Something—not someone—had just smashed into it from the outside, hard enough to leave a long, forked crack down the middle. Nicholson looked out a window just quickly enough to realize what it was—a battering ram. And he knew then that it was probably too late to save even himself.
The second vicious and powerful swing came right away. It popped the lock set and dead bolt like children’s toys, and the door exploded open.
Chapter 52
“RUN.”
That was the only advice Tony Nicholson had for his wife before he dropped her arm and sprinted toward the back door himself. All priorities were now relative. Survival was not, and it definitely could go to the fittest.
He got as far as the kitchen, where he came face-to-face with a short, solid-looking Hispanic man coming the other way. Now, who the hell was this?
There was a blur of motion, then an excruciating crack at the side of his knee. Nicholson vaguely registered the pipe wrench in the man’s hand as he went down hard and stayed down.
At first there was only pain, a big red ball of it exploding up and down his leg.
Then came the handcuffs. They bit into his wrists before he knew they were there.
Handcuffs?
Next, the Hispanic intruder dragged him by the collar all the way back into the living room, where he dropped him midpoint on the rug.
Charlotte was sitting in one of the Barcelona chairs with a strip of silver tape plastered over her mouth.
A second man—were there really only two of them?—stood over her, watching Nicholson with faint interest, almost boredom, like he did this kind of thing every day.
They weren’t FBI or police; that much seemed clear. And they were nothing like the two goons from last week. Their clothes were dark, and they wore black balaclavas pulled up off their faces and latex gloves on their hands.
Not exactly cops, but close. Former cops? Special Forces?
The one who had attacked him was smash nosed, with dark eyes that seemed to be looking down at an unworthy specimen more than anything.
“The disk?” was all that he said.
“Disk?” Nicholson gutted out the word between clenched teeth. “What the hell are you talking about? Who are you two?”
“Two—I like that number.”
The man looked at his stainless-steel watch. “You have about two minutes.”
“Two minutes or what?” Nicholson asked, but then he saw the answer to his question.
The taller one took out a clear plastic bag and pulled it down over Charlotte’s head. She struggled, but he had no trouble wrapping bands of the silver tape around her neck, sealing her head inside the plastic.
Nicholson could see Charlotte’s expression change as she realized exactly what was happening. He even felt a pinch of pity, maybe even lost love, something emotional and, well, human. For the first time in years, he felt a connection to Charlotte.
“You’re insane! You can’t do this!” he yelled at the man holding down his wife.
“You’re the one doing this, Mr. Nicholson. You’re in complete control of the situation, not us. This is all on you. For God’s sake, make us stop.”
“But I don’t even understand what you want. Tell me what it is!”
He lunged for Charlotte, but the injured knee took him right back down, wedged embarrassingly between the couch and the coffee table.
“Please, tell me what you want! I don’t understand!” Nicholson begged at the top of his lungs as convincingly as possible. It was the performance of a lifetime, and it had to be.
By the time he got himself onto the couch, Charlotte had gone still.
Her familiar blue eyes were wide open. Her head lolled against her shoulder like some marionette waiting to be picked up. It was grotesque, with the plastic bag still on, and easy to respond to.