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Chaz is silent.
“Tell your guy that I wanna know what’s on that headmaster’s computer, and phone too.”
“Will do.”
O’Leary kills the line.
He reaches over and hugs Gina, kisses her on the forehead. “I’m gonna find out, my girl. You watch me.”
25
MONTEPULCIANO, ITALY
Ryan glowers at The Monster. His face is plain, much as Ryan described to the sketch artist. And the hands—eight fingers—reveal all. Ryan’s heart is hammering, adrenaline pumping. He has the mad impulse to charge him. Beat the living shit out of him. But he’s scared. And he needs answers. About that night. About what the fuck is going on.
The Monster nods to the two Italian men with wide necks and bulging pecs who march over to Ryan. He has a momentary fear they’re going to throw him off the terrace. But one of them raises his arms like a T, signaling that Ryan should do the same. Ryan raises his arms and the big Italian frisks him.
He immediately finds the Taser and yanks it from Ryan’s waistband. He holds the device, tiny in his large hand. He says something in Italian to the other guy, who laughs. The giant turns on the gun and it makes that buzzing sound. He zaps his comrade, who makes a yelp amid laughter from the first guy. The other guy snatches the gun away, then jolts his friend back. They both laugh, and if they weren’t so scary it would be funny. Two buffoons zapping each other.
The Monster is shaking his head like they’re idiots. He motions for them to give Ryan and him some space.
“Sorry about that. Hired hands. I thought you might want to hurt me.” Whoever this guy is, he has an American accent.
Ryan feels his jaw pulse.
“Look, I don’t want to be here any more than you do. But we have”—he stops, searches for the words—“mutual interests.”
“I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about,” Ryan says.
“Well, if you’ll turn it down a notch, I’ll tell you. Can I trust you not to come at me if I tell them to fall back?” He eyes the two meatheads.
“You can trust me as much as I can trust you.”
The Monster makes a fair enough expression.
Ryan feels the pulse in his neck jump a beat. He watches as the hired muscle goes to the other side of the terrace.
“Why?” Ryan says, the single word loaded with so many questions.
The Monster runs a hand over his face. His hand is marred with scratches and the eight remaining fingers have dirt under the nails.
“Listen to me. This is important. You need to tell everyone you think MRK did it… that your memory of me came from the bump on the head.”
Ryan doesn’t understand, shakes his head.
“I think someone’s found me. They saw these,” The Monster says, holding up his hands with the missing pinkies.
“This sounds like a you problem,” Ryan says, unable to contain himself.
“You wouldn’t think that if you knew what I know.”
Ryan tilts his head: I’m listening.
“We need them to back off. You gotta put out a statement, say it was MRK, tell the world I never existed.”
“Why would I do that?”
“’Cause if you don’t and I’m found, it’s not only me they’re gonna take out.”