told me you played a lot of Call of Duty when you were a kid. That’s pretty lame, Kyle.”
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe your father can work that into your eulogy.”
Brodie moved within knife thrust of Mercer and waited for him to make the first move, which, if it was the wrong move, would be his last.
Mercer stared at Brodie, then seemed to relax, which caused Brodie some concern. Had Mercer heard his men coming?
Then Mercer said, “Where’s your gun?”
Mercer hadn’t seen Brodie toss it to Taylor after Mercer back-flipped into the river. Brodie replied, “None of your fucking business.”
“No, what I mean, Scott, is you’re supposed to ask me—‘Where’s your gun, Kyle?’ ”
Oh.
Mercer switched the knife to his left hand, reached into the pouch pocket of his camo pants, and pulled out a big automatic that looked to Brodie like a Desert Eagle. Good gun.
Mercer said, “And now I have you where I want you.” He added, “Smart guy.”
Brodie couldn’t think of a good response to that. “My bad” wouldn’t begin to describe how stupid he felt. He hadn’t seen a gun when he and Taylor were taken to Mercer, but it’s the guns you don’t see that can kill you. Shit happens.
Mercer tried to make him feel better. “Balls are good, and you have balls. But you forgot to bring your gun and your brains to this knife fight.”
“I’m still wanting a knife fight, Kyle.”
“Next time. Meanwhile, throw your knife at least ten feet away, put your hands on your head, drop to your knees, and wait for further instructions. Now.”
Brodie hesitated long enough to get further instructions from Mercer. “I won’t kill you. Promise. But I will put a round through your right knee. Then we wait here for my very pissed off jungle fighters.”
Brodie threw his knife—Emilio’s knife—to the side, put his hands on his head, and dropped to his knees.
Mercer asked, “Where did you get the knife?”
“I don’t answer questions, Kyle. I ask them.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me where my gun was?”
“That was going to be my next question.”
“Answer this, wise guy—how did you get out of the stockade?”
“Ask Emilio if he checked to see if my padlock was locked.”
“All right. Where is your lady?”
“Emilio took her for a shower.”
Mercer nodded, so apparently no one had yet checked on the stockade, or if they had, they hadn’t noticed it was a crime scene—they thought Emilio had gone AWOL with the new meat. And that seemed to be what Mercer thought. Meanwhile… where the hell was she? AWOL?
Mercer said, “You left that nice lady for Emilio to have?”
“Chivalry is dead, asshole.”
Mercer didn’t seem to believe that Brodie had run off without his partner. But in case that was true, he said, “You’ll soon be together again. You and Ms. Taylor have a lot more information to give me. Full debriefing. And we’ll play a version of that Arabian Nights game—for every good story you two give me, she’ll sleep alone that night. When you run out of good info, or if I find out your story is bullshit, she’ll have company all night.”
“You really are sick, Kyle. Worley was right.”
“Worley is the reason I haven’t been myself for awhile.”
Brodie didn’t respond, but he listened for the sound of men coming through the bush, then glanced at the fishing platform to see if Mercer’s men showed up there. Maybe Taylor had somehow gotten caught by them. He could see the boat they’d taken from Kavak, still tied to the platform. But he couldn’t see into the darkness under the platform. Was the other boat still there? Had Taylor taken it and left him to water-wrestle with a well-trained killer? Was it something he said?
“Did you hear me?”
“Right. Worley sucks. He needs to pay—”
“Let me worry about that. Okay, Scott, you don’t look comfortable. Lie face down in the mud, hands on the back of your head.”
“I think you have to shoot me, Kyle.”
“Okay.” He seemed to be thinking about that. “Stand up so I can blow your kneecap off.”
“How about I stand up, turn around, and bend over so you can kiss my ass?”
Mercer took a step closer to Brodie. “How about I put a round right between your legs, about an inch below your balls? Am I that good a shot?”
“I am,” said Taylor, and fired a round between Mercer’s legs, which kicked up some mud as she shouted, “Drop it! Drop it or I put one in your fucking head!”
Mercer was partially blocking Brodie’s view, but he saw