Page 93 of Man of the Year

Rosenberg steps closer and shoves his hands and torso into my face.

“What the hell?” I glare at him, bending back, trying to get away from his crotch.

His mouth is still taped up, so he can’t talk. But he frantically motions with his eyes to his hands, then to my mouth, shakes his head like a naughty puppy, then shoves his duct-taped hands in my face again.

What does he?—

Then it dawns on me—my mouth is not taped, so I can try to rip the duct tape off his hands with my teeth.

Brilliant!

Duct tape is unbreakable when you tug at it, but if you make a small cut at the edge and apply pressure, it rips like paper. So I do just that—bare my teeth and grind at the edges of the duct tape around Phil’s wrists. In seconds, his hands come loose.

He rips the duct tape off his mouth, silently screaming and cursing under his breath, then rips the rest of the duct tape off his body.

“Get this off me,” I order in a whisper, wiggling on the floor until I finally get to my feet.

Phil flinches, shaking his head.

“Phil,” I hiss, nudging my hands at him. “Help me out.”

His sheepish stare doesn’t change.

Oh, crap. The guy is flaking out on me? Now, of all times?

He shakes his head again and takes a step away from me.

Well, crap. I really did a number on him. Should’ve been nicer, but he deserved it. Except now, he says the last thing I want to hear.

“You killed the real Rosenberg?”

SEVENTY-ONE

NICK

Even the smartest sheep willingly go to a slaughterhouse if given an incentive.

“Phil,” I whisper. “We need to get our money. We need to get out of here, find a safe place, and get the money back.”

He breathes heavily, his stare on me both doubtful and hopeful at the same time.

“Come on, man,” I plead. I can’t believe I’m begging this idiot. “This is our only chance. This or prison. For life.”

“I did what you told me to do. It’s all you.”

“Nah, man. Your face is everywhere. Your signature is on all the legal documents. But I won’t let them put you in prison. We need to get out of here and out of the country. I have plenty of funds.” I nod toward the living room. “They can keep their stupid money. I have more. Much more.”

In seconds, Phil rips the duct tape off my hands and torso.

See? That’s the power of money-talk.

I exhale in relief, rubbing my stiff wrists.

My head is buzzing from all the water I swallowed. My pants are wet from pee—just freaking great. I listen to the sounds from the living room, the hushed conversation between Julien and the gardener. I’m sure they are fascinated with the numbers they see in my bank accounts—it’s all right, I’ll take my revenge later.

My eyes go to the bathroom window. It’s a large two-panel window covered by blinds. And that’ll be our escape.

“What now?” Phil asks, nervously rubbing his hair with both hands. He finally looks like the worthless gambler that he is, but I need him. Window, backyard, garden fence that goes into the utility road behind it—I need Phil to give me a lift to get over that fence. Then I’ll leave him behind.

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