Blindside (Michael Bennett 12)

It would’ve been easier to play along with him, and his killers might be less vigilant if I kept my mouth shut. But I needed Natalie to see who this guy really was.

Henry gave a nervous glance toward Natalie. “I’m sorry I can’t feed into your conspiracies. Christoph and Ollie will drive you to the airport shortly.”

Natalie looked like she was buying it. She said to me, “See, Mr. Bennett? You have nothing to worry about.” A smile ran across her pretty face. “Have a good flight and tell my dad to leave me alone.” She excused herself and darted past Henry and up the stairs. She’d taxed her view of reality enough for one day.

Henry said, “Excuse me, Detective. We’ve got to get things set up to get back to work quickly. You know how the corporate life can be. Always something. Am I right?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve always been in public service. We’re busy in different ways.”

“Like looking for young women sick of their parents, instead of solving murders.”

The way Henry had said it, I understood why Natalie believed in him. He seemed reasonable and rational. Then again, every good criminal did. No one who was arrested was ever guilty. I said, “You really think I buy into that bullshit?” Now it was just Henry, me, and a known killer. “Let’s be honest. You’re going to kill me, right?”

Henry chuckled as he brushed unseen dirt off his sport coat. Just a way to move and show off his arms. He didn’t look like a computer genius in this setting. He could’ve been any psycho I’d met over my career.

He said, “I don’t kill people.” He started back up the stairs, out of sight. Then he called down, “I order other people to kill. Good luck, Detective Bennett.”

Now it was just me and the Dutchman, Christoph. He looked more imposing up close. Thick arms and no hesitation in his movements. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

He pulled a steel, four-inch, fixed-blade knife from a sheath secured at his waistline. He held it up high, so I could see it and his face at the same time. These younger guys, raised on action movies, loved doing that kind of stuff. Like there was a camera watching their every move.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t unnerved by the knife. That’s the main function of a knife in a criminal’s hands. Stabbing is a last resort. Besides, it was a combat knife. A Gerber. It wouldn’t snap or break when it hit a bone. I shivered at the thought.

Every step he took toward me made my stomach tighten. There were few things as frightening as an edged weapon. Every cop remembers the training video they saw in the academy about defending against edged weapons. The testimonials of cops who’d survived stabbings were horrifying.

Now I realized why the force toughens us up about potential knife attacks. They just want to keep us from

panicking at the sight of a blade intended for stabbing. I wasn’t sure how well the training was working right about now.

Christoph stopped directly in front of me with the handle of the knife in his right hand. He didn’t move or say anything.

I stared up at him. I had my feet ready in case I needed a desperate defense.

Christoph said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

Christoph’s accent was more pronounced as he said, “Turn round so I can cut you loose from the metal ring.”

Oh. I had misread that. I let out the breath I was holding. I turned on my seat and felt him work on one of the ropes behind me. In a moment, I was free of the bolt on the wall. My hands were still cuffed behind me. And I was down a few ounces of sweat.

I said, “Can you do me a favor, pal?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m a little older than you. My shoulders are really bothering me with my hands cuffed behind my back. Can you cuff me in the front?” It was a request I had heard from virtually every person I’d ever arrested. And I always told them, for safety reasons and because I had to follow policy, they would stay cuffed behind their backs.

Christoph didn’t have the same policies. All he said was “These little cord handcuffs cost three euros each.”

“I’ve got maybe ten euros in my pocket. I’ll give it to you.”

“That’s okay. We’re going to keep anything in your wallet or pockets anyway.” He paused for a moment, then added with a smile, “It doesn’t bother me too much that your shoulders hurt.”

A Bronx beat cop couldn’t have said it better.

CHAPTER 77

THIS WAS IT. The Dutch killer, Christoph, had me secured. I could barely move my arms, and his little cord handcuffs were strong. He kept a hand on my right arm and stood behind me where I couldn’t get a decent kick at him. We walked out of the room and turned down the hallway aiming for the loading dock at the back of the building, where his partner, Ollie, could presumably shove me back into their car and drive me to God knows where. I needed some kind of plan. Like right now.