One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

The Stiltonista looked at his henchman with the spade, who picked it up again. I was wrong—I did have the ear of the president. Landen had said so earlier.

“Anymore. I don’t have his ear anymore. But I’m sure I could give him a call and advise him to keep the prohibition in place.”

Potblack stared at me and narrowed his eyes. “You’re being uncharacteristically compliant.”

“But characteristically realistic,” I said cheerfully. “You’re the one with the sharpened spade.”

“Hmm,” said the Stiltonista, “very well. But I want to offer an incentive to make sure that once released you don’t ‘forget’ your part of the bargain.”

“Bargain?” I echoed. “You mean I get something from this?”

“You do. You get to keep your life, your husband gets to keep his, and your children get to keep their fingers.”

The man with the spade tapped it on the ground as if to emphasize the point, and the steel rang out with a threatening ting-ting-ting-ting sound. I stared at the Stiltonista for a moment, and when I spoke, I tried to convey as much menace as I could—surprisingly easy, for I was angry—and it wasn’t the sort of anger I get when I fluff my lines or my father misses a cue and comes in late. Or even the sort of anger I felt when Horace the goblin nicked all my stuff or Carmine went AWOL. This was real anger. The sort of “don’t shit with me” stuff that mothers feel when you threaten their children.

“Dear, oh, dear,” I said, sadly shaking my head, “and we were getting on so well. I said I’d help you out, and you respond by threatening my kids. That’s not only insulting, it’s impolite. There’s a new deal: You let me go right now and promise never to even look at my husband or children, and I will let you live to see tomorrow’s dawn.”

The Stiltonista bit his lip ever so subtly. It was clear that I had a reputation, and it moved in front of me like a bulldozer. Despite the fact that I was outnumbered six to one, the Stiltonista obviously considered that at the very least I should not be underrated. Thursday, it seemed, was a formidable foe—and highly dangerous if you got on the wrong side of her.

“You’re not in any position to be doing deals.”

“I don’t want anyone to think me unfair,” I said. “I’ll give you until the count of three. One.”

There was the sound of safety catches being released from the men behind me. They were quite obviously armed and, from the sound of it, heavily.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do any sort of deal, Miss Next,” said Potblack with renewed confidence. “Perhaps you would like to reconsider. My men will finish you before you get to three, and you’ll end up with all the others—six feet under the Savernake Forest, a feast for the worms. I apologize if I have been impolite, but as you understand, a lot rides on a lifted prohibition, and I speak not only for myself but for many cheese suppliers up and down the country. We can make this work to the best advantage for all of us, I’m sure—and perhaps even offer up some sort of compensatory payment.”

“Two.”

“You really don’t understand, do you?” said the Stiltonista in a voice that now carried an echo of uncertainty. “It doesn’t have to end for you like this.”

I didn’t have a plan of action, but that didn’t seem to be a problem, for the plan of action had me, and before I knew what had happened, I had the barrel of my pistol pressed hard against the Stiltonista’s throat and the man with the spade was flat on his back unconscious. The goon next to me had managed to get his hand to the butt of his automatic, but no farther. The rest were just blinking stupidly. Oddly, I didn’t feel nervous in the least. It felt like I was someone else. Someone else inside me.

“You see what happens when you’re impolite?” I said. “And don’t struggle. This an armor piercer. Once it’s gone through, only Exxon will be able to retrieve it—or you.”

He stopped struggling.

“Tell them to drop their weapons.”

He did, and they did.

“Right,” I said, unsure what to do next. “This is the plan. . . . ”

If there was a plan, I never found out what it was, for a voice rang out from one corner of the warehouse.

“Armed police! You are surrounded. Do exactly as we tell you. Carefully and slowly, put your hands behind your heads.”

The Stiltonista’s goons did as the voice asked and seemed to know the drill, as they also lay flat on their faces without being asked.

“And you, Next.”

I set my pistol on the floor, kicked it away and then obediently placed my hands on the back of my head and lay on the ground quite close to where Potblack now lay.

“I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do, Next.”

He said it without looking at me, his voice a low growl.

“Really?” I replied evenly. “Try to get me or my family and I’ll happily ensure that it is.”