Page 86 of Slow Burn

Chapter Thirty-seven

Ming

They had been quite civil to her in the car, but, of course, there was no point in being cruel to someone about to learn the ultimate lesson. Ming sat at ease in the backseat of the limousine, hands folded in her lap, staring at the eyes of the man who sat across from her.

He had not borne the wait well; for a small man he sweated profusely, and his body odor hung like a dirty cloud between them. He patted his knee and avoided her eyes. His larger partner, seated next to him, stared out the window, pouting.

“She is gone, you know,” Ming said. The small man flinched as if she’d slapped him. “There is no use in killing me. I cannot bring her back, if I am dead.”

“Look, it isn’t for me to say. I told you, eight hours or we take you in. We got to take you in.” He rubbed his stubbly chin. “Been a shitty day all around, you know? Want a drink?”

“I thank you, no.”

“Okay.” He fiddled with the khaki of his pants leg, picked at his thumbnail. “TV? We got TV in here, if you want to watch something. Tapes, too. Mostly sex stuff, but there’s a couple of comedies—”

“Thank you, no,” she murmured. “I don’t laugh.”

He tried to offer her a candy bar, then a meal at a fast food restaurant. She politely refused each, though the child inside her wanted to stop, to eat, to drink, to delay what must come.

Paolo had failed her. She had believed, to the last, that he would call, that he would come back.

She had not heard a word from him.

Ahead, the black shadow of a tall building, and over it, the lead gray of clouds. Cold, so cold, and this cold did not freeze her solid but chilled her into brittle pieces. She considered jumping from the limousine, but that might only wound her; they would hardly show mercy if her legs were broken, or her back. It must be as quick as a bullet, as certain as poison, or there was no point in piling one misery atop another.

So focused was she on seeking a way to die that she had almost forgotten the inevitable end of the journey. The dome light went on over her head to remind her. A door seal whispered open and the little man across from her said, not unkindly, “We’re here.”

She climbed out of the car without assistance, taking each step slowly to be sure she would not fall. The elevator seemed to rise for hours, leaving her weightless and oddly unbalanced, and in the closed metal box, the smell of her captor’s sweat seemed as thick as rancid grease.

He held the doors open and gestured for her to go ahead. The carpeted hallway stretched before her, empty. When she took a step into it, the doors of the elevator shut; she looked back and saw that he had not followed. He would be falling now, mopping his brow, breathing a sigh of relief at being rid of the responsibility. Perhaps he would be making plans for a late supper, or an early breakfast. Perhaps he had a woman waiting.

There was no place to run. She continued walking with slow even steps to the door at the end, the plain wood door with no name and not even a lock, only a knob to turn.

She knocked politely and went inside.

The room was dark except for a small lamp burning on the corner of his desk, a circle of warm yellow light on blood red carpet, polished dark wood, the black shine of the toe of his shoe. He was smoking imported cigarettes; the tobacco stank like old leather.

“Sit,” he said, voice raspy with smoke. When she had settled herself in the plain chair before his desk, he sat, too. “Maybe it was bad luck. Could have happened to anybody.”

She refused to grab the straw and sat in silence, watching the red flare of his cigarette.

“You know you won’t be leaving here.”

“I know,” she said evenly. The fantasy rushed back on her, strong as the smell of his tobacco—a knife in her hand, skin peeling back from muscle, his face. “I’m sorry about your employee. The one who burned.”

“He was getting to be a problem. Too bad about the girlfriend, though. She was a competent thief, and they’re harder to come by than psychos like Sol. Like you.”

He extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray, and now he was only a dark shape in the shadows; he could have been anyone, anywhere, anytime. She closed her eyes and lived the fantasy, felt it rush through her with the force of an orgasm.

“Velvet was never of any importance,” she said aloud. “The idea that I will die for her is ludicrous.”

“You mistake me,” he said. “I’m not killing you because of Velvet. I’m killing you because I’m tired of burying your hobbies, Ming. You’re a fucked-up rabid bitch, and it’s time somebody put you down.”

The noise of his gun cocking was shockingly loud. She found herself gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to break her laquered nails, and could not force herself to relax, not now, not ever again. A childhood prayer came back to her in singsong whispers.

Behind her, the door opened and a square of light spilled in.

“What the fuck—I told you, no interruptions—” He was still searching for words when someone fired from the doorway, six shots, evenly spaced. He lived for several seconds, mouth working, eyes blank and puzzled. He reached out to Ming, where she sat frozen in the chair.

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