Brimstone

"Absolutely, sir."

"Any comm devices on them?"

"No, sir. And none dropped. They came in deaf and dumb."

Bullard nodded, his shock slowly giving way to rage. These two had insulted him. They’d damaged him.

He cast his eye toward the fat one, who-as it happened-didn't look quite so fat anymore. "Hey, D'Agosta, you shed a few pounds? How's the hard-on problem?"

No answer. The fuck was looking at him with hatred. Good. Let him hate.

"And the not-so-special agent. If that's what you really are. Want to tell me what you're doing here?"

No response.

"Didn't get jack shit, did you?"

This was a waste of time. They hadn't penetrated the second, let alone the third, ring of security, which meant they couldn't have learned anything of value. Best thing now was to get rid of them. Sure, the feds would be all over the place tomorrow, but this was Italy, and he had friends in the Questura. He had five hundred acres in which to hide the bodies. They wouldn't find shit.

One hand was in his trouser pocket, rolling around some euros. The hand fell on his pocketknife. He removed it, opened the nail file, began idly cleaning his nails. Without looking up, he asked: "Wife still doing the RV salesman, D'Agosta?"

"You're a Joh

Bullard felt a surge of rage, which he quickly mastered. He was going to kill them, but first D'Agosta was going to pay a little. He continued with his nails.

"Your hit man fucked up," D'Agosta went on. "Too bad, him going the cyanide highway before he could implicate you. We'll still see you get stuck with a conspiracy rap, though. You'll do hard time. Hear me, Bullard? And once you're safely in the Big House, I'll personally make sure somebody makes you his number one bitch. Oh, you'll make some skinhead a nice punk, Bullard."

It was only through long practice that Bullard managed to keep his composure. So Vasquez hadn't run off with the money. He'd taken the job and failed. Somehow, he'd failed.

He reminded himself it hardly mattered now.

He examined his work, closed the nail file, opened the long blade. He kept it razor-sharp for occasions just like this one. Who knew: he might even get some information.

He turned to one of his assistants. "Put his right hand on the table."

While one guard grabbed D'Agosta's face in a meaty paw and slammed it back against the wall, the other unmanacled one hand, jerked it forward, and pi

Bullard eyed the class ring on the hand. Some shitty P.S. in Queens, probably. "Play the piano, D'Agosta?"

No answer.

He swiped the knife down across D'Agosta's right middle fingernail, splitting the tip of the finger.

D'Agosta jerked, gasped, pulling his finger free. Blood welled out from the wound: slowly at first, then faster. The man struggled wildly, but the guards regained a lock on him. Slowly, they forced the hand back into position against the table.

Bullard felt a flush of excitement.

"Son of a bitch !" D'Agosta groaned.

"You know what?" Bullard said. "I like this. I could do this all night."

D'Agosta struggled against the guards.

"You're CIA, aren't you?"

D'Agosta groaned again.

"Answer me."

"No, for chrissakes."

"You." He turned to Pendergast. "CIA? Answer me. Yes or no?"

"No. And you're making an even larger mistake than you made earlier."

"Sure I am." Why was he bothering? And what difference did it make? These were the bastards who had humiliated him in front of the whole city. He felt rage seize him again, and-more carefully now-he took the knife and sliced it hard across the table, taking the tip off D'Agosta's already damaged finger.

"Fuck!" D'Agosta screamed. "You bastard !"

Bullard stepped back, breathing hard. His palms were sweating; he wiped them on the sleeve of his jacket, took a fresh grip on the knife. Then he caught sight of the wall clock. It was already close to two. He couldn't let himself get caught up in a minor distraction. He had something more important to do before dawn. Something much, much more important.

He turned back to his security chief. "Kill them. Then get rid of the bodies. Dump their weapons with them. Do it over at the old shafts. I don't want any forensics left on the premises, especially not around the lab. You know what I mean: hair, blood, anything with DNA. Don't even let them spit."

"Yes, sir."

"You-," began Pendergast, but Bullard spun around and landed a massive uppercut in his stomach. Pendergast doubled over.

"Gag them. Gag them both."

The security men rammed balls of cloth into their mouths, then bound them tightly with duct tape.

"Blindfold them, too."

"Yes, Mr. Bullard."

Bullard looked at D'Agosta. "Remember how I promised to pay you back? Now your finger's as short as your dick."

D'Agosta struggled, making inarticulate sounds as the blindfold went on.

Bullard turned to his assistant, nodded at the table. "Clean up that mess. And then get the hell out of here."

{ 55 }

Gagged and blindfolded, hands cuffed behind his back, D'Agosta was herded along by one of the two security men. He could hear the chink of Pendergast's shackles beside him. They were moving through what seemed a long, damp underground passageway: the air stank of fungus, and he could feel the chill humidity soaking into his clothes. Or maybe it was his own sweat. His middle finger felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. It was pulsing in time to his heartbeat, the blood ru

There was something unreal about the whole situation. At any other time, the thought he'd just lost the end of a finger would be all-consuming. Yet right now only the pain itself registered. Everything had happened so quickly. Just hours before, he'd been relaxing in a luxurious suite. Just a few hours before, he'd been almost tearful at seeing his own native land at long last. And now here he was-a dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth, his eyes blindfolded, arms bound, being led to an execution-style death.

He couldn't really believe he was about to die. And yet that was exactly what was going to happen unless either he or Pendergast could think of something. But they had been thoroughly searched. And Pendergast's most powerful weapon-his tongue-had been silenced. It seemed impossible, unthinkable. And yet the fact was he had only minutes left to live.

He tried to force the sense of unreality away; tried to forget the searing pain; struggled to think of some last-minute escape, some way to turn the tables on the two men that were so matter-of-factly leading them off to their deaths. But there was nothing in his training, nothing even in the detective books he'd read or written, to give him a clue.

They paused, and D'Agosta heard the groan of rusty metal being forced open. Then he was shoved forward, and the trilling of crickets and the humid night air hit his nostrils. They were outside.

He was prodded forward by what was undoubtedly the barrel of a gun. Now they were walking on what felt through the soft shoes like a grassy trail. He could hear the rustling of leaves above his head. Such small, insignificant sensations-and yet they had suddenly grown unbearably precious to him.

"Christ," said one of the men. "This dew is going to ruin my shoes. I just paid two hundred euros for them, handmade over in Panzano."