MIKE TENSES WHEN the man stands. He fights the reaction, trying to keep his body relaxed, his hands from shaking, when the man moves toward him, the knife held loosely in his right hand, a flip of his wrist spinning it, letting Mike know in one easy movement that he has held it countless times. Used it. This short, thin man with his dark eyes and soulless smile… he cannot get to Deanna. Yet Mike, made even shorter by his chair, seems to be the only thing standing in this man’s way. The asshole rolls his wrist, then gestures with the knife.
“Let’s move to your computer.”
Stepping back, out of the way enough to allow Mike to wheel, through the living room, into the bedroom, his eyes skipping everywhere as his brain tries to think, tries to work through the best way to pull up the information that shouldn’t be given.
Logging in, he bypasses the mainframe, doing a simple search in the database for Jess Reilly. Jess Reilly’s name in the computer will only bring up the numerous creations that confirm her false identity, all true knowledge housed under her real name. He opens a client file, stealing a piece of paper from the printer and writing the address in clear, neat print. Jess Reilly. P.O. Box 2499. Des Moines, Iowa.
“A P.O. box isn’t worth shit,” the man interjects. “I need a street address.”
“She probably lives in a dorm,” Mike murmurs, turning back to the computer and pulling up Facebook, to the page where he spends a good part of every day.
“No. Stop bullshitting me. My tech guy said she’s not at the college.”
“Was that the same guy who told you she lives here?” He regrets the sarcasm as soon as it comes out, covering it with a shrug, turning to glance over his shoulder. “That’s all I got, man. It looks like I sent the bills to her P.O. box, she paid them. Last job I did was build her website, and that was…” Reaching up, he scratches the back of his head in a gesture he hopes is convincing. “Uh… a few years ago. Long enough that I don’t remember it.”
Dropping his hands to the arm of the chair, he forces himself to keep his head forward as the man walks behind him, and there is suddenly the edge of the sharp blade against the delicate cords of his neck. The next exhale, cautious in execution, causes a prick of pain, and Mike’s hands shake slightly when he lifts them from the keyboard.
“Are you sure?” the asshole says slowly, dragging out each word.
The shake of his head is a mistake, the blade showing exactly how sharp it is, the gentle movement across the edge burning hot against Mike’s skin, and he inhales slowly, as carefully as possible. “I’m sure,” he says softly. Slowly. “I told you. I don’t know anything.”
The knife is removed so quickly that it skitters across his neck in its exit, a searing heat of pain quick and light, the fear shaking him more than the hurt, the shock of it all freezing the hacker in place for a moment before he pants in relief.
Stab. The movement is unexpected, the man moves quickly, jerking his hand in a downward motion to the shoulder, the smooth cut of blade passing through clothing, skin, and tissue. Every thought process is instantly immobilized, sudden, intense pain screaming through Mike’s body, the agonizing pain bringing to mind the time, back when he had full use of his body, that the snot-nosed neighbor from three houses over slammed his fingers into the car door, the five intense seconds of pain before the door was yanked open by a frantic parent’s hand. Only this pain doesn’t stop. It continues, screaming bloodred across every pore in his body, dots appearing in his vision as he struggles for breath, for speech, for thought. Gripping his shoulder tightly, shaky fingers discovering what his awkward glance is too short for. The butt of a knife. Blood, lots of sticky liquid underneath his fingers, soaking his shirt, his world gasping as the fuckhead before him says something that his mind can’t hear because it is too obsessed with the struggle to stay conscious. He won’t betray her. This psychopath, who will stab an innocent man without a second’s pause, cannot get near her. Who knows what she has done to him, if there are other Ralphs out there, what grudge this man holds against her beautiful self, and what he might do to avenge that grudge.
More dots. His torso sways and he tries to stay upright, wheezing aloud, the sound of the asshole’s curse ringing out, the man suddenly standing before him, his eyes in his vision, arresting. They are so close they could kiss, the stranger’s breath too clean for the dirty ass that he is. Anger. Mike’s brain focuses on the avenue, anger over pain, and the dots cease enough for him to understand the words.
“Look at me, you prick. Convince me that you’re telling the truth. Don’t be a hero for her.”
A hero? He’s never claimed to be one. He’s a worthless excuse of a man, but one who has done right by one person: her. Fuck this man and his knife. Fuck the shell of a life that exists in this chair. This man has no plans of leaving him alive.
“I can give you money,” he gasps out, a plan formulating, the details sorting as he breathes through his teeth and tries to handle the pain.
The man laughs, close and hard in his face, and he was wrong, this breath is not clean. Not a speck of this man is. His eyes are hard and dead, his manner almost gleeful, his compassion nonexistent. “I have money.” The man sneers.
A believable statement. Mike owns a duplicate version of the watch on his wrist. Bought it when he did his first big deal, back when he was an impressionable hacker who sold his morals for cash. Got his first half-million-dollar payday and wanted some flash. Something that a girl, looking at his webcam, would notice. Be impressed by. So he plunked down thirty grand for the Breguet, his own wrist for a short time matching this bloodthirsty maniac’s. Now, it sits somewhere in a sock drawer. Mike would have sold it by now, should have sold it by now, but time passed and distractions occurred. And now it is too late. Thirty-thousand-dollar watch sales are the kind of thing that FBI searches pull up. Find suspicious. Can be the final straw that pushes a judge to stamp “Approved” on a warrant. He’s smarter now. All his cash goes to the Caymans. Like Deanna, he stows it away for a rainy day that will probably never occur.
“I’ll give you everything I have. Over a million dollars. Every dollar I’ve saved for five years.” He allows the panic that he’s held at bay to sink in, tears spilling and his voice breaking in the way that a pussy’s would. “Fuck, I wouldn’t give that up for some skank. Please. I’ll give you it all.” The words come out right. Like he is terrified, ready to sacrifice anything and everything in exchange for his life.
The blurred image before him straightens, and he gasps through his sobs, his shoulder seizing, and all he can wonder is if the knife in his shoulder is doing permanent damage. His shoulder, the joint that gives his hands life. Why couldn’t the man have stabbed his leg?
“Set up a transfer. Every dollar you have. You’re right, I don’t believe you’d do that to protect this slut.”