Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

"Put the hammer down," said the soft man, his voice coming from far away. "I want him alive. I want to talk to him first."

"You're… busted," Bishop whispered to Gregor. He couldn't seem to move, but he could still talk. A good cop didn't need a gun to command respect; he got it with a tone of voice, an attitude, a willingness to step into a situation. Otherwise, any yahoo with a cannon could be sheriff of Dodge City. "Assume the position, shitbag."

Gregor swung the hammer again.

Bishop heard his teeth skitter across the tile floor. Such a strange sound.

"Stop it." The soft man tried to pull Gregor off him.

Bishop spit blood into Gregor's face.

Gregor shrugged off the soft man, drove the hammer down again.

Bishop smiled. I can still piss the bad guys off, he thought. That's something. He heard things crack as Gregor hit him again and again, but he didn't feel the blows.

Bishop's lack of response seemed to make Gregor madder, the big man cursing as the hammer rose and fell, spraying the kitchen with brightness. Bishop had the thought… had to fight to keep the thought-it was like those dandelions that flew away if you breathed on them. He had the thought that even though Gregor was breaking him, Bishop wasn't broken. This man called Bishop was not broken. Not at all. He would have liked to tell Frank about this wondrous insight, but then, Frank probably already knew it.

Bishop could barely see Gregor anymore, the poor fellow shrinking to a smudge of darkness, his cursing fading now, too. Bishop thought of his wife and kids. In a perfect world, Frank would tell them how Bishop had changed in these last few days, how he had stood up, how he had died as a cop. He closed the eye that was still open. It made it easier to hang on to that bright and shining thought.

"You know what the fuck time it is?" said Cecil.

Thorpe held his State Department badge and ID to the security camera. "Let me in, asshole. You want a warrant, I'll come back with a SWAT team."

"I got to ask Missy."

"Make a decision, Cecil. Use your nutsack for something other than a hand rest."

Silence from the intercom.

"Time's up. Good-bye, Cecil. You explain it to her when I come back with-" The security gate swung open and Thorpe drove in.

Cecil met him at the front door. "Wait here. I'll go wake up her and Clark."

"What's that on the wall?" asked Thorpe, pointing. As Cecil turned to look, Thorpe shoved his head into the wall, drove him so hard, the plaster cracked. Thorpe stepped over him, walked down the hall. It was a cheap shot, and a dangerous move, but Thorpe needed to get into character. He needed to sell a story.

The master bedroom was dimly lit, redolent of good pot and Missy's perfume. Missy and Clark were sleeping in each other's arms, adrift on red silk sheets, the bed a massive heart. It was probably supposed to be romantic, but to Thorpe, it looked like they were swimming in blood. He lay at the foot of the bed, resting on one elbow now, watching the door. While he waited, he slipped a hand under the sheets and played with Missy's foot. She cooed, nestled deeper into the pillow, one slim breast falling free of the top sheet, her nipple hardening. Thorpe looked over, saw Clark's eyes open wide. "Hey, Clark, surf's up."

Cecil staggered into the bedroom waving a.44 Magnum. He saw Thorpe.

Thorpe yawned. "Don't do anything stupid."

Cecil moved closer. There was a lump rising already in the middle of his forehead, bits of plaster sticking to the reddening skin.

"What happened to your head, Cecil?" asked Missy, awake now, rubbing her eyes. "You look like a unicorn."

"I'm going to kill this son of a bitch," said Cecil, freckles flaring as he drew down on Thorpe.

Thorpe winked at Missy, his hand still under the covers.

"Damn it, Cecil, put the gun away before you hurt somebody," said Clark. He looked at Thorpe. "It's the middle of the night, Frank. What's going on?"

Cecil was trying to hold that big.44 steady, but his hand was shaking.

Thorpe smiled at him. Most people had no idea how hard it was to shoot someone who was looking you in the eyes.

"Stop it, Cecil!" snapped Missy. "You get your ass out of here now. I mean it."

Cecil's hand was twitching so badly that even if he got off a shot, Thorpe was probably safe. He wiped his eyes, slowly lowered the gun, breathing so hard, it was as if he had been running a race.

"Go on," said Missy, her voice gentle now. "Leave the gun."

"No fucking way," said Cecil, still watching Thorpe.

"Leave it," said Missy. "We're fine. Please? Do it for me."

Thorpe waited until Cecil had laid the.44 down on the nightstand, waited until he had started for the door. "Why don't you go make us some coffee? Black, two sugars for me. You probably already know how Clark and Missy take it." He listened to Cecil cursing all the way down the hall, then pulled his hand out from under the sheets. He backed off the hammer of the 9-mm he had been holding. "I'm glad you spoke up, Missy, I would have hated to ruin your linens."

"What's going on, Frank?" asked Clark. "Are we under arrest?"

Thorpe glanced around. "You see a cop?" He reached into his jacket, tossed Missy his badge and ID. "Here's a souvenir. I don't need it anymore."

"I don't understand," said Clark.

"I think I do." Missy watched him. "Are you here to kill us, Frank?"

She caught on fast. It made Thorpe's job so much easier. "I decided against it."

"What changed your mind?" asked Missy.

Clark turned to Missy. "I'm confused."

About ten minutes later, Thorpe had told them his story. The three of them were still on the bed-Thorpe stretched out, languid as a cat, Clark sitting cross-legged, half-dressed now in a pair of Matrix pajama bottoms, smoking a joint. Missy remained nude, completely at ease, one bare leg sticking out from the sheets. She was so taut and lean, Thorpe could count the striations in her inner thigh. No tan line, either.

"You have more twists than fifty miles of back road, Frank," said Missy, not taking her eyes off him. "I mean that as a compliment."

"You don't have to believe me," said Thorpe. "I just wanted to give you the option."

Clark offered Thorpe the joint. "Where are my manners?"

Thorpe ignored the joint. "Same place I left my sense of fair play."

"So this whole thing with the fake ID and the art was your way of gaining our trust?" She tossed her hair, blond and brassy. "You didn't have to work so hard."

"It wasn't hard. A badge gets a lot of respect, even from people who should know better." Thorpe shifted position, took up even more room on the bed. "You have to admit you were grateful when I told you the art was fake. I wouldn't know a fake from a firing squad, but it worked. I could have killed you any time I wanted after that."

Clark blew a smoke ring. "Killing us isn't really the hard part. It's avoiding Vlad and Arturo afterward-that's the puzzlement. Guillermo knows that better than anyone."

"Oh, I wouldn't have killed you until after I'd killed them," said Thorpe.

"You think you're Superman?" Clark giggled. "Where's your cape, dude?"

"I don't need to be Superman; I just need to get close." Thorpe patted the sheets. "Look at us here, snug as bugs." He smiled at Missy. "Five minutes after I gave you the benefit of my art expertise, you asked me to stay for breakfast. Remember? Sooner or later, you would have introduced me to Vlad and Arturo, and maybe we would have gone out sailing, or up to Big Bear to ski, and then…" He cocked a finger at Clark. "Bang." Turned the finger on Missy. "Bang." He shrugged. "Getting close means the other person has let his guard down. After that, it's just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity, and I'm very patient."