Motion to Kill

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Mason had a flashback to Harlan’s kitchen. He never saw the face of the man who threw him across the floor, but he recognized the swing. The same man climbed into Sandra’s BMW and followed the Escalade to the warehouse entrance.

Two men got out of the backseat of the Escalade, one twisting Sandra’s arm behind her back as they disappeared inside the building, joined by the man who’d driven Sandra’s car. The Escalade rolled back into the street and disappeared into the night.

It happened so fast that Mason had no chance to stop them. He tried his cell phone but couldn’t get a signal. He considered going for help but was afraid of what might happen while he was gone, so he picked up a foot-long piece of steel pipe and ran toward the warehouse as the sky erupted in blistering sheets of rain.

Hugging the exterior wall of the warehouse, he ran around to the back looking for another entrance. On the north side, overlooking the river, he found a narrow flight of concrete stairs that led down to a darkened landing.

He bolted down the steps only to find that what had once been a door at the bottom of the stairs was now a brick wall. He slumped against the rail, rain soaked, his chest heaving. He looked up, blinking against the rain, the wall seeming to sway.

Mason rubbed his eyes and climbed the stairs, reaching ground level, when familiar hands lifted him by his collar and tossed him against the wall. His back absorbed the force of the throw as his steel pipe clattered back down the stairs. He gathered himself in a crouch, promising himself that this time would be different.

Mason launched himself at the bigger man’s gut, his lunge catching the man by surprise. Shoulders down, he drove the man backward. All he wanted was running room. What he got was a knee in his belly.

Mason sucked in his breath, wrapped his arms around the man’s knee, and kept coming until the man fell on his back and Mason rolled off, gasping for air. The man jumped to his feet and planted a boot in Mason’s ribs, putting him in his place-back against the wall-and ending the round with a gun pointed at Mason’s mouth.

The man was dark, with hair braided into shaggy cornrows. He had a couple of inches on Mason and at least thirty pounds of muscle. It wasn’t close to being a fair fight.

He prodded Mason inside the warehouse, where the only good news was that the roof didn’t leak. The front was a long rectangle bathed in fluorescent light, a waist-high counter cutting it off from rows of shelves rising to the ceiling. The aisles were too dark to make out their contents.

Sandra sat on a wooden stool, glaring at an invisible spot on the wall, more angry than scared, which Mason figured was just about the opposite of how he looked.

Two men stood in the far corner. The one facing him was coal black and cut from the same mold as the guy who’d captured him. He studied the floor while a short, heavyset man, his back to Mason, chewed him out, leaving no doubt about who was in charge.

The boss’s head was a caramel-colored, clean-shaven dome with a crease in the back as if it had once been cleaved. He turned, studying Mason with his one good eye, the other folded into an angry scar that ran from his eyelid to the corner of his mouth.

“Mason,” Jimmie Camaya said, holding Sandra’s recorder in one hand and a pistol in the other, “I’m glad you could join us. You’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

He wore a cream-colored tropical wool suit and a pale blue silk shirt accented by a hand-painted tie. The contrast wasn’t lost on Mason. A short, fat guy with a good suit and a big gun was one serious motherfucker.

Mason knew what to do in the courtroom when the opposing lawyer was hammering his client into submission. Take control. Fire back with enough objections to make him back off. And never let him see you sweat. He hoped the same technique worked with killers.

“You should have waited at my house last night. You just missed me.”

“So you know I’ve been lookin’ for you. Good for you. Julio here will keep an eye on you and Miss Sweet Cheeks until I get done with some other business. He pointed to the man who’d brought Mason in out of the rain.

“If you want me, you don’t need her. Let her go.”

“Need got nothing to do with it. My customers place orders and I fill ‘em. Customer says you two die. You die. Up to me how. That’s all.”

Supply and demand. Serving the marketplace. Jimmie Camaya was just a businessman, an entrepreneur. Mason felt Adam Smith’s invisible hand at his throat. But he was determined to keep Camaya talking. Words were Mason’s weapons. The longer their scrimmage lasted, the better he liked his chances.

“So who’s your customer? Victor O’Malley?”

“Mason, you must think I’m a real dumb fuck, you know that? My business ain’t none of your business.”

“Cut the crap. You shot up my car and trashed my house. You want something you think I have. Tell me what it is, and it’s yours.”

Camaya’s stomach shook as he laughed, a deep rumbling gurgle, like a satanic Santa Claus.

“Mason, you are a funny man,” he said, wiping his good eye. “I wasn’t shooting at your car. I was shooting at you.”

“Don’t give up your day job. You’re a lousy shot.”

Camaya stopped laughing. His bad eye disappeared into his scar as he walked toward Mason. He stopped a foot away, his head upturned. Bay Rum cologne lay heavy on him. His breath was sweet. Death had many faces. Mason never thought his would look like this.

Mason couldn’t help the tremor in his thighs. It crept upward, washing over his groin and twisting his gut. He looked at Sandra. Julio gripped her shoulder, clamping her to the seat. She struggled a moment, then quieted, whispering to him that she was sorry.

Camaya raised his gun to Mason’s face, brushing it across his cheek, probing his ear with the muzzle, then past his ear, under the base of his skull, and then pulling the trigger. The bullet shattered the sheetrock, Mason’s hearing, and his fear. He held his ground, depriving Camaya of the collapse he wanted.

Camaya’s voice turned stone cold. “So you got a pair, huh, Mason? Well, guess what? Tough guys die slow, real slow. You’ll piss your pants and cry for your mama, and we’ll just be getting started.”

A cell phone rang, breaking the moment but not the sweat that dripped down Mason’s neck. Julio answered and handed the phone to Camaya, who listened without talking and hung up.

“Julio, tie them up. I’ll be back soon. When I’m done, you can play with them.”