30

Rafael gave the cord a tug, and the bitch of a motor started right up, without even a sputter.

“Impressive, no?” the Spanish man bragged as he revved his power tool. “Runs like clockwork. I love this thing.”

He walked toward Kedzia, the chainsaw purring like a cat awaiting its pâté.

“He’s still alive, Ortega,” I cried out. “At least finish him off first.”

“That’s exactly what makes this so exciting, Camara—him being alive. Haven’t you seen Scarface?”

“How sick are you, Ortega?”

He wasn’t listening. He set up shop on the right side of Kedzia’s inanimate body, raised the chainsaw, and slowly brought it down on his victim’s shoulder. With an ecstatic smile on his face, he began cutting. The machine sliced flesh and bone. Garnet-red geysers shot toward the ceiling. Kedzia’s body shook with convulsions so violent, I thought he might fall off the table. Then the Spanish man sliced off his head, and Mike’s body was still. Now he was a simple chunk of meat.

Blood was everywhere. I felt like throwing up and had to look away. I wasn’t the only one. The Malian and Rodrigo were also looking elsewhere. I thought I might be able to seize the moment and sneak away, but Rodrigo stopped me.

“Don’t you want to stay for the main event, compadre?” he said, pointing his automatic at my chest.

Rafael finished cutting up Mike and shoved the body parts off the table.

“Look, he takes up less space now,” he said, grinning. “Bring me the other one.”

Rodrigo and the Malian shoved me over the bloody floor toward Rafael. The boss turned me around, and his two helpers heaved me onto the table, which was sticky and slashed from the chainsaw. I felt as weak as a newborn.

“Wait, Ortega. What was the point of doing that little business with my Glock if you were just going to get rid of us this way?”

The Spaniard lifted the visor of his mask and gave me a faux-reflective look. “Well, if the police ever find your bodies—which I highly doubt they will—they’ll think you killed each other.”

“So, after gunning down Mike, I killed myself with a chainsaw?”

“It’s true—the version that you put a bullet in your brain because you were wracked with guilt after killing your lover is more believable…”

He lowered his visor again, and the chainsaw purred.

“But that would deprive me of the pleasure of seeing what you’re made of. In the literal sense, of course.”

The chainsaw neared my midsection. I tensed and cried out. But before my scream could even bounce off the ceiling, a round of bullets from an automatic cracked in the air. Rafael stopped, his face dumbstruck, and placed the chainsaw on the ground. Rodrigo and the Malian, in turn, dropped their weapons and raised their hands. Someone was shouting behind me.

“Get down! On the ground! Now!”

I turned to see Rony coming at us, a Kalashnikov aimed at my would-be killers.