shoulder in silent approval for this segue.
“Do you think we just happened to pick you up at random, Danny?” he asks, and then answers. “No, we were told to pick you up and see if you knew where the package was. And it’s obvious to me that if you think the package can fit in your jacket pocket, then you don’t even know what the package is. That being the case, we are to dispose of you however we see fit and make sure the body is never found.”
“They ain’t ever gonna find you,” says Krieger with some certainty, like this might be worrying me.
“We’ve read your file,” continues Fortz. “We know all about your Special Forces tricks. I go into the jacket for whatever your package is and it explodes and covers me with acid or some shit. No. Not happening. We do our thing, then we take our time extracting that envelope with tweezers. But hey, thanks for filling us in on its pedigree. That information could come in very useful when we’re negotiating.”
Bastard. Turning a man’s own five syllable word against him.
“Hey,” says Krieger. “Now we’re getting paid three ways. The boss, the perverts and his package.”
Fortz tosses the scalpel in the air and catches it neatly. “Who doesn’t love a good three way?”
I was stupid and Fortz burned me.
You’re panicking, Dan. Getting sloppy.
In a previous life, when I was eager to serve my country by getting the hell out of it, my army shrink gave me a spiel on being a hostage. Apparently UN peacekeepers were snatched with the same regularity as Robin the Boy Wonder, which was about once per week. Unfortunately for us, we did not survive with the same consistency.
Always negotiate from a position of power, or at least a position of perceived power, Simon Moriarty had advised. Failing that, it’s amazing how many of these klutzs don’t know how to tie a knot.
None of which applied to me now, as I was cuffed hand and foot and not technically a hostage. I was a commodity whose life would be traded for cash, bit by bit, saving the balls for last.
“You can’t just snatch a guy off the street and think nobody will notice,” I say, trying not to bleat. “You guys are cops, for Christ’s sake. Ever hear of surveillance footage?”
Fortz’s response is snide. “Yeah, we heard of it, we know every camera in town. Why do you think we parked where we parked?”
“There’s gotta be witnesses?” definitely bleating now. I sound like a baby goat.
“Maybe,” admits Krieger. “But by the time anyone figures you’re missing, we, as stand-up cops, won’t even remember talking to you. You remember seeing that guy, partner?”
“What guy?”
“The Irish guy.”
“What Irish guy?”
“Exactly.”
And then they bump sweaty chests, and I notice some matted hair transferral.
Their celebration is interrupted by the laptop, which tweets stridently like a canary. This unexpected sonic squeak is greeted by the cops with sudden hushed reverence, as though it is the Angel Gabriel’s horn.
“A fucking canary!” whispers Fortz, and Krieger shushes him.
“Wait, Dirk. Don’t jinx it. Let me check.”
He rushes to the computer and checks the screen. “Private session,” he says in hushed tones.
“Cha-ching!” exults Fortz, pointing the scalpel skyward like Excalibur. “Tell me.”
Krieger enunciates so clearly you could slice apples on the consonants. “One hundred thousand dollars from Citizen Pain.”
Citizen Pain? I bet he doesn’t use that name on dating sites. If I do manage to extricate myself somehow from this evil little room, I am gonna track down the good Citizen and teach him something about pain.
“I knew Pain would lap up the preview video,” says Fortz. “He loves the Special Forces types. That guy is a slave to his dick, man.”
“Will I confirm?”
“Seal the deal, partner.”
Krieger wiggles his fingers like Oliver Hardy playing with his necktie, then sends an index finger diving toward the return
“Do you think we just happened to pick you up at random, Danny?” he asks, and then answers. “No, we were told to pick you up and see if you knew where the package was. And it’s obvious to me that if you think the package can fit in your jacket pocket, then you don’t even know what the package is. That being the case, we are to dispose of you however we see fit and make sure the body is never found.”
“They ain’t ever gonna find you,” says Krieger with some certainty, like this might be worrying me.
“We’ve read your file,” continues Fortz. “We know all about your Special Forces tricks. I go into the jacket for whatever your package is and it explodes and covers me with acid or some shit. No. Not happening. We do our thing, then we take our time extracting that envelope with tweezers. But hey, thanks for filling us in on its pedigree. That information could come in very useful when we’re negotiating.”
Bastard. Turning a man’s own five syllable word against him.
“Hey,” says Krieger. “Now we’re getting paid three ways. The boss, the perverts and his package.”
Fortz tosses the scalpel in the air and catches it neatly. “Who doesn’t love a good three way?”
I was stupid and Fortz burned me.
You’re panicking, Dan. Getting sloppy.
In a previous life, when I was eager to serve my country by getting the hell out of it, my army shrink gave me a spiel on being a hostage. Apparently UN peacekeepers were snatched with the same regularity as Robin the Boy Wonder, which was about once per week. Unfortunately for us, we did not survive with the same consistency.
Always negotiate from a position of power, or at least a position of perceived power, Simon Moriarty had advised. Failing that, it’s amazing how many of these klutzs don’t know how to tie a knot.
None of which applied to me now, as I was cuffed hand and foot and not technically a hostage. I was a commodity whose life would be traded for cash, bit by bit, saving the balls for last.
“You can’t just snatch a guy off the street and think nobody will notice,” I say, trying not to bleat. “You guys are cops, for Christ’s sake. Ever hear of surveillance footage?”
Fortz’s response is snide. “Yeah, we heard of it, we know every camera in town. Why do you think we parked where we parked?”
“There’s gotta be witnesses?” definitely bleating now. I sound like a baby goat.
“Maybe,” admits Krieger. “But by the time anyone figures you’re missing, we, as stand-up cops, won’t even remember talking to you. You remember seeing that guy, partner?”
“What guy?”
“The Irish guy.”
“What Irish guy?”
“Exactly.”
And then they bump sweaty chests, and I notice some matted hair transferral.
Their celebration is interrupted by the laptop, which tweets stridently like a canary. This unexpected sonic squeak is greeted by the cops with sudden hushed reverence, as though it is the Angel Gabriel’s horn.
“A fucking canary!” whispers Fortz, and Krieger shushes him.
“Wait, Dirk. Don’t jinx it. Let me check.”
He rushes to the computer and checks the screen. “Private session,” he says in hushed tones.
“Cha-ching!” exults Fortz, pointing the scalpel skyward like Excalibur. “Tell me.”
Krieger enunciates so clearly you could slice apples on the consonants. “One hundred thousand dollars from Citizen Pain.”
Citizen Pain? I bet he doesn’t use that name on dating sites. If I do manage to extricate myself somehow from this evil little room, I am gonna track down the good Citizen and teach him something about pain.
“I knew Pain would lap up the preview video,” says Fortz. “He loves the Special Forces types. That guy is a slave to his dick, man.”
“Will I confirm?”
“Seal the deal, partner.”
Krieger wiggles his fingers like Oliver Hardy playing with his necktie, then sends an index finger diving toward the return
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