ead. “You haven’t contacted anyone since yesterday.” I push the phone into my pocket. “That’s unfortunate. No one knows where you are, and you’re the only one who can place me inside London’s office building. You’re the only one who can warn her.”
Through the haze of pain, it takes a moment for him to decipher my meaning. “What do you want with her?”
I untuck the Glock from my pants. “You wasted my mercy. I’m not an endless well of sympathy.” I release the magazine and, one by one, spit the bullets to the ground with a flick of my thumb.
“What are you doing?” Foster asks.
I insert the empty mag and pull the slide back. Tilting the gun toward Foster, I show him the chamber. “Pick a bullet,” I say.
Still gripping his broken arm to his chest, Foster glances at the bronze bullets splayed around his head, refusing to play the game.
“Stubborn as ever,” I mutter, and select one myself. I hold it up, then chamber the round and drop the slide. The resounding click makes Foster squeeze his eyes closed.
“Ever play Russian Roulette, Foster?”
His eyes snap open. “You’re crazy. You can’t play Roulette with a fucking Glock—”
“Sure you can.” I cock the gun and press the muzzle to his temple. “Rules are real simple. Answer the question honestly, and I don’t shoot you.”
He tries to squirm away and releases a strangled cry as the cuff jerks his leg back.
I reposition the gun to his head. “Done?” He sends me a lethal glare but doesn’t move this time.
“What the fuck do you want to know?” he grits out through clenched teeth.
“Have you ever harmed an animal?” I ask.
“The fuck—?”
“Honesty, Foster. It’s very important right now. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
He blows out a harsh breath, pain mounting despite his adrenaline. “No. Never.”
I tilt my head, studying him. Deciding he’s telling the truth, I pull back the gun and yank the slide open, popping out the bullet. “One down,” I say, and toss the bullet over my shoulder.
Foster’s head smacks the ground as he relaxes, breathing hard. “Is this some sick psych evaluation?”
“Something like that.” I load another round into the chamber and cock the gun. “Thirteen bullets to go. Bet you wish you didn’t load a full mag today.”
“Christ.”
“Have you ever fired your gun on the job?”
Foster doesn’t blink. “No.”
We go on like this, working our way through bullets, him giving me the answers I want to know. Until we’re down to the final round.
At this point, Foster has stopped sweating. He’s slipping into shock. I still haven’t gotten the answer I need, however. Whether or not it’s his signature on the vics.
I load the bullet.
“It’s not Russian Roulette unless you point the damn thing at yourself once in a while,” he says between wheezes. His eyes fluttered closed.
I nudge his head with the barrel, rousing him. “Fair enough. Now pay attention.” I stretch his arm out and he bites off a scream. I place the Glock in his shaky hand, helping him secure his finger to the trigger. “Don’t break the rules.”
His gaze holds me in a disbelieving stare. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the sting of dried sweat from his eyes, then maneuvers himself onto his elbow and aims at my head. I lower myself to make it easier for him. I put my forehead right up to the muzzle.
Unsteady, he can barely keep the gun raised. I give Foster credit, though, his sheer stubborn determination won’t let him drop that gun.