"Sorry." She strained against the limit of the seat belt, one hand on the dash, the other clenching and unclenching in her lap, her eyes locked on the road between the twin blurs of streetlights. "Jesus H. Christ, Henry, can't you go any faster?"
He had a sudden memory of the guilty relief he'd felt when she'd finally returned to Toronto after her year of learning to live a new and alien life. When she left this time, he strongly suspected there'd be no guilt mixed in with the relief.
That is, if they found Michael Celluci alive.
Chapter Thirteen
"FUCKING Oakland."
Through half-closed eyes, Celluci watched Sullivan walk toward the bed. This is it. Now or never. He'd lined up a few more cliches that seemed appropriate but had no time to voice them before the big man grabbed his shoulder and shook him, hard. He let his head whip back and forth on the pillow, hoping it looked like he didn't have strength enough to fight the motion. As far as acting went, it wasn't much of a stretch. His head felt as though it were connected to his body by a not very thick elastic band.
"I'm gonna unbuckle you, so don't give me any shit 'cause I'm not in the mood. Damn Mariners finished three fucking runs behind and I had fifty fucking bucks ridin' on the game."
Celluci grunted as a thumb ground between the muscles of his left forearm and into the bone.
"Felt that, did you? Good."
The leather strap fell away. He flung his arm up off the bed and tried to close his fingers around Sulli?van's throat.
A vicious backhand snapped his head back. His mouth filled with blood from lips caught between knuckles and teeth. Well, you wanted him angry, he reminded himself, trying to swallow without choking. All part of the pi... A sudden, agonizing pain in his left wrist cut off the rest of the thought and brought involuntary tears.
"Weren't you listening when I said I wasn't in the mood for this kind of crap?"
The pain painted red starbursts on the inside of Cel-luci's eyes. He didn't think the wrist was broken, but at the moment, that belief gave him very little actual comfort. Only the left. I won't need the left. Christ, couldn't I have come up with a plan that hurt a little less? If it had only meant the loss of a kidney, he'd have been tempted to just lie there and let it happen. Preventing loss of life however-his life-had to be worth a bit of discomfort.
As the last restraint fell away, he tried to lunge off the bed. This time, he rocked back with the blow so that Sullivan's hand impacted against his cheek with slightly less force than previously. Slightly. What was that plan again. Let him beat you senseless, then escape in the confusion? With any luck, the pounding in his temple was his pulse, not pieces breaking off the inside of his skull. Oh, good plan.
The room spun as Sullivan dragged him up onto his feet, muttering, "I should just leave you there to piss yourself."
Breathing heavily, the dizziness as much from the earlier blood loss as from the double contact with Sul?livan's fist, Celluci managed to twist his split lip into a close approximation of a sneer. "You'd have ... to clean it up, but maybe... you'd like that."
Sullivan blinked mild eyes and smiled. The smile held all the petty cruelty the eyes did not. "Yeah? Well, I'm gonna enjoy this."
The first punch drove all the air out of Celluci's lungs. He'd have fallen had Sullivan not maintained a grip on his shirt. Seams cut into his armpits as the fabric stretched to its limit and beyond. He took a wild swing while he tried to get his feet back under him but had no success at either.
He didn't feel the second punch connect, only the result. One minute he was more-or-less standing, the next, he was flat on his face on the floor. Which was where he wanted to be. Unfortunately, he'd intended to be just a bit more functional.
"You know what I keep forgetting?"
The words seemed to come from a very long way away.
"That you're a cop."
Oh, shit.
The sudden flurry of kicks that followed pounded out a rhythm along hip and thigh. They hurt, but no?where near as much as they would've had Sullivan not been in sneakers or had he been able to reach more delicate targets. Or, for that matter, had