“I’d rather not.”
“Do it. Or I will.”
Unsurprisingly, he had a Beretta Pico hidden there. Joe relieved him of it quickly.
“Who the hell arms himself with three guns?” I said. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I think we’re about to find out,” Joe said. “You’re not leaving this office, Cade, until we know everything you do.”
“You think you two and your weapons scare me? Nothing scares me anymore.”
“You’re in good company, then,” I said. “Joe and I have seen just about everything in this fucked-up world there is to see. You sure as hell don’t scare us.”
“Maybe I should.”
“With three guns?” Joe said. “Maybe, if we’re having a bad day. Unarmed, you’re nothing, Cade. Not a fucking thing.”
“You’d be wise not to underestimate me,” Booker said. “Psycho Daddy might have taught you how to shoot like a pro, but you’re forgetting who taught me how to shoot.”
“The FBI?” I said. “I’d match Joe’s and my skills against any rank-and-file agent any day.”
Booker moved stealthily, easing his way around his desk. Joe and I moved as he did, staying the same distance from him.
“Hold still,” Joe said, “or one of us will blow your big head off.”
He smiled. The motherfucker smiled!
Joe’s countenance remained stern. He wouldn’t show weakness or worry, so neither would I.
Joe’s firearm was aimed at Booker’s head, so I lowered mine…aiming it at his crotch. “Whatever you think you’re doing, stop it, unless you want to be dickless literally as well as figuratively.”
“Bingo,” he said, pushing his hand down.
“Wha—”
A white spray whooshed toward my chest.
I inhaled instinctively, arrows of flame hitting my mouth and throat. And my eyes. Blur. Blindness. Tears.
I gasped and choked. “Joe!”
But the word sounded only like a gasp.
I was vaguely aware of Joe beside me doubling over, coughing as well.
“Fuck! Damn!”
Again, the words were only gasps.
I was dying. I had to be dying. What the hell had he done?
My eyes and nose were on fire, and my throat full of acidic phlegm.
The blurred images disappeared into nothingness.
I was blind.
Choking, on fire, and blind.