My lips straight, I place the machine gun on the table. His eyes land on it and stick. “Nice office,” I say, taking my time to gaze around. “What do we have here?” I muse. “Maybe five thousand square feet. Premium spec, unrivaled location, so maybe thirty bucks per square foot a year.” I pout, looking at the ceiling. “We’re talking twelve and a half thousand dollars per month.” I blow out my cheeks. “That’s a massive leap from the . . . what? Fifteen hundred you were paying a few months ago?” I reach for the machine gun and swivel it to the left, and then back to the right. “Business must be booming, Derek.” I look at him. “Care to explain?”
His sweat is very real. So is the fear in his eyes, so if he tries to play dumb, I can’t promise I won’t rape him with this gun. “It’s been a good year.” His words shake, his hand instinctively reaching for his tie and loosening it.
James, as hotheaded as I’ve learned he is, picks up his gun and rests it on the desk, aimed at Derek. He flies back in his chair, hands up.
Brad chuckles. “You’re playing with the big boys, and a little machine gun makes you shit your pants?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
James releases the safety and loads, the sound making Derek flinch. “You sure?” he asks, moving a fraction to the right and firing, obliterating the wall-hung TV behind Derek. The sound is earsplitting, as round after round sounds, the belt jumping across James’s shoulder as it feeds the machine gun. James? He’s motionless, expressionless, a fucking robot. Derek? Oh, poor Derek. His arms go over his head, his body folding over the table. I can see Brad laughing. Can’t hear him, though. Fuck me, my ears are bleeding. But I let James at him, knowing how he feels about any poor fucker who’s stupid enough to get embroiled in The Bear’s business.
James finally relieves us all of the noise and relaxes back in his chair, eyeing the glass wall into the corridor. “Tell them you’re okay,” he says quietly.
I look to see people on the other side of the glass, some stock-still in shock, others running scared. “Do it now,” I order. “Get up and reassure your staff that all is well.” I watch, amused, as Derek stands on shaky legs and more or less stumbles to the door, swinging it open, sweat pouring. “And if anyone calls the police . . . well, I don’t think I need to spell it out.”
“No need to panic,” Derek says, sounding pretty fucking panicked. “We’re just . . . um . . . acting out a crime scene to . . . um . . . yes . . . to corroborate some evidence.” He coughs. “Back to work.” He shuts the door, presses a button, and the room is suddenly private.
“Acting out a crime scene,” I say, thoughtful. “Very good, Derek.”
His forehead meets the glass. “Why are you here?”
Why am I here? I brush my lip slowly with my middle finger. “You’ve upset my wife,” I say quietly, and he peeks at me. “Therefore, you’ve upset me.” I stand, walking around the table and claiming Derek’s arm. I manhandle him back to his chair, pushing him down. “Take a seat, Derek. You’re gonna need it.”
“I’ve done what any decent father would do,” he cries, his arms thrown into the air.
“You’re not his father,” I point out, crouching beside him, my glare deadly. “You’re the man who paid handsomely for a baby who was ripped from his mother’s arms. Unlucky for you, the victim in all this happens to be my wife. I could have ended you three years ago, Derek. But I did the right thing by Daniel because I knew that was what Rose wanted.” I get up closer, making him lean back. “She’s done everything right, and now you’re saying she can’t see him? Do you understand the consequences of your actions, Derek? Do you really understand?” I reach for James’s gun and turn it a fraction, so it’s aimed square at Derek’s forehead. He inhales. “Now this can be solved pretty easily, and you know how.” I rise to my full height, slip a hand around the back of his head, and smash it down onto the desk with force. He cries out, grappling at his bloodied nose, his glasses bent and broken. “So fix it, because I won’t be so nice next time.”
The door knocks and opens, and the lady from reception appears with some tea. I slap on a smile and go to her, relieving her of the tray. “Thank you, very kind.”
She can only nod, her eyes glued to a bleeding Derek Green behind me.
“He’s a great actor, eh?” I chuckle, holding up the tray. “Thanks for the tea. We were just taking a break from acting out that crime scene.” I step forward, forcing her to retreat. She quickly shuts the door, and I take the tray to the table, lifting the lid off the pot and stirring. “Now let’s move on to Vince Roake.” The staff may have indirectly been told not to call the cops but, let’s face it, who wouldn’t?