J. Black - Icon

“We’ll have your wife wire it to an offshore account.”

“You know how to do that?”

“My uncle’s working on it now.”

He did not sound at all confident.

“So then what? They send you the money, and you kick me loose?”

“That’s about the size of it. We haven’t worked out all the details.”

Luther sounded conflicted. His voice lacked conviction.

Max knew then that they planned to kill him.

The sudden, hard knot in his throat was hard to choke down. But he swallowed hard and concentrated on escape. He was smarter than them. And he had skills. He was a hands-on actor, a scrupulous researcher, and early on in his career he had done most of his own stunts. As a leading man, as an action-adventure actor, he’d been placed in a lot of fake situations. But he had skills and he’d thought through his actions, worked long and hard with stunt people, choreographers, directors, and other actors to simulate real-life fights. He’d rappelled down from a helicopter, learned to drive fast and defensively, learned a few aspects of the martial arts, and picked up a few tricks of hand-to-hand combat.

A pretty spotty array of talents, but Max was tough. This was real life, but it shouldn’t intimidate him.

He realized he’d been so set on revenge against Talia and Jerry that he’d seen this as a game. It wasn’t a game. As inept as these people were, they were deadly serious. If it was just Luther and Sam P., he’d have a chance. But Corey—he’d seen guys like that before. He had a certain cunning. He was impulsive. Quentin Tarantino could have written him—which meant he could go off like a rocket at any time.

Max felt the prickle on his scalp.

Corey wanted to kill him.

He remembered the day in July—he was working on a thriller called Sudden Death —the day he’d learned how to administer a chokehold. He’d learned other things too, over lunch at a taco stand later—stuff the former ATF agent had told him. How to disable, how to kill.

When Max stood up, Luther looked suddenly alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“I have to take a leak, that all right with you?”

“I guess so.” Luther stood too. He had a gun in his hand.

“You going to shoot me?”

“No, it’s just a precaution. No sudden moves.”

“Just have to pee, is all.”

“Because I tell you, we’re in this to the end. You don’t know what we’re capable of.”

Max sauntered over to the wall, unzipped his fly. “What are you capable of?” he asked. He didn’t look at Luther, kept it casual—no worries, man.

“The stakes are high,” said Luther. “You’re not the first person who ran afoul of Corey.”

“No?” He was having a hard time loosening up enough to let go.

Realized he’d been holding it a long time.

“Maybe if you knew how dangerous he is, how dangerous we are, you would understand,” Luther said. “Corey put a guy into the hospital. Nearly killed him. Guy’s in a wheelchair—Corey served time for it. And if you’ve noticed, he doesn’t like you.”

“He did that?” Still unable to summon up the ability to piss, his bladder really hurting now.

“Corey did that.”

Max said nothing. Closed his eyes. The little dots were back in his vision—something that had been an on-and-off companion. Just another mystery since he’d left Desert Oasis.

“You OK?” Luther said with alarm.

“Dizzy.”

And he was. His bladder had locked up on him. He’d held it too long, and now it was frozen solid shut.

Max heard Luther stand up.

Max sagged against the wall. “Jesus.”

Luther took a tentative step toward him. Max realized he was in shock. The dots were obliterating his vision, but he knew there was only one chance.

Luther laid a tentative hand on Max’s shoulder. Max glanced behind Luther, saw the gun sitting on the folding chair.

Luther, you’re going to regret that.

Max whipped around, the dots flying around inside his eyes, his bladder screaming with pent-up pain, and he had Luther by the throat, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand pressing against the carotid. At the same time, the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, acting as pinchers, gripped the key spots below and behind each ear. Luther fell like a sack of laundry.

When he wandered into consciousness a few seconds later, Max had Luther’s Smith & Wesson 9 mm, which he stuck in the back of his jeans. The success of the attack worked on Max and finally he could void his bladder. There was relief, but also a buzzing in his head. The fuzzy dots of light were back, dancing behind his eyes.

“Is the trapdoor locked?” Max said.

Luther could barely focus. Max knew how he felt.

“Luther, don’t make me do it again. I nearly killed you the last time. I’m not an expert at this.” Max leveled his gaze at Luther, kept eye contact. The dots just a distraction now. “Is the door above locked? Does Sam P. have to open it for you?”

“It’s not locked. My uncle didn’t want to have to wait by the door.”

“Why didn’t he come down with you?”

“It’s hard for him. His weight.”

“When’s Corey coming back?”

“I don’t know. It shouldn’t take him too long to buy the phones, but if I know Corey, he’s probably gone to see his marijuana source.”

“He’ll be back soon?”

“Very soon. You can’t—”

Max clocked him. Hard, right in the mouth.

Luther sprawled on the floor, blood seeping from his mouth and nose, making a lace pattern on his chin and jaw and shirt—out cold.

Max went through Luther’s pockets. Wallet, cash, keys.

He pulled the 9 mm out of his waistband and checked the magazine. Fully loaded. When he stood up, the dots behind his eyes were back. The dots Gordon White Eagle had given him as a parting gift.

He swayed a little, then his head cleared.

He remembered Gordon White Eagle telling him he would solve all his problems. He would cure him of his drugging and alcohol abuse.

“We’ll see about that, Gordy,” Max said. “Drugs and alcohol are the least of my problems right now.”

He shoved the gun into the snug of his back. Then he went looking for Sam P.

IT WAS EASY.

Maybe it was too easy. Sam P. was watching a video. It wasn’t just any video. It was a sex video.

Max had seen a lot of disgusting sex, some of it on the highest levels and in the best Jacuzzis at the best addresses with the best sluts and cabana boys and the richest jaded old farts in the world, but this stuff was worse. It pitted arousal against the gag reflex, but Max had a highly developed gag reflex—he could turn it on and off like a spigot. The worst thing, Sam P. liked freak shows starring the desecration of innocents—be they animal, vegetable, mineral, or altar boy.

So Max didn’t mind jabbing the gun muzzle into the base of Sam P.’s testicles, even though, for one dizzying moment, he thought he’d lost the barrel in a funhouse mirror of wrinkles and folds.

Sam P. froze—not a jiggle. For a moment, the Other Max, the Max who played a Nietzsche-spouting nihilist in Dystopia: The Second Epoch (not his best performance; the whole thing depressed him for months afterward) took over and he felt his finger itch. He knew one squeeze would do it, blow this pathetic balloon of a man to kingdom come, send Sam P. zipping up into the atmosphere on a fart and a cry, and he stopped himself just in time.

“You’d better tell me everything,” Max said. “And if you don’t, I’ll shoot off one part at a time.”

Sam P. understood immediately.

When Max was done, he shoved Sam P. down into the dungeon with his nephew.