Tick Tock (Michael Bennett 4)

“That’s it,” Hobart said, tugging back hard on the cuffs again.

But instead of screaming again, Berger did something as surprising as it was horrifying.

He broke into giggles.

“You call this pain?” Berger said, smiling back at Hobart after a beat. “I’ve paid more than you make in a week for far, far worse, Brown Sugar. What were you going to do with your combat boot again?”

This was taking a bad turn. Getting weirder and weirder. Hobart let the cuff chain go as if it were on fire and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Where were we again?” Berger said, turning back around to face me. There was an oddly chipper tone in his voice now.

“Who the hell is this, Berger?” I said, showing him the sketch and FAO Schwarz surveillance photo.

Berger squinted at it.

“That would be a crappy rough semblance of Carl, I think,” Berger said.

“Carl?” Emily said. “Who the fuck is Carl?”

“Carl Apt is my friend,” Berger said. “My very close friend and companion. I know what you’re thinking. Longtime companion, aka gay lover, but no. Not that I didn’t make some overtures. Strictly business, Carl is. Pure as the driven snow and twice as cold.”

“Carl what? Works for you?” I said, trying to piece things together.

“Kind of,” Berger said. “It’s complicated.”

“I say we gag this turd,” Hobart said.

“Where is he? Where’s Carl right now?” I said.

“Where Carl usually is, silly,” the fat man said, rolling his eyes. “He’s upstairs taking a bath.”

Chapter 70

OUTSIDE BERGER’S BEDROOM, Emily and I raced behind Hobart and a few SWAT and bomb guys to a circular staircase at the end of the hallway.

“If this sick-ass individual really is up there, he knows IEDs, so keep your eyes peeled for trip wires,” Hobart called back to us as we quickly began to ascend in single file.

IEDs? Trip wires?! I thought, wiping sweat out of my eyes. I couldn’t believe this insanity. We’d found Berger, taken him down, and yet this thing still wasn’t over?

Of course not, I thought as we corkscrewed upward toward the penthouse’s third floor. It wasn’t over until the fat lady sang.

It was noticeably hotter in the upstairs hallway. Dim, with the curtains drawn, it reminded me of an attic. A bizarre, mazelike one with ornate crown moldings and paneled walls and more art. Strange art, too, I thought, scanning the walls filled with photographs of hellish landscapes and oil portraits of melting people. We passed a large room nearly filled with hideous primitive sculptures.

Sweat dripped from my nose and from the grip of my Glock as we slowly went down the hallway. Emily was pressed close behind me, her Glock 23 pointed toward the ceiling, her palm flat on the back of my Kevlar vest.

Everyone jumped in unison as we heard a loud, electric clack and a deep humming from behind the wall we were walking beside.

“Excuse my French, but what the fuck?” Emily said.

“Must be the building’s elevator machinery,” Hobart whispered over the com link.

“Can anyone loan me a fresh pair of boxer shorts?” asked one of the commandos.

A moment later, Hobart and his men paused by an open doorway on our left. When I arrived beside them, I was surprised by a breeze.

That wasn’t the only surprising thing. Inside was a bathroom. The most enormous white-marble bathroom I’d ever seen. It had a sunken tub, a fireplace, and French doors that opened onto a massive stone balcony. A soft breeze fluttered the bubbles in the tub along with the tiered flames of candles that blazed in the enormous fireplace.

“Where the hell is this creep, already?” Hobart said, sighting his submachine gun at the tub. “Did Calgon take him away?”