His eyes blinked open.
He was tied to a straight-backed wooden chair. There was a blurred face close in front of him and several people standing in the background. He tried to focus in. It came slowly. The blurry images gradually resolved themselves into a sharp. featured, hatchet-like face surmounted by thick, elaborately styled black hair and a custom-tailored, dark silk suit filled out well with muscle. The tie was incongruous. Bright canary yellow. Silk. The breath smelled of cigarette smoke.
Cigarettes.
Right. The cigarettes.
Behind the hatchet-faced, tough guy in the expensive, raw silk suit was another man cut from the same cloth, a smoothly styled sharpie in a mauve suit with a purple silk shirt and a purple tie the same shade as the shirt. And beside him stood the lovely, treacherous Krista, staring down at him as though he were some interesting new bug she hadn’t seen before.
“Who are you? asked the hatchet-faced man.
“George Palmer,” Hunter mumbled, giving the name that he’d been using.
Whack!
“Wrong. Try again.”
“My name is George palmer. I don’t—”
WHACK!
The force of the blow split his lip and he felt blood trickle down his chin.
“Look, my friend,” hatchet-face said softly, bringing his face up close to Hunter’s, “we know who you’re not, okay? What we’d like to know is who you are. And where you got this pretty bracelet.”
Hunter’s gaze was riveted on the warp disc being dangled before him.
“I don’t understand,” said Hunter. “Why are you doing this? If you want money—”
WHACK!
“Okay, now listen to me, all right? That was the last time with the open hand. I’m getting impatient. Next one’s a closed fist. And if losing a few teeth doesn’t loosen you up …”
Snik. The six-inch blade sprang out of the handle.
“That will do, Vincent. Take Krista and go make some coffee in the kitchen. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Hatchet-faced Vincent gave Hunter a long look and then left the room with Krista. Domenico Manelli came around from somewhere behind Hunter to stand in front of him, looking like an investment banker in his tailored pin stripes and rep tie. So far as Hunter could tell, there were only three of them in the room now–himself, Manelli, and the smoothie in the mauve suit.
Manelli loosened his tie and took out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and offered it to Hunter. “Cigarette? These aren’t drugged, by the’ way.” While Hunter watched, he took one himself, lit up and inhaled deeply. “I have no need of playing tricks,” he said. He shrugged. “Now that you’re tied to that chair, I could shoot you up to my heart’s content. A little Pentothol to make you
talk, some uncut heroin to make you stop . . . or I could call Vincent back in for some of your more basic persuasion. I’d really rather not, though. You strike me as a reasonable man. I think we could discuss things like intelligent human beings.”
He shook out another cigarette and offered it to Hunter. Hunter nodded and Manelli held the pack out so that Hunter could take the protruding cigarette between his lips. Manelli lit it for him with his gold lighter. The man in the mauve suit hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t even moved. He simply watched Hunter expressionlessly. Hunter decided that this man worried him even more than Vincent.
“The reason I sent the others out of the room is because they don’t know what this is,” said Manelli, holding up the warp disc, dangling the bracelet in front of him as Vincent had. “However, I do. And so does the gentleman behind me. In fact he has one just like yours. Now isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”
Suddenly, it was a brand new ball game. Hunter stared hard at the man in the mauve suit, but his face gave nothing away.
“I see we have your full attention,” said Manelli, with a smile.
“All right, what do you want?” said Hunter.
“Let’s start with your name.”
“Hunter. Reese Hunter.”
It was pointless to lie. If they did administer drugs, he’d tell them the truth anyway. The thing was to convince them that he was already telling them the truth and at the same time withhold some of it.