Steven James - The Knight

As Giovanni finally faced him, Sebastian could see a tight, barely visible tremble work its way down the man’s throat. Still no reply.

“This stalling is going to cost you,” Sebastian said. “Now, take off the mask.”

Giovanni let his eyes flick toward Sebastian’s Glock lying on the floor near the kitchen door. But that one look telegraphed everything.

As he lunged for the gun, Sebastian squeezed the trigger of his. 357.

Click.

Nothing more.

Giovanni scrambled across the garage. Sebastian fired again.

Click.

Nothing. Again.

How could the snub be empty? You always keep it loaded. Always!

Giovanni rose, holding the Glock. Faced Sebastian. “How did I do there, a moment ago?” he asked. “Did I seem scared? I practiced, you know, in front of a mirror. I’m not that great of an actor, and I didn’t think it’d be as believable if I improvised. But I had you going, didn’t I? It looked like I did.”

He aimed the Glock at Sebastian’s face.

No!

Sebastian took a sharp breath.

Giovanni fired.

Nothing.

The man stared coolly at Sebastian and shook his head, disappointed. “Governor, please. Do you really think I would have let you enter the garage with either of your guns loaded? You’re a very dangerous man. That wouldn’t have been too bright of me. You shouldn’t leave your snub on your bed. Or for that matter, set your Glock on your bathroom countertop. Someone might sneak into your home and empty them while you’re taking a shower.”

“Who are you?” Sebastian heard his voice slipping from confidence to fear.

Giovanni’s only reply was to snatch up one of the ropes from the workbench and, with cat-like quickness, rush toward Sebastian. Before he could roll out of the way, Giovanni looped the rope around his uninjured wrist and yanked Sebastian’s arm toward the workbench. A moment later, he’d secured the wrist to one of the bench’s legs.

Now he was standing, retrieving the other rope.

Sebastian knew he couldn’t let Giovanni tie his other hand. If he did, he’d be completely helpless. It’d all be over. He rolled toward his bound wrist and tried to grip the rope, tried to untie it, but because his wrist was broken, he had no strength to do it.

Then Giovanni came toward him again. Sebastian tried to fight him off, but his attacker gave his arm a fierce twist, and one of the bones in his forearm shattered. This time Sebastian couldn’t help but let out a sharp, strangled cry of pain. The awkward bend in his suit coat sleeve showed where the bone of his arm was protruding through the skin.

“It’s OK.” Giovanni was pulling his arm toward the car. “Most men would have been weeping by now. I have great respect for you.” He sounded genuinely impressed. “You’re doing an admirable job.”

Sebastian yanked at his bound wrist, but the knot Giovanni had used just grew tighter. With one last surge of strength, he tried to throw Giovanni off, but failed.

Within seconds, Giovanni had tied Sebastian’s broken wrist to the seven-spoke, eighteen-inch aluminum alloy wheels of his hundred thousand dollar Lexus RX luxury utility vehicle, and Sebastian Taylor lay helpless, his arms stretched to each side, each wrist bound.

Giovanni examined the bindings to make sure they were secure. “There.” Then he stood, stepped toward the duffel bag, and pulled out a crosscut saw.

“It’s OK if you scream, just so you know, I won’t think any less of you.” He reached into his duffel again and brought out a thick strip of cloth. “Now, I can gag you until we’re finished if you want. It might make things easier. Based on what I’ve seen, biting against a gag seems to help people deal with the pain. Either way is fine with me, though. I’ll leave the choice up to you.”

Sebastian was done playing it cool. He let out a string of curses and finished by saying, “You’re a dead man. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

Giovanni put the gag back in the duffel bag. “All right, then. Let’s get started.”

Carrying the saw, he knelt and positioned its blade against Sebastian’s left knee, just below the kneecap. Then he held the leg firmly against the concrete with his other hand.

“We have a long night ahead of us. I don’t want to go too deep on this first cut, so I suggest not wiggling too much. It’ll only make things messier and force me to take my time. I’m not sure you’d want that. But once again, the choice is yours.”

Sebastian felt fear, deep and raw, shoot through him. He clenched his teeth, tried to brace himself for what was about to happen, felt a scream coming on, but then, before the man could draw back the blade, he heard the crunch of gravel outside the garage.

A car.

And a slight glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could still get out of this alive.

Giovanni hurried to the light switch and flicked it off. Only the faint glow of the headlights and moonlight outside the window remained.

He grabbed the gag. “It looks like this is no longer optional, I’m afraid.”

Sebastian started to call for help, but his cry was quickly cut off as Giovanni worked the thick cloth into his mouth and secured it behind his head.

Outside the window, the headlights blinked off and a car door squeaked open, then slammed shut.

Giovanni rose to his feet. “That would be Brigitte. Good timing. Very prompt. After receiving that text message I sent her earlier on your behalf, she must have decided to hurry over.” Giovanni retrieved another length of rope from his duffel bag. “I believe you told her that there was a change of plans. That you had an unforgettable evening planned and could she please bring some Chinese takeout. I thought it’d be easier this way, having both of you at the same location, and besides, I like Chinese and I’m sure that by the end of the night I’ll be famished. So this way it’s convenient for everyone.”

Sebastian tried to yell, tried to force the gag out of his mouth, but it wasn’t possible.

In the dim light of the garage he saw Giovanni flick out his straight razor.

“You know, according to the story, I need to kill her first, let you watch, so we’ll stick with that.” He paused and looked down at Sebastian sympathetically. “Well, OK, then. I’ll be right back.” And then he disappeared through the door leading to the house.

Sebastian Taylor, the ex-assassin who called himself Shade, did not believe in the Almighty. If he had, he would have prayed, would have begged for divine mercy for all that he’d done in his secret past, but instead, he was left to only curse his captor and the world and his own carelessness. And he thrashed hopelessly against his bonds while his slashed tendons seeped blood onto the floor of the garage, permanently staining the heels of his $495 Italian leather shoes.

He heard the front door click open.

Brigitte had arrived.

The long and final night had begun.

Friday, May 16 Denver, Colorado6:32 a.m.

I woke.

Showered.

Dressed.

Found my cell and saw that Cheyenne had left a voicemail: Forensics had matched Chris Arlington’s DNA to that of the heart. “So, to put it bluntly”-she didn’t sound insensitive, just forth-right-“he’s no longer a suspect.” Yesterday it had seemed like a good possibility that Chris was the second victim, so her message didn’t surprise me.

So now, the challenge: find a way to focus my thoughts on the upcoming trial rather than let my attention get diverted by the deaths here in Colorado. I often work multiple cases simultaneously, but putting one out of my mind while I work another is a constant struggle.

I took a moment to review my notes on Basque’s case, then finished packing and brewed some coffee so I could survive the morning. I was halfway through a cup of Sana’ani-a robust, full-bodied Yemeni bean-when my stepdaughter Tessa appeared in the kitchen doorway, putting in her eyebrow ring for school.