Incriminated (22 page)

Paolo gripped the tree trunk so viciously that splinters of bark pricked beneath his fingernails. From the instant the man had wrested the revolver from John-Michael, Paolo had held back, his limbs locked against the tree. Fear and fascination mingled as he witnessed the older man's almost balletic movements in snatching the weapon. It was obvious—the guy was an expert in some kind of martial art. Even with a gun stuck in his face, he'd disarmed John-Michael in less than two seconds.

He watched John-Michael, the misery plain in his features, lit up by the second man's car headlights. The man now towered above him, the gun aimed squarely at John-Michael's head.

“I asked you a question.”

John-Michael cringed. “No. I'm not a psychopath.”

The man stuck his right hand inside his suit jacket pocket, withdrew something that he tossed over to John-Michael. It took a moment for Paolo to realize that they
were plastic zip ties. A charge of pure fear jolted him.

In the steady, neutral voice that he'd been using since he'd taken the weapon, the man said, “Put them on.”

Paolo saw John-Michael's hands shake as he did what the man said. He tried to guess from the man's tone and stance whether their lives were now in danger. It was impossible to tell.

What kind of man could disarm someone like that? What kind of person carried plastic handcuffs?

The answers that were forming in Paolo's mind were pretty terrifying.

“Now you're going to stay there, on your knees, while I take a little look around my buddy's car. If I hear you move, I'll shoot, you understand?”

John-Michael nodded. The man sighed in irritation. It was the first aggressive sound that Paolo had heard him make and instinctively, he snuck a little farther behind the tree.

“Answer me, so I know you've understood.”

In a small voice he heard John-Michael say, “Yes sir.”

The man seemed pleased with John-Michael's sudden submissiveness. He brought the revolver in for a closer examination and quickly opened the cylinder to look inside. “Interesting,” he murmured thoughtfully. He tucked the revolver into the waistband of his pants, and reached under his left arm. When his right hand withdrew it was holding an automatic pistol.

“Now we're getting somewhere. If everything is in
order we can just finish up here and both get on with our evening. But if I'm not happy, we're going to have a serious problem.”

He retreated then, quickly, made his way to the car, tried to open the trunk. When he couldn't, he blasted the lock open with two shots. For a moment, Paolo couldn't see what he was doing. But he could figure it out, and the thought electrified him.

The man hadn't come up to Malibu Canyon to help his friend. He'd come looking for the bag filled with cash.

Before Paolo's legs could obey the urgent message from his brain to go over to his housemate and free him, the man reappeared from behind the Oldsmobile, storming toward John-Michael with teeth bared. Paolo saw the man swing a kick straight at John-Michael's back. Groaning, the boy collapsed.

“Okay, kid, the fun is over. You're about to get the beating of your life. Or you can tell me what the hell you did with my money.”

Paolo winced in sympathy as he saw the second kick approach, now farther around John-Michael's back. This time his friend curled up into a fetal position, gasping, trying to get his wind. Paolo fought down the urge to go to his instant rescue. One mistake and they'd both be killed.

“Listen to me. I can count, therefore I know that my buddy fired his weapon twice. One blank cartridge has been fired, and one bullet. Now I also know that he sent me a message, but not with this phone. Also, he didn't
answer any calls. You with me so far?”

The man swung in with another heavy kick on John-Michael, who released a low moan, curling up even tighter. For the first time, real anger began to surge through Paolo alongside the fear.

Stupid, stupid, allowing John-Michael to take the gun.

“Now—and let me be clear—I do this for a living. So when my partner starts to act a little odd I think something's up. You know what else I think? I think
you
maybe had something to do with my friend being dead. I don't know whether you tried to rob him, or whether you hit his car, or whether—and this seems unlikely—whether you somehow actually took his
own
gun from him and shot him with it. That's to say, I assumed from that head wound that a car hit him. But maybe I should have looked harder?”

He punctuated this last sentence with two more kicks. John-Michael barely reacted above another lengthy groan. Paolo could hardly bear to watch. But it was obvious that the man suspected something. He wasn't just going to let John-Michael go, nor was he going to kill him quick.

“You're wondering why you didn't kill me when you had the chance,” the man said, spitting on the ground near John-Michael. “Well, it's like this. You've heard of Darwin, yes? Natural selection, all that? This lifestyle, it's very, what I would call
Darwinian
. People like you and me, who've been in the situation that you're in now, if we survive it's because we learn. We adapt. I won't lie to you, not everyone makes it.
You
may not make it. But if you do, you'll know for the
next time.
Do not
pull a gun on someone unless you mean to use it.”

Another kick, this time to the backs of John-Michael's thighs. Paolo welled up—tears of empathy and frustration.

The man suddenly slid down on one knee beside John-Michael, the pistol pressed firmly to the crook in his leg.

“Now. Five seconds to tell me where the cash is. Or you take the first bullet, right through the knee.”

There was no way that Paolo could physically tackle the man. John-Michael was going to give up the location of the cash any second now. He'd be beaten into revealing Paolo's position. They'd probably be forced at gunpoint to call the girls.

Then all four of them would be potential hostages. Plenty of spare blood, in case the guy felt like throwing his weight around, killing or maiming one of them, just to show that he meant business.

All
their lives would be at risk. And Paolo would be directly responsible.

He had to act before John-Michael gave him up. He crouched low, fumbling for any kind of fallen stick. The ground fell away so sharply underfoot that he had to use one hand to hold on to a low branch of the tree he'd been hiding behind. As the branch bent, Paolo's teeth sunk into his lower lip, his jaw clenched in the desperate hope that the limb wouldn't snap, or make enough noise to betray
his position. But there was nothing within reach. John-Michael's groans had gotten louder with every kick. And the seconds were ticking by.

Paolo swung to his feet and emerged from behind the tree. He moved swiftly, using John-Michael's groans to hide any sounds he made. But he wasn't quite fast enough. The man had already begun to turn his head as Paolo threw a punch.

It was a fierce strike, hurled with all the energy of Paolo's fastest serve. The blow would have hit the back of the man's head. But Paolo caught his right cheek instead.

Paolo's fist connected, hard. His knuckles crunched into the man's eye socket. The impact shot straight up Paolo's right arm and into his shoulder. The shock of pain took his breath for a few seconds. Shaken, he watched the man reeling, his left hand clutching at his face. But it was a momentary victory. Then the man's gun arm was swinging up. An automatic weapon was bearing down on Paolo, fast. He managed to swerve backward, narrowly avoiding the swipe.

“On your knees,” hissed the man. Paolo held still. His attention flicked back to where John-Michael had been only a second ago. He caught a glimpse of two legs disappearing into the darkness at the edge of the road. The man's eyes followed Paolo's glance, but he didn't take his focus off him for a second. “Your boyfriend left you.”

He shoved the gun into Paolo's face, pressed the muzzle up against his ear. The air of arrogant confidence had
vanished. His eyes were narrow slits of steel, his upper teeth bared. Paolo dropped slowly to his knees, raised both hands in the air. The knuckles of his right hand dripped blood. He felt the cold metal of the gun roving across his skin, from his ear to his right eye.

“That. Hurt.” The man inhaled noisily. “I'm going to get a goddamn black eye.” He leaned forward. Paolo could smell tobacco on his breath.

“I know your little boyfriend can still see us,” the man whispered conspiratorially. “Better tell me where you got the money. Better tell me
soon
. I swear to God, I'll hunt him down and skin him alive.”

“Behind the tree,” Paolo said suddenly. He said it again, louder. And began to mutter a silent prayer, a telepathic message to John-Michael, willing his friend to hear, to listen, to understand.

“The cash. It's in a duffel bag behind the tree. We only just opened it. We didn't touch your friend. Seriously. We were just cycling past. Our bikes are back there, behind where you parked your car, right at the side of the road.” Paolo risked a gesture then, his left hand raised, pointing behind him. He opened his eyes wide, shook his head slightly. “I'm sorry I hit you. But you were hurting my buddy, I didn't know what to do.”

“Where'd you find the cash?”

“In the trunk,” Paolo said. The ring of truth could only help them now. Somehow, he had to get the guy to move over to the tree. “There was a padlock.”

“Where'd you find the key?”

“In the glove compartment. The whole car's open.”

“Why didn't you call nine-one-one?”

Paolo felt tears spring to his eyes. He decided to encourage them. “He was dead, man,” he whined, managing a sob. It was a relief to release some of his fear. “We couldn't help him.”

A sneering note entered the man's voice. “But you could help yourself to his gun and his goddamn
money
, is that what you could do?”

Paolo shook his head. The terror that had seized him a moment ago, that had filled him with self-pity, faded rapidly. Instead, his mind sped ahead, trying to figure out any way to escape his fate. “We didn't know what was inside, we were just curious. Look, I'm really sorry, please just let us go. We won't say anything. The bag's just there, where I was hiding. You can take it and . . . and . . .”

The man snickered. “And what? Let you go? We'll see about that. First off, I'm gonna need to see these bicycles. Where's your spandex, kid? You sure don't look like cyclists. And I don't remember seeing any wheels up here except the ones on my pal's Oldsmobile.” He stood back. “On your feet.” He raised his voice so that John-Michael could hear. “Hey, ‘cyclist' number two, I know you're still around. If you leave this one alone with me, it's not going to go well for him. I'm an artist when it comes to breaking bones. I'll snap at least six before I get started with the bullets. You're gonna be amazed how badly a person can be
messed up before death finally settles on a body.”

In the silence that followed, Paolo listened for any response. There was nothing. John-Michael had vanished in the direction of the two girls. The smart move would have been to get out of there ASAP. Maybe the older man was right, maybe not. But somehow, Paolo couldn't quite believe that his friend had stuck around to take another battering.

“Start walking. Let's see these bicycles.”

Paolo's hesitation earned him another shove with the barrel of the gun. “Don't you want to pick up the cash?”

The man stared, suddenly curious. “Why?”

Paolo forced himself to shrug. “It's right there.”

“
You
get it.”

“Me?”

The man nodded once. “Yeah.”

Paolo managed a dumb nod. He began to shuffle toward the tree. This wasn't what he'd been aiming for. This was going terribly. No sign of John-Michael. Now he was in the middle of nowhere, facing a sadist with a gun. He reached the tree and stared helplessly at the empty ground behind the tree trunk.

“Hurry up.”

Paolo stepped into the shadows, slipped behind the tree. There was only one thing left to do now. He pressed himself up against the back of its trunk and remained motionless, waiting.

A beat went by. Then the man called out, incredulous,
“You're actually hiding? We're doing this?” There was a guffaw. “Do you have any idea what I'm gonna do to you?”

Paolo's eyes closed. He could taste iron in his mouth from where he'd bitten his lip. He could hear the roar of his own pulse as blood rushed past his eardrums. His chest was rattling so hard with the hammering of his heart that he couldn't believe the man couldn't hear it.

But he didn't move.

Footsteps. Paolo looked at the ground. There wasn't more than a foot of ledge behind the tree. Then the ground fell away to blackness. There might be a ridge just below. Then again, maybe not. Maybe it went straight down to the ravine.

“Last chance,” said the man. He was right beside the tree now. He'd only have to lean forward, to peer around the tree trunk and see Paolo, shivering, desperately trying to melt against the bark.

Paolo shifted around the tree, further out of reach. He heard a hitch in the other man's breathing as he waited for Paolo to reveal himself, probably wondering whether to risk taking a look.

Comeoncomeoncomeon . . .

The gun came first, stretched ahead of the man's arm, almost skating against Paolo's head before he could duck out of the way, but he managed to maneuver his way out of reach, behind the tree. “Now you're being silly,” the man reasoned as he stepped onto the narrow ridge behind the tree.

Just as John-Michael had that first time, the man skidded a little, losing his footing. His arms reached out for the tree and grabbed a branch, one hand still clutching the revolver. Paolo was already speeding around the tree, his head down in a sprint as he aimed for the Oldsmobile. He had to get some cover.

He barely noticed the slender silhouette of John-Michael as he emerged from the shadows, hands clasped together and brandishing a large, heavy stick. Paolo heard but didn't see the wood swing through the air and connect with something low. He heard the anguished scream of pain as the man stumbled—and, heard the strain in John-Michael's voice as he raised the stick for a second blow. Two shots rang out. Then there was silence.

Paolo made his way back behind the tree. John-Michael stood breathing hard, a three-finger-thick piece of tree leaning against his shoulder. There was no sign of the hit man.

“Paolo. I think he's gone.”