Into the Fire(34)

The big bets, coming in telephonically.

Before the men, steam misted from comically delicate espresso demitasses. The man on the right end, Raffi, sipped beer from a green bottle.

As Evan strode through the door, none of them looked up.

Terzian called out, “Are my fighters ready?”

Evan said, “I’m not sure.”

In concert the four men lifted their heads. In another context the coordinated reaction might have been funny, a disruption at ye olde-fashioned switchboard. Terzian moved the phone slowly away from his face, the person on the other end squawking until he cradled the receiver.

The others followed suit.

Terzian crossed his arms, the cuffed sleeves bulging over his ribboned forearms. “I thought you were my boy Big Papa.”

Evan said, “He couldn’t make it.”

The phones started up again, ringing at uneven intervals.

Raffi took a slug of Stella Artois. He was the largest of the men, barrel-chested and tall. “Ah. He’s somewhere having his fun? Big Papa’s a dirty dog. Out there humping legs.”

To his left, Serj said, “Or women.”

Yeznig chimed in, “Same difference.”

They chuckled.

But Terzian did not smile. His mouth pouched, wrinkling his lips.

The phones kept on, an unnerving cacophony. In the background a faint rumble came on, the roar of the crowd warming up.

Terzian said, “You here for the fight?”

Evan said, “Not that fight.”

Terzian’s hand moved beneath the table. The Kydex holster felt cool pressing against Evan’s appendix through his gray undershirt. His Woolrich button-up hung just loosely enough that no one would be able to tell if he was carrying.

Terzian’s lips twitched. “Are you sure this is a fight you want to start?”

“I’m not starting a fight,” Evan said. “I’m here to finish one.”

The others chuckled again. Their hands remained by their ledgers in full view, signaling to Terzian, the alpha dog, that they were confident to leave this to him.

“What fight is that, friend?” Terzian said.

“The one you started with Max Merriweather.”

Terzian tilted back in his chair. Withdrew his hand from beneath the table. Rested a Browning P-35 on top of his ledger, keeping his hand firm on the grip. The barrel pointed at Evan. It seemed the Hi-Power was the gun du jour for money-laundering assholes.

“Max is a friend, is he?” Terzian smiled, enjoying himself. “Good. Then you tell him this. What I did to his cousin Grant? The electrical cables. The clamps. Those sensitive areas of the flesh. It will pale in comparison to what we will do when we catch up to him.”

The others followed Terzian’s lead, matching his grin at the pledge of violence. His gaze remained on Evan, unbroken.

“You’re a fawn,” Terzian said, “who just wandered into the lion’s den.”

“I understand you think that,” Evan said. “And your track record has given you good reason to believe that you’re scary. You’ve got the look down. The manicured tough-guy beard. The handiwork carved into your skin. But I want you to do something. Look at me. Look at me closely. And ask yourself: Do I look scared?”

The phones persisted, insistent and abrasive, a xylophone being Whac-A-Moled. Terzian glared at Evan. Then he shoved back his chair abruptly and rose.

Evan stood motionless.

Terzian stalked around the table, waving the Browning. “You walk in here tonight. A night when I have business.” At this he jabbed the pistol at the one-way window and the cafeteria beyond. Through the walls Evan could make out the sound of countless feet stomping the bleachers in unison. “And you come here on behalf of someone who sought to fuck with my business?”

Wisely he kept a distance from Evan, regarding him over the top of the Browning. It was tilted sideways, gangsta style, the muzzle aimed just above Evan’s left shoulder. “Clearly you don’t know my name,” Terzian said. “Clearly you didn’t do your research.” His hand tensed around the grip. “Because if you think you stand any chance of walking out of this room alive—”

All at once there was a hole in his forehead.

An awareness dawned in his eyes that a round had passed through his skull, that he was already dead. The ARES was steady in Evan’s hand, the sights still lined on the trajectory of the Speer Gold Dot hollow-point round, his gun frame parallel with Terzian’s still-raised Browning. Evan’s parted shirt fluttered, and then the buttons found one another again with a metallic clink, hiding the empty holster.

Terzian gurgled blood, a powdering across the lips.

Evan reached out and grasped the canted Browning as he fell away.

Raffi was caught stunned, beer lifted mid-sip, but Serj and Yeznig were already drawing.

Evan spun the Browning around in his right hand, catching it upside down with his thumb jammed inside the trigger guard. He made a split-second adjustment to aim both pistols and fired simultaneously, shooting Serj through the mouth and catching Yeznig in the breast.

In a room filled with gunmen, a still target is a dead target. But Evan was already moving. A spin kick brought him within range as he let his foot fly above the table and hammer the raised bottle into Raffi’s face. Raffi toppled back in his chair, an arc of shattered teeth and glass tracing his descent.