“Yeah,” the blond guy finally said. “You will.”

“So… why won’t you make a deal? Now? Here? Why the hell not?”

The driver’s fingers drummed lightly on the wheel. “Because we’re going to kill you anyway. You and the girlfriend.”

Nicholson felt a hollow beating in his chest, and he was finally feeling as if nothing mattered anymore. He laughed, a little desperately.

“Jesus, friend, I don’t mean to tell you your job, but then why the hell would I—”

All at once, the driver turned, reached down, and squeezed the soft parts of Nicholson’s mangled knee.

The pain was instant and stunning. His jaw dropped open even as his throat closed up. Nicholson couldn’t breathe, much less scream, and in the strange silence, his tormentor’s low voice was easy to hear.

“Because at some point, friend, you’re going to stop wanting to live and start wanting to die. Understand? And if you haven’t told us what we want to know by then—believe me, you will.”

Chapter 55

THE CAR DOOR opened and Mara slid in, thin hips first, with the other man’s hand cupping her blond head of hair. Nicholson saw him tuck a .45 into his waistband before he slammed shut the car door behind her.

His girlfriend looked understandably freaked out. Hell, she was only twenty-three years old. Her arms came together in front, with a sweater draped over them to hide the cuffs. He’d given her that sweater as a present. Cashmere. From the Polo store in Alexandria. Happier days.

“You okay?”

“Jesus, Tony, what’s going on? He told me he was the police. Showed me a badge. Is he?”

“Just don’t say anything,” Nicholson told her quietly. His injured leg felt as though it were going to explode. It was nearly impossible to focus, and Mara’s being here only made matters worse. A whole lot worse, actually. Nicholson loved her.

She was the complete opposite of Charlotte. For one thing, she knew too much. For another, she was New York Irish Italian. Keeping their mouths shut wasn’t exactly a strong suit for most New Yorkers.

“What do they want?” she pressed. “Where are they taking us? Tony, tell me.”

“That’s a bloody good question,” Nicholson said, and kicked the back of the seat with his good foot. He shouted at them. “Where the fuck do you think you’re taking us?”

That got him a backhand across the cheekbone with the .45. He felt the pain, but it was getting hard to care. In fact, pain could be considered a good thing—it meant he was still alive, didn’t it?

“Whatever this is, I don’t work for him anymore,” Mara was already telling the two men in front. “You have to believe me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I was the bookkeeper.”

“Shut up, Mara,” Nicholson said. “Won’t do any good anyway.”

“He’s been shaking people down. Important people. For money. Taping them and—”

He leaned into her, which was about all he could do. “Mara, I’m warning you.”