The Sixth Man

CHAPTER 61

BUNTING’S WIFE WAS WEARING the new sexy lingerie when he got home at three a.m. She had long since fallen asleep, and he had chosen not to wake her. With Harkes’s permission he had earlier texted her so she wouldn’t be worried and call the police. He passed through the bedroom where she slept and into the bathroom, where he cleaned up his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw the reflection of a man who had fallen a long way in a short time.

He took some ice from the minibar and held it against the nasty bruise on his head while he sat fully dressed in his walk-in closet. His phone would ring from time to time. He would glance at the screen. Three times it was Avery. He never answered it.

What would he say?

Sorry, Avery, I chickened out and sacrificed you and it’s only by the grace of God and the unfathomable tactics of the assholes I’m involved with that you’re not dead.

He had stood in the doorways of each of his kids’ bedrooms. They were lavish spaces, far beyond what any child, no matter how affluent, needed or probably even cared for. He was thrilled his kids were in New Jersey. But realistically they wouldn’t be any safer there. Harkes could reach them anywhere.

He walked back to his closet, sat in the chair there, and thought about it. Foster and Quantrell had him cornered right now. But what was the endgame here? Edgar Roy was still sitting in that prison; the E-Program was still operating, albeit at a slower pace. If Edgar were proved innocent, all would be right with Bunting’s world. But Foster and certainly Quantrell didn’t want that. They wanted to scrap the E-Program. Bunting understood now that there was only one way to guarantee that would happen.

He slipped off his tie and his jacket, kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks. He trudged into the bedroom and stood next to the sleigh bed. It had been imported from France and was made of some kind of unique leather and antique wood. He couldn’t remember the names. It had such a huge footprint that he and his wife almost needed a GPS to find one another within its confines. He watched the rise and fall of her chest. No trophy wife was she. His kids were her kids. They had so much. They had it good. No, they had it great.

But I’ve really got nothing because it can all be taken away. I can be taken away. Which means she has nothing. Which means my kids have nothing.

He kept imagining James Harkes coming through the door with knife and gun in hand and his wife and kids defenseless against him.

Bunting spent another hour wandering his New York City mansion. He passed the maid’s room, the chef’s quarters. The driver didn’t live on the premises. A second maid did. They had a nanny, too. She was asleep. Like all normal people, she would be at this hour.

Bunting was awake because he wasn’t normal. Harkes was awake because he was abnormal. And Ellen Foster was probably at her executive desk right now plotting with Mason Quantrell to utterly destroy Bunting.

His phone rang again. It was Avery again. This time he answered it.

Before the other man could speak, Bunting said, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“What? How did you know?”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“It’s complicated, Avery, very complicated.”

“Mr. Bunting, I think they were going to kill me.”

“There was no thinking about it, they were.”

“But why?”

“Edgar Roy. Carla Dukes. Mistakes, Avery, mistakes.”

“So why didn’t they do it then, kill me?”

Bunting leaned against a wall of his mansion. “Proving a point.”

“To who? Me?”

“Realistically speaking, Avery, you mean nothing to them. They were making the point to me.”

“To you? Were you there?”

“I was in the next room.”

“My God. Could you see what was happening to me?”

Bunting debated whether to lie or not. “No, I couldn’t. I only heard about it later.” I’m so weak I can’t even tell him what I did.

“Things are really getting out of hand.”

“They’ve been out of hand for a while, Avery.”

“What can we do? Can you call somebody?”

“I’ve tried. They’re not listening, apparently.”

“But you’re Peter Bunting, for God’s sake.”

“I’m sorry to inform you, but that means jack shit to these folks.”

“If they come and get me, next time I don’t think I’ll be as lucky.”

“Neither will I.”

“They wouldn’t harm you, sir.”

Bunting felt like laughing. He felt like sliding down the gilded banister in the two-story foyer of his insanely expensive home screaming at the top of his lungs. Instead he quietly said, “You think?”

“Is it that bad?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He heard the other man sigh. “I can’t believe we have no one to turn to.”

The man’s words perked up something in Bunting’s tired mind.

“Sir, did you hear me?”

Bunting said, “I’ll call you back. Get some sleep. And keep your head down.”

He clicked off and looked at his phone.

Did he have someone to turn to?

Did he dare?

Hell, did he have a choice?

He went to his bedroom and lay down next to his wife. He put an arm protectively across her. He had made up his mind.

I’m not going down without a fight.