Patrick crouched behind a dumpster and dropped his motorcycle helmet on the ground. Clutching his arm, he watched with shock at the blood that seeped through his fingers. He yanked off his tie and wrapped it around the wound a few times, then tied the ends, pulling the knot tight with his teeth.
Holding his injured arm as still as possible against the searing pain, he reached under the dumpster with his good hand and felt the ground for the gun. Every cell in his body screamed run, but he couldn’t leave the weapon behind. Finally, he touched the warm metal with his fingertips.
He was such an idiot. How many rounds had he fired at the range? When it came to pointing a gun at another human being, even an asshole like George Green, he completely fell apart. Not that Patrick had ever intended to hurt George. He just wanted to ask if George had watched the video like Victor suspected.
Patrick had followed George from Burnam & Green, able to easily keep a safe distance on his motorcycle. The yellow Lamborghini stuck out like a sore thumb. George drove from the Pearl toward the Alphabet District, then turned down Twentieth toward Burnside. Patrick was surprised when George took a sudden right into the underground parking lot for the Relentless Rejuvenation Clinic. He followed as George pulled into an empty spot far from the entrance, near a line of dumpsters and recycling bins.
Patrick parked his motorcycle a few spots away. He looked around the dimly lit lot, noting how quiet it was for midafternoon.
Seems like as good a place as any for an interrogation, he thought. Patrick took off his leather jacket and draped it over his motorcycle seat. Keeping his helmet on, he quickly walked toward George’s car and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. He pulled the gun from its holster and twisted the silencer into place, figuring he may as well make it look real.
The Lamborghini’s engine was off, and Patrick could hear it ticking as it cooled. George remained seated, clutching a large bouquet of flowers stiffly in his hands, lost in thought.
Patrick tapped on the driver’s side window with the gun. George jumped in shock at the noise, then seeing the gun, frantically tried to restart his car. Patrick shook his helmeted head no, then motioned with his index finger that George should roll down his window.
Clearly terrified, George pressed a button and the window opened.
“I just want to talk,” said Patrick.
George swallowed, then spoke. His voice was unnaturally high. “This isn’t a great time. Why don’t you call my office? I’ll give you my card.” He reached toward the center console.
“Stop,” said Patrick, and George froze. “Get out of the car,” he commanded.
“I need to be somewhere,” George begged. “You don’t understand.”
“What you don’t seem to understand is that I have a gun, and you’d better do exactly what I say.”
George nodded, rolled the window back up, and opened the door. Patrick motioned for George to step toward the dumpsters.
Still clutching the flowers close to his chest, George said, “Listen, if this is about money, I can get you as much as you want. Just let me go.”
“Shut up.” They reached the dumpsters, and Patrick pushed George against one of them. He glanced around but felt sure they were out of sight. Still, he didn’t have a lot of time. Urgently he asked, “Did you watch the video?”
George looked baffled. “The video?”
Patrick waved the gun in frustration, and George cringed fearfully. “George, you know what I’m talking about. The DVD Sheila gave you for safekeeping the night of the party.”
“What party? I go to a lot of parties. I’m a very important man.”
“Jesus, dude. The night before the earthquake.”
Patrick could see George struggling to remember, then suddenly his eyes lit up. “I completely forgot about that. I never had a chance to watch it. Some kid showed up the next day pretending to work for Sheila. I gave it him.”
Patrick’s shoulders dropped with relief, and he pointed the gun away from George. He could tell George was telling the truth. No one who watched that video could just forget it, not even a self-centered prick like George Green. Patrick loosened his chin strap and pulled off his motorcycle helmet with his free hand.
“Hey, do I know you?” asked George.
A car squealed into the parking garage. When Patrick turned to make sure they were still out of sight, George pushed him. Patrick fell to the ground, dropping the gun. He heard a loud pop, then a crack as the bullet ricocheted off a metal dumpster, and a shock of pain as it hit him. He whirled around, but George was gone.
And now he was stuck in this dank parking garage, probably bleeding to death, the cops presumably on their way. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and cursed when he saw the broken screen. Luckily it still worked, and he scrolled through his contacts for the only person he wanted to talk to right now—Lisa.