The dark, emotionless eyes that stared into his belonged to the same brawny Asian man who’d been here earlier in the week. The threat he’d issued then had been menacingly clear. He’d shattered an antique mirror, sending shards of glass scattering all over the hall. With a gloved hand, he’d picked up the longest piece and held it to Wallace’s throat. “FBI. You say nothing,” he’d warned in broken English.
“I won’t,” Wallace had gasped. “I have nothing to tell them.”
“Good.”
He was gone as quickly as he’d come.
Now he pinned Wallace to the ground, one knee planted squarely across his throat, squeezing his windpipe.
“I didn’t say a word,” Wallace wheezed out. “I…swear…”
The dull-eyed thug leaned into him, increasing the pressure on Wallace’s throat with his knee until Wallace couldn’t drag air into his lungs, the other knee pressing into Wallace’s bruised kidney. The agony was beyond bearing.
“I…can’t…breathe…” he managed. “You’re…killing…me…”
“No,” Jin Huang replied tonelessly. “This not kill. This not even pain. When I kill, then pain. So bad you beg to die quick. But you die slow. Very slow. Tell friends tonight, don’t talk. Or everyone dies—slow.”
CHAPTER SIX
The poker game was in full swing when Sloane walked in.
There had been a low, tense conversation going on among the men. It came to an abrupt halt the moment she entered the living room.
Sloane wasn’t surprised. It felt weird, given she’d known these men her entire life. But she got it. They weren’t sure how much her father had shared with her, even if he’d reassured them he’d said nothing. And she wasn’t a curious little girl anymore, or even a ballsy teenager. She was a grown woman, a former FBI agent, and a threat.
“Hi, all,” she greeted them casually, pretending she hadn’t noticed the lull in conversation. She plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl her mother had no doubt put out. The rest of the snacks were her father’s contribution—a platter of deli sandwiches from the Second Avenue deli, bowls of mixed nuts and chips, and, judging from the half-empty bottles on the card table, a couple six-packs of Sam Adams, plus one six-pack of O’Doul’s for Ben Martino, who was a recovering alcoholic. He had yet to break into the O’Doul’s, but the night was young.
No shocker that her apple was the first thing missing from the fruit bowl.
“Sloane.” Ben slapped down his cards and jumped up to give her a paternal hug. He was a demonstrative guy, not to mention a high-strung type A perpetual motion machine. Sloane remembered visiting his clothing manufacturing company as a child and watching him pace back and forth, doing everything from overseeing the seamstresses to reworking the patte
rns himself. The only time he sat in one place was during these weekly poker games, and even then he fidgeted, tapped his foot, or perched at the edge of his seat like an eagle about to take flight. He looked like an eagle, too, with his beakish nose, sharp dark eyes, and close cap of gray-white hair.
“It’s great to see you,” he told her, tugging a lock of her hair the way he used to when she was a kid. “It’s been way too long.”
Sloane smiled, struck by a wave of nostalgia. “Yes, it has.”
She’d seen her father’s friends occasionally these past few years, but never all together, and never at the card table. In fact, she hadn’t dropped in on the poker game since her days at the Manhattan D.A.’s Office. She’d left to join the FBI, gone down to Quantico for her new-agent training, and moved to Cleveland for her first Field Office assignment. By that time, her parents had moved to Florida. They’d only moved back four or five months ago, and she’d been too busy to visit them for more than a few hours at a time.
So, yes, it had been ages since she’d dropped in on the infamous poker game. But her memories of watching, learning, and ultimately sitting in for a few hands of Texas Hold ’Em were warm and fuzzy.
She hugged Ben back. Talk about hyper. He was normally tightly strung, but tonight he was practically vibrating. “How’s your new grandson?” she asked, hoping to ease the tension by bringing up his favorite subject: his family.
It worked, and Ben visibly relaxed—as much as he was capable of relaxing. “He’s great. He’s only four months old, and he’s cutting his first tooth. Personally, I think he’s also trying to talk. A real genius.”
“Gurgling isn’t talking, Ben,” Leo Fox informed him, striving for a touch of his customary levity. “Except in your case. You talk so fast, gurgling is easier to understand.” He winked at Sloane, and then averted his gaze, seemingly examining his cards before looking back at her.
Sloane noticed that his face and neck were flushed.
“You look prettier every time I see you,” he claimed. “Which reminds me, your father tells me your boyfriend’s moving in. That means your cottage needs a makeover. Give me a call and I’ll make it happen.”
“Thank you, Leo,” Sloane replied, her gratitude visible and sincere. Leo was an interior designer, and a good one. He was in high demand. And since neither she nor Derek had a flair for decorating, she’d be thrilled for Leo to take over. “That’s a really kind offer. And, boy, do I need it. So does Derek. He’s been making some not-so-subtle comments about moving into a ‘chick pad.’ I’m sure he’d appreciate a few masculine touches.”
“Of course he would.”
After that, the rest of the men said their hellos as well.
Phil Leary, a certified financial adviser and CPA, and the number cruncher of the art group, was normally quiet. Tonight he was downright subdued, and he kept swallowing, as if there was something caught in his throat.