Joseph Finder - Power Play

He smiled slowly. He was a handsome man, except for those eyes, which were cold and gray and didn't smile when his mouth did. "Sounds like you know your weapons." He kept his gun leveled at me, aiming at a spot in the middle of my forehead.

"Of course, seventeen rounds on auto won't last you very long," I said, then immediately regretted saying it.

"Well, why don't we find out?" he said in a voice that, in any other context, you might describe as gentle.

Everyone was quiet, watching in mesmerized terror. The air had gone out of the room.

"Do I get a choice?" I asked.

He looked at me for a few seconds.

Then he grinned and lowered the gun. I exhaled slowly.

"All right, boys and girls, here's the drill. I want all of you to empty your pockets, put everything on the table right in front of you. Wallets, money clips, jewelry. Watches, too. Got it? Let's go."

So it was a holdup. Nothing more than that, thank God.

"Buck, some backup over here," he said.

"Gotcha, Russell," said the goateed guy, taking out his.44. I noticed he was no longer speaking in that hillbilly accent. He'd been putting it on.

"When these folks here are finished emptying out their pockets, I want you and Wayne to search 'em. Pat 'em down."

"Gotcha."

Buck began orbiting the table, watching everyone drop wallets and money clips onto the table. Ali and Cheryl unclasped their necklaces and bracelets, took off their earrings. The men removed their watches.

Hugo Lummis, next to me, unbuckled his watchband and slipped it into the back pocket of his pants. I wondered if anyone else had seen it. I didn't think so.

I whispered to him, "Careful. They're going to search us." But he pretended not to hear.

Russell holstered his gun and began strolling nonchalantly around the room, picking up objects, examining them with idle curiosity, then putting them down. He walked with the loose-limbed stride of someone used to a lot of physical activity. An ex-soldier, I thought, but of an elite sort-a Navy SEAL, maybe, or a member of the Special Forces. There were crow's-feet around his eyes and deep lines etched in his leathery skin: He'd spent a lot of time in the sun. Not, I suspected, on the beach.

He stopped at a long table on which one of the hotel staff had stacked blue loose-leaf Hammond binders. He picked one up and leafed through it for a minute or so.

His two men were preoccupied, too-Buck was making a circuit around the table, his back to me, and Wayne was frisking Geoff Latimer. So for a moment, no one was watching us. I moved my hand slowly across the tablecloth, grabbed the handle of a steak knife, slid the knife along the table toward me.

Then I lowered it to my side, held it flat against my thigh.

I gripped its smooth black handle and ran my thumb along the knife edge. It would slice through human skin as easily as it dissected saddle of venison. Against a handgun it wouldn't do much, but it was the only weapon I had.

Russell ripped out a sheet of paper from one of the notebooks, folded it neatly, and put it in his vest pocket.

Hank Bodine was now struggling to get to his feet. His face was slick with blood; he was badly wounded.

"You can just stay put," Russell told him. "I don't think you're going to get up and dance anytime soon." He grabbed a handful of linen napkins from the table and dropped them in front of Bo-dine. They fluttered to the floor like bird's wings. Bodine looked at them dully, then squinted his bloodied eyes at Russell, not understanding.

"You got a choice, too," Russell said. "You can try to stop the bleeding or hemorrhage to death. All the same to me."

Now Bodine understood. He took a napkin, held it to his nose, moaned.

I flexed my left knee and brought my leg up behind me. Moving very slowly, I slid the knife carefully into the side of my shoe.

Barlow turned to look at me. I glared back as I lowered my foot to the floor.

The lights flickered for a second.

"What the hell's that?" Russell said.

No one answered. Had one of his guys hit some central switch by accident?

"It's the generators," Kevin Bross muttered.

"What's that?" Russell approached Bross.

"This place is powered by generators," Bross said. "One of them's probably failing. Or maybe the system just switched over from one generator to another."

Russell looked at Bross for a few seconds. "You almost sound like you know what you're talking about." Then he turned to Upton Barlow. "I like your wallet."

Barlow just stared back, his expression fierce but his eyes dancing with fear.

"Guy gives you a compliment, you say 'thank you,'" Russell said. "Where's your manners?"

"Thank you," Barlow said.

"You're quite welcome." Russell picked up the wallet, flipped it open. "What's this made out of, alligator? Crocodile?"

Barlow didn't answer.

"I'm going to say crocodile." Russell peered closely at the wallet. "Hermes," he said.

"Air-mez," Barlow corrected him.

Russell nodded. "Thank you. Why, look at this." He pulled out a black credit card. "Bucky, you ever seen one of these? A black American Express card? I don't think I've ever seen one before. Heard about 'em, but I don't think I've ever actually seen one up close and personal."

Buck approached, looked closely. "That can't be real," he said. "They don't make 'em in black." Now that he'd dropped the phony bumpkin accent, he spoke with the flat vowels of a Midwesterner.

"Sure they do," Russell said. "Friend of mine told me about it. It's one step higher than platinum, even. You can buy anything with it, I heard. Sky's the limit. Yachts, jet fighters, you name it. But you can't apply for this, my buddy told me. You only get one if you're important enough. If you're a big cheese. You a big cheese, uh-" He looked closely at the card. "Upton? That your first name, Upton?"

Barlow just stared.

Suddenly Russell had his pistol out and was pointing it at Barlow's heart.

"No!" Barlow cried. "Christ! Yes, yes, that's my first name."

"Thank you," Russell said. "Upton Barlow. Hammond Aerospace Corporation. You work for Hammond Aerospace, Upton?"

"Yes," Barlow said.

"Thank you kindly." Russell reholstered the pistol. "I've heard of Hammond Aerospace," Russell said. "You guys make airplanes, right?"

Barlow nodded.

"Probably flown in some of them," Russell said. "You make military transport planes, too, don't you?"

No one spoke.

"Been in one of those for sure. Never had one crash on me, though, so you must be doing your job. Good work, Upton."

He chuckled, low and husky, and advanced along the table to Kevin Bross. He leaned over, picked up Bross's watch. "Good God Almighty, look at this thing, Buck," he said. "Ever see a wristwatch like that?"

"Ridiculous piece of crap," Buck said.

Bross was gritting his teeth, breathing in and out slowly, trying to maintain control.

"Well, I kind of like it," Russell said.

"It's a replica," Bross said.

"Could have fooled me," Russell said, dropping it into a pocket in his vest. "Thank you, kind sir." He picked up Bross's wallet. "This isn't a…Hermиs," he said, pronouncing it right. He shook it, scattering the credit cards across the tablecloth, and picked one up. "This guy only gets a platinum," he said. "Kevin Bross," he read. "Hammond Aerospace Corporation. You all with the Hammond Aerospace Corporation, that right?"

Silence.

"You all must be here for some kind of meeting. Right?"

No one said anything.

"I saw those notebooks on the table back there," he went on. "Said something about the 'Executive Council' of the Hammond Aerospace Corporation. That's you guys-excuse me, you ladies and gentlemen-right?"

Silence.

"No need to be modest, kids," he said. "Bucky, I think we just hit the jackpot."