Page 90 of Man of the Year

Several minutes later, the lock finally gives, and I slowly turn the door handle.

The mansion is ghostly silent. I tiptoe into the hallway then make my way into the staff kitchen, which is empty.

Where is everyone?

Adrenaline thumping in my veins, I step outside through the staff entrance and trot toward the guest house.

Razor-sharp lines of light outline the guest house windows. Julien and Nick must be there. I step around the corner and scan the entrance door and the patio, lit up by a porch light. There’s no one outside.

Muffled sounds come from the inside, and I walk around the porch, on the grass, intending to go to the other side and peek into the other windows, hoping to see what’s going on.

A crunch under my right foot stops me as a solid object I stepped on digs into the sole of my shoe. I bend down to see what it is and find a set of keys. Picking them up, I study the silly keychain that I recognize—Nick’s. The little Empire State Building is cracked, the little peak broken off, the mangled pieces falling apart. I pull at them, exposing the metal core and what looks like something that is definitely not a keychain.

“Holy crap,” I mouth, staring at it, then shove it into my pocket and turn my attention to the building.

I tiptoe to one of the windows, but the thin slices of light are not enough to see what’s going on inside. Nick has done a great job securing his house. Or office. Now that I think about what Julien told me, my mind goes crazy with the thought that Nick has fooled the entire world with this IxResearch scam.

I tiptoe to the door and hold my breath, turning the handle.

The person I see inside is the last person I expected to run into.

Rosenberg sits on the couch, his mouth taped shut, his arms duct-taped together and tight against his body.

I stall at the sight.

Days ago, I thought he was a wealthy entrepreneur, a powerful man with a brilliant mind and dark secrets. But his pleading eyes and useless jerking as he sees me and nods at his restraints makes him look pathetic.

“Four, three, two, one,” Julien’s voice counts down from another room, drawing my attention to the slightly ajar bathroom door.

What I hear next is a low and nasty gurgling sound, like that of an animal. A loud spitting sound follows.

“You lousy dipshits!” Nick shouts angrily. “You think you can harass me? Think twice! Wanna do it again?” He coughs. “Go for it! You won’t get shit out of me!”

“Next round,” says Julien. “Go. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen,” he starts counting, his voice drowned by the loud splash and dripping sounds.

My heart in my stomach, I tiptoe toward the bathroom and peek in. The sight makes my eyes go wide in shock.

SIXTY-NINE

NICK

I focus on the water flow drowning my nasal cavities. After several seconds, I open my mouth and spit out the water, then close it and refocus on the water flow.

This is waterboarding at its finest. But only someone with military background knows how to do it properly, like this—making sure the water goes into my sinuses, not the lungs. And these two are doing it with a timer—it’s government protocol. I’ve read about this many times, did proper research, just like I did on the illegal nerve agent drug I buy off the Dark Web.

When Julien counts down to one, the cloth is lifted off my face. I spit the water out of my mouth as hard as I can, aiming for his face, then snort some of it out, and force a laugh.

“Morons,” I hiss. “What, your little trick doesn’t work?”

I used to be a swimmer in high school, a damn good one. Could have been a state champion if it weren’t for the chronic sinus infection that I had to have surgery for. I left swimming behind, but the surgery did wonders for my sinuses. In fact, professional swimmers go through special training, learning underwater breathing techniques. But of course these stupid idiots don’t know that.

I laugh into Julien’s face, then swish saliva and water in my mouth and spit at him.

“Moron,” I growl. “Good luck trying.”

I can see slight disappointment crossing his face. No, not that—he’s puzzled.Good.I’m a fucking genius. I’ve dealt with worse in my life, way worse than two guys on a wanna-be-Mission-Impossiblequest trying to get all I’ve worked so hard for since college.

“I need the passkeys,” Julien says more intensely now, like a parrot on repeat.

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