very first knife fight.
The skinny guy returned. He had a butcher knife in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other.
“What the shit is that?” asked Grendie, pointing to the meat cleaver.
The skinny guy looked confused. “You don’t know what a meat cleaver is?”
“I know what one is. It’s not a knife.”
“It’s like a knife. I didn’t think it would be fair if one of you had a great big butcher knife and the other one had some dull butter knife.”
“Why do you even have a meat cleaver? What kind of meat are you cleaving? When was the last time you prepared an actual meal in this place?”
“It was my grandma’s meat cleaver.”
Grendie reached for one of the weapons, but the skinny guy stepped back. “Uh-uh, wait, hold on now. You don’t get to just grab the one you want. It’s gotta be fair. Heads or tails?”
“Heads,” said Grendie.
“I don’t have a coin, but I was thinking tails.” He looked at Ethan. “Which do you want?”
“I want his grandmother’s meat cleaver.”
“Aw, that’s a low class move,” said Grendie, but he didn’t stop the skinny guy from handing Ethan the meat cleaver. Ethan gave it a test swing. He really, really, really did not want to do this.
Grendie took the butcher knife and gave it a test swing as well.
“The rules,” said Grendie. “Slash but don’t stab. Don’t jab your blade into anybody’s eye. Cuts don’t count unless they draw blood. You can quit like a scared little bitch whenever you want, but then you don’t get the clue. Are you clear?”
“I’m clear,” said Ethan.
“All right, then. On the count of three. One...two...”
“Whoa, whoa,” said the skinny guy. “You don’t get to count down your own fight. I’ll do it.”
“Fine.”
“You were also counting in the wrong direction. Should be three, two, one, not one, two, three. I think. Maybe I’m wrong. Your way might have been right. Shit.”
“Just count,” said Grendie.
“One...two...three!”
Grendie let out what sounded like a werewolf howl, then lunged forward with the butcher knife.
14
Tampa, Florida. Two minutes earlier.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time,” said the man in the dark suit. “Where’s my briefcase?”
“I don’t have it,” Harry French insisted. “I’ve never had it. I swear to God, this is all a mistake!”
The man scowled. “Are you saying I’m prone to errors? Are you saying I’ve been given faulty intelligence?”
“I’m not saying anything except that I don’t have your drugs!”
“Drugs? I never said anything about drugs. How do you know the briefcase wasn’t full of collectibles?” He nodded to the bulky man who stood at his side. “Hit him again.”
The bulky man punched Harry in the stomach. He almost fell over this time, but braced himself against his big-screen television.
“I know it was you,” said the man in the dark suit. “I have pictures of you taking it from the drop spot.”
“They’re fake!”
“Oh, they’re fake? I’ve been staring at Photoshopped pictures all this time? Gosh, well, I’m so sorry for this wacky misunderstanding. I guess we’ll be on our way, then.”
The bulky man punched Harry again. This time he did fall.
“I got these pictures from a trusted source. I trust him a hell of a lot more than I trust you. Now, if you’re saying that you can’t get my briefcase back, then I might as well just kill you right now.”
“Please—”
“Please kill you? Put you out of your misery?” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and took out a pistol. “Don’t be too impatient. I’ve got to get the silencer on here first. We don’t want to disturb your neighbors, right?”
Harry tried to get back to his feet, but lost his balance and fell again.
The man began to screw the silencer onto the barrel of his revolver. “I could’ve had this on the gun already, but I’m doing it now so you know that shit is about to get real. By which I mean, you have one more chance to tell me where my briefcase is.”
“I can get it.”
“I don’t believe you. You were more credible when you said you didn’t know what I was talking about. You swear you can get it?”
“Yes!”
“You’re not just trying to stall for time?”
“No!”
“All right. I’m still going to shoot you—I’m just not going to kill you or incapacitate you. Four flesh wounds. One across each leg, and one across each arm. You’ll bleed but I’ll take you to a guy who can patch you up. He’s not licensed but he’s good. You ready?”
“Please don’t shoot