“I’m so scared, Tony. I’m shaking all over. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see anything besides your own needs? Why are you being like this?”

Nicholson opened his mouth to say something bland and conciliatory, but what came out instead was “You really are too stupid for words, do you know that?”

He dropped her bag and took her up roughly by the arm, didn’t care if he yanked it from its socket. Charlotte pulled back, kicking and screaming, literally, as he started to drag her across the floor. All he had to do was get her to the car, and then she could pop an aneurysm for all he fucking cared about the dumb, stubborn cow his wife had become.

But then the first slam came at the front door.

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?”