword, was a matte black Benelli M1 combat shotgun. He made no move for it.

Instead he studied the pistol aimed at him, the barrel tip three feet from his forehead. The Browning P-35, known more widely as a Hi-Power, was one of the first successful double-stack mag nine mils. The thirteen-round capacity made it a favorite of many of the world’s militaries since World War II, a sidearm of choice from Aussies to Venezuelans. Nonstop production in Belgium and licensed countries for nearly a century had put it so heavily into circulation that it could be considered nontraceable.

As with all self-loading semiautos, the Hi-Power cannot fire when the slide isn’t locked fully forward in battery. A mechanical disconnector prevents the hammer from dropping.

A design element easily exploited when someone held the weapon within reach.

Evan shot his hand out, cupped the top of the slide, and pushed it back a quarter inch.

Papazian tugged the trigger, but nothing happened. His face frozen with disbelief, he yanked it once more, the pistol bobbing in their shared grip.

Evan twisted the weapon to the side, hyperextending Papazian’s elbow, and jammed the heel of his free hand into the forearm. There was a grinding of bone and tendon and the pop of the radial head unseating.

Nursemaid’s elbow redux.

Now Papazian had a matching set.

Evan stripped the pistol from Papazian’s hand and flung it behind him. It clattered across the floor, pinging off the wall in the darkness. Evan reached over his shoulder, unsheathed the shotgun from the sling, and whipped it down to rest on Papazian’s shoulder.

The boom was bone-shuddering. Behind Papazian digital London transformed into a cloud of splinters.

Papazian staggered but kept his feet.

Evan said, “Now you’re near two hundred beats per minute. Your cognitive processing is starting to go. Time dilation, visual narrowing, auditory exclusion.”

He popped the shotgun up over Papazian’s head, thunking it down on the other shoulder as if knighting him. He pulled the trigger again, the stock kicking back. Another boom, this one biblical.

Evan raised his voice so Papazian would hear over the concussive din in his head. “You’re spiked over two fifty now. System overload. Perceptually shut down. Full-blown tunnel vision. Voiding instinct. That warmth you feel spreading down your leg? You might think you’ve already been shot, but it’s just piss.”

Papazian’s eyes looked like dinner plates. His breaths came in hiccups.

Evan lowered the shotgun to aim at his knee. “Next time it won’t be.”



* * *



Mr. Omar answered his door wearing boxer shorts and a tattered blue bathrobe that was oddly feminine. He blinked up at the two men in the hallway. Cuffed sleeves, pressed slacks, polished shoes.

The taller of the two wore an LAPD baseball cap. “I’m Detective Nu?ez, and this is Detective Brust.” For good measure, he nudged the badge dangling around his neck on a lanyard. “I understand you’re the landlord here?”

Omar scratched at his thigh. “Landlord no. Building manager yes.” He smiled, revealed perfectly straight, large yellow teeth. “Instead of cashing the checks, I deal with much hassles. Not a fair trade-off if you ask me, my friend. But my rent is free, and—”

Brust tried on a smile as he cut in. “Have you seen Max Merriweather?”

“No. His apartment has been broken in, and he is missing. The other cops came and took the report. They told me not to fix yet. That it is evidence.” Omar lifted a finger skyward. “And I have not.”

“We saw that report, thank you,” Nu?ez said. “We’re from the Hollywood Station, investigating a different aspect of the case. We need to know if Mr. Merriweather has been in touch with you in any way? If he’s come by here?”

Omar shook his head. “I’ve been much worried about him. Always behind on the rent, but he is good man.” His eyes were baggy, raccoon-ringed with darker skin. He tugged at his wattle. “But he vanished like this.” A snap of his fingers.

Brust stepped forward and handed Omar a card. His partner was impeccable, but Brust had a coffee stain on the left side of his shirt, a brown dribble that wouldn’t be coming out anytime soon. “If you hear anything—anything at all—please call us.”

Omar pinched the card at the corners so it bowed inward. He stared at the number, brow twisted with worry. “Yes, I will. I will.”

When he looked up, the detectives’ faces were clouded with concern. “He’s in grave danger,” Nu?ez said.

“What danger?” Omar asked. “How much danger?”

The detectives had started for the stairs, but Nu?ez paused and looked back, his expression heavy. “More than he’s even aware of.”