Джеффри Дивер - The Cutting Edge

“How’d it go?” he asked her.

They continued walking in the direction he’d been heading — toward the apartment.

“Oh, honey. She’s great. Totally great. She’s not trying to talk us into anything we don’t want. I thought she was going to and I was going to sic my big, bad Mikey on her. But, uh-uh, she knows the budget—”

Already a shitload of money, Mikey thought but didn’t come close to saying.

“—and is sticking to it. I mean, Nora’s planner talked her into the eight-piece band, remember.”

Friggin’ orchestra.

“But Stacey didn’t push me. She’s cool with a keyboard, guitarist, bass and drums.”

Had he agreed to a four-piece band? Joey got married with a DJ was all. Worked out great.

Again, keeping mum.

In truth, Mikey O’Brien wasn’t even sure why they needed a wedding planner. Wasn’t that something you could figure out yourself? He’d put together bachelor parties. And a wake. They’d all gone fine.

But Emma wanted one — because her sister had had one and Nora, her BFF from the hospital, had had one. So, honey, Mikey, pleeeeease.

Oh, hell, sure. She was so beautiful...

Emma slipped her arm through his and they continued through this interesting neighborhood, where commercial and residential coexisted peacefully. Two blocks farther along, they turned the corner and started toward their apartment. He felt her breast against his biceps.

That low urge unfurled within him, demanding attention, like a horse hoofing the ground.

Maybe just a half hour... the bedroom, the couch? The living room floor? Nope, he said to himself. No time. They had to get ready to meet her parents out on Long Island.

The wind shook branches overhead and speckled the couple with icy water. Mikey brushed it off his shoulders and happened to look back. He noted someone behind, about thirty feet away, in dark coat, gloves and stocking cap. Gravesend, despite the name, wasn’t particularly dangerous. But this was New York. You had to keep an eye out. This guy, though, was by himself, no gang action. He was looking down at the screen of his phone as he walked. Innocent as could be.

Soon they were home. The block was a little scuffed, a little worn, in need of a sidewalk sweeping and repair and couldn’t the damn super at 368 get that moldy green couch off the effing sidewalk until trash day?

But it was a pleasant enough place.

Good for a year.

The plan.

They climbed the five steps to the front door of their building, a dark, scabby four-story walk-up brownstone. Here, they paused, as he fished for keys. He felt Emma tug him closer, with a certain, unmissable message. He turned and they kissed again, lingering. Okay, the horse was done hoofing; he was out, trotting through the fields.

The wedding was two weeks from today. Who — aside from his mother — would note that a baby was born exactly eight months and fifteen days after?

He could handle Mom.

“Hey,” he whispered to her. “What do you think about—”

Then, in an instant, the man behind them, the innocent man, charged forward. He’d pulled the stocking cap into a ski mask. Shit, shit, shit. He held a gun in cloth-gloved hands and was pointing it at Emma’s head. “Scream, and you die.”

Which led, of course, to a scream of sorts.

From Mikey, not his fiancée.

Gasping, he said, “Here, here! Take my wallet. You can have it.”

“Shhh. Shhh. We go inside.” The voice was accented. He couldn’t tell what country or neighborhood he might be from. Like he was covering up his real accent, trying to sound American.

“Honey,” Emma whispered.

“No, no, little chicken!” the man barked and grabbed her arm, which had been lingering behind her back. Her phone fell to the concrete. The gun still aimed their way, he crouched and picked it up. The dialing app was on the screen and she’d punched in 9 and 1 and 1 but had not hit Send. He powered it down.

He leaned close and Mikey smelled garlic and onion and meat on his breath and aftershave on his skin. “You are being smarter, will you?”

Heart racing, as his jaw quivered, Mikey said, “Yes. We will. Now listen, please. I’ll go inside. Let her go.”

The man laughed and he seemed genuinely amused. “Now.”

With shaking hands, Mikey unlocked the front door and they walked inside and up the stairs to their apartment on the second floor.

Look, please, man. You don’t want to do this.”

“Hm.” The intruder seemed to be sniffing the air as he looked around their small apartment. He turned his eyes to Emma, who sobbed and held the fingers of one hand over her mouth. At first Mikey thought the intruder was looking at his fiancée’s chest or legs but, no, he was concentrating on her hands. No, just one hand. Her left.

What could he possibly want? They had nothing. Less than nothing; they were in debt already from the wedding plans.

He said, “My uncle’s a cop in Syosset. He’s a ball breaker. Just take what you want and walk out the door. I won’t say anything to him.”

“A cop? Your uncle is cop.”

Mikey wished he hadn’t said that. He hoped he wouldn’t pee his pants. He stared at the gun.

“Honey, honey,” Emma gasped.

“It’s okay, sweet.” Then to the intruder: “Come on, man. What do you want? I don’t have money here. We can get you some. A couple thousand.”

Though he knew that wasn’t what this guy wanted. He sure wasn’t going to get a ton of loot from a couple like them, in Gravesend, Brooklyn. What he wanted was to kill Mikey and rape Emma.

But Mikey would make sure that the second part of that wasn’t going to happen, whatever it took. The man had a gun and he looked like he’d have no trouble in the world using it. But he wasn’t huge. Oh, Mikey was probably going to die but he had rage and that fucking Irish madness on his side. The rage that, on the rare times it kicked in, kicked in huge. He’d lunge and grapple and do enough damage so that Emma could get out the window or the front door. And when the bullet got fired into Mikey’s brain or gut or heart, the sound of the shot would scare the man off.

Or, who knew? Maybe he’d take the guy by surprise and get the gun away from him and shoot him in the balls and the elbow and knee and then — after a time — call the police. Keep the agony going, for ten, fifteen minutes.

Mikey shivered with fury. He hadn’t been in a fight for eight years, when he’d beat the crap out of the fucking asshole who’d made fun of Mikey’s kid sister, who had Down syndrome. The guy had outweighed him by thirty pounds but had gone down like a cardboard box. Broken jaw and dislocated shoulder.

Now, move now... Surprise the son of a bitch, while he’s not looking at you!

The man cut his eyes to the left, in an instant, and slammed the gun into Mikey’s cheek. A searing pain, a flash of yellow. He staggered back, tripping over the ottoman that had been his parents’ and that he and his brother had played aircraft carrier on two decades ago.

Emma cried out and ran to him, hugging hard.

“Prick,” she shouted.

“Listen here, little hen,” he muttered at Mikey. “I know what people going to do before they are trying it. I am psychic, don’t you know? You had hero vibrations.”

The intruder rose and pulled a utility knife from his pocket. Emma gasped. The man thumbed the blade out and yanked a lamp cord from the socket and cut it. He shoved Emma to the floor and rolled Mikey onto his belly and bound his hands behind him. He tied Emma’s hands too, though in front of her.

He muscled them each into a sitting position. He himself sat on the ottoman.