Marcus Sakey - The Amateurs

“How do I live with myself? You mean, as a nasty evil arms dealer?”

“Yeah.”

Victor smiled, then strolled across the room. For a second, Mitch considered tackling him, taking a shot, but Johnny had the pistol up and aimed. He’d be dead before he started moving. Think, goddamn it. You have to find a way. Victor walked behind the bar like he owned the place. Took a highball glass, set it on the back bar, then eyed the scotch. Chose a dusty bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. “Is this the part,” he said, his back to them, “where I’m supposed to tell you that I’m just a businessman, that people will find ways to kill each other whether or not I’m involved?”

“Is that true?”

Victor shrugged, then turned. “Sure. But you know what else?”

“What?”

“I don’t really care.” He sipped his scotch. “All that moral relativism crap, it’s for people who feel bad about what they do. It’s for little people.” He pointed with the glass. “Like you two.”

“We may be little people. But at least we don’t sell chemical weapons. Who are they going to? Al-Qaeda? The Taliban?”

“The Michigan Militia? The KKK? MS-13? The next Timothy McVeigh or Ted Kaczynski?” Victor smiled, shrugged. “You know who they’re going to? You really want to know?” He leaned forward. “Whoever pays me.”

Though Mitch could hardly have expected different, the words still floored him. The simple ease of the man, his comfort playing such a monstrous role, it was unlike anything Mitch had imagined. If the man had been a true believer out for a cause, that would at least have made sense. But this?

And that wasn’t the really terrible part, he realized. The terrible part was that it was his fault. Their fault. Whatever happened, whoever this plain-looking poison went to, whichever poor crowd of innocents suffered and died, the weight of it was on them.

How many people had they murdered?

FOR A MOMENT, nothing happened. The room was silent. Then Ian felt the couch shift as Jenn threw herself at him.

He yanked his hands out from under his thighs, barely got them up in time to catch her wrists. The wicked curve of the manicure scissors gleamed inches from his cheek.

“You fucker, you motherfucker -” Jenn screamed at him. “What’s wrong with you?!”

He struggled backward, surprised at how strong she was, or how weak he was. It must have looked comic, him in a business suit, bent halfway backward over the arm of the couch while a hundred-and-fifteen-pound woman came at him with nail scissors. The man with the gun laughed. “Sister, you really are something.”

“Get her off me!”

The guy continued to laugh as he took the gun from behind his back. “That’s enough.”

Jenn continued to thrash against Ian’s arms, her face furious red, the shining edge of the scissors coming closer.

There was a loud click as the man cocked the gun. Jenn froze, then slowly looked up. She narrowed her eyes, then slowly eased back to her side of the couch.

“Drop those bad boys.”

Jenn tossed the scissors to skitter across the table. She turned back to him, glared, then reared her head back and spit a gob of wet phlegm on what used to be his favorite suit.

That set the man off again. “I hadn’t figured you for a fighter. I love a girl with spunk.”

“Fuck you,” she said, her voice gone sullen.

“Even if she isn’t too creative.” The man turned to Ian. “You, though, I’ve had pegged since I spoke to your bookie. A weasel.”

Ian held his hands up in surrender. “I just want to live.”

“And you’ll sell out your friends to do it. Hell, you’ve screwed them from the beginning, haven’t you?”

He felt the flush in his face, the sickness in his belly. “More than two hundred thousand dollars, cash. All but the money I gave Katz. That’s not bad for letting me go.”

“Where is it?”

“Here.”

“Where?”

“Do we have a deal or not?”

The man shrugged. “Sure.”

“You promise?”

“You’ve got my word.” He gestured with the pistol. “Let’s go.”

It was like he could feel the blood racing through all the miles of veins in his body. Dread and adrenaline and hope. That same rush that he got gambling, before the last card fell. Success or defeat just a turn away. Only this time, he was playing for stakes unlike any he had ever played before, and on a thinner hand. Sweat soaked the armpits of his designer shirt.

Hey, kid, don’t quit on me now. This is the game. Play it.

Slowly, he stood. His body hurt in a hundred places, and breathing took conscious effort.

“Remember,” he said. “More than two hundred thousand dollars. All of it right here.”

“So?”

“So please be careful where you’re pointing that thing.”

The man smiled. “Oh, I’ll be careful. But you should be too. If you’re wasting my time, I can promise you, the next hours of your life are going to be bad enough to erase every good thing you ever had.”

Ian shivered. No control over it, a feeling like an ice cube sliding down his spine. You have to do this. It’s the only chance.

He looked at Jenn, wanted to wink, to give her some sign, but didn’t dare. He could only hope that she had been listening, that she had heard him promise all of the money. The biggest bluff of his life, and he wasn’t sure if his partner was paying attention-or if she trusted him enough to follow his lead.

It didn’t matter. He’d made his play. No backing out now.

“You too, sister. On your feet.”

Shit. In his best-case scenario, he’d figured that the man might leave her here, figuring that he would be enough leverage to keep Jenn from trying anything. More likely, she’d be tied up, but that would still be better odds. It was a flimsy plan, but it wasn’t like he’d had a lot of time. He’d been winging it, hoping that if he could distract the guy, Jenn would have her chance. A better chance than a pair of three-inch scissors would have offered.

Now, though. What had he set them up for?

“Let’s go.”

Ian nodded, started across the room. He could feel every inch of his skin, every bruise and cut and blow and burn. A turn of the card. It all came down to a turn of the card. He moved as slowly as he dared, limping a little bit. His mind in overdrive, examining possibilities, looking for every option, coming up with nothing. The man kept a careful distance. No chance Ian could jump him.

Shit, shit, shit. What had he done? When the man realized he was bluffing, he would-

He had just started down the hallway when an idea hit.

More than a long shot. A Hail Mary.

And just like the game, it all came down to trust. Whether Jenn would trust him enough to see what he was doing. Whether he could trust her to recognize what was important.

Whether they had gone too far to ever make it back.

ALEX’S BRAIN WAS STATIC. Raw and unfocused and going nowhere.

Desperate to move, he sat still. He heard Mitch talking to Victor as the man poured himself a fifty-dollar drink. Trying to reason with him, or maybe just stalling for time, but not getting anywhere. Johnny had moved to the center of the bar, the gun held at arm’s length. Aimed with the loose ease of someone who had used a pistol before, who had looked down the barrel at another human being and pulled the trigger.

Alex’s head throbbed in time with his pulse, the pain back in full force, and yet the least of the pain he was dealing with. Thinking that all their discussion, all their debate, it came down to this. Four plastic bottles filled with death, and a man who had just admitted he’d sell them wherever someone was buying. That this might be used not in some faraway desert. That it might be used at an El station or a museum. A church, or a shopping mall, or a school.