This section of the Pacific Coast Highway wasn’t busy at this time of the morning. As they sped south with the ocean on their right, the sun was just beginning to peek up over the horizon. The traffic was sparse, a few cars and tractor-trailers here and there, but that was it.
They drove in silence. Not that it was unusual for them to be together in silence. Samuel wasn’t a friend, and Connolly had never pretended he was. Samuel was his employee, plain and simple. The man was expendable. Once this was over, Connolly would see to it that he was eliminated. Connolly might even do it himself. Obviously he had become too lax in his current position. This never would have happened years ago when he first started building his empire.
His empire. Shit. How long it took to build and how quickly it fell, all because of one asshole.
But that was okay. They were going to take care of that right now. Not that it mattered much in the larger scheme of things—the asshole was dead, buried under a ton of rubble—but at least it would make Connolly feel better, and after everything that had happened, he wanted to feel good about something.
Samuel had made the appropriate calls in the helicopter. First about a private jet to take them out of the country, then about making a visit to the garage or warehouse or wherever the fuck they kept the cars. Samuel got confirmation on both. In fact, the jet they needed was just past the place in which they would find Casanova Bartkowski’s Mustang. So they landed at one airport, secured a car, and had been driving now for two hours. In another hour they would be in the air, headed toward Asia.
But first the Mustang.
At some point Samuel turned off the highway. The road was worn and ragged, dirt filling the cracks and sending up a cloud of dust in their wake.
After several miles of open fields they came to an abandoned warehouse. It was the only structure for at least a mile. A chain-link fence ran the perimeter, razor wire curving on top. A large weathered sign near the gate said PRIVATE PROPERTY KEEP OUT.
Samuel slowed the sedan in front of the gate. He put the car in park and kept the engine idling.
Connolly said, “Now what?”
Samuel hit the horn.
A man stepped out of the warehouse. He squinted at them for a long moment, then hurried over. He inserted a key into the padlock on the gate, and pushed the gate open.
The man chased after them as Samuel drove toward the building. He parked the sedan in front. Connolly and Samuel got out of the car just as the man caught up with them.
“Where is it?” Connolly said.
The man motioned them inside.
Connolly pulled a gun from his pocket. “No fucking around, right?”
The man’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the gun. “What? No way, man. You want me to show you the car, I’ll show you the car.”
Connolly followed the man inside the warehouse. It smelled like a warehouse should. Dust and oil and gasoline. Cars were everywhere. Many of them were already being taken apart. Others would be sent overseas and sold to the highest bidder.
“Where is everyone?” Connolly asked as the man led them deeper into the warehouse.
“It’s six o’clock in the morning,” the man said. “People are in bed. The only reason I’m here is because I got a call an hour ago telling me to meet you here.”
The man took them toward the rear corner of the warehouse where the Mustang was parked. Its tires, which had been shot and shredded, had since been replaced.
The man cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to remind you just how much this car costs.”
Connolly said, “Is that right? Then maybe I should remind you the operation that brought this car here was done without my permission. One would think to know better than to do things without my permission.”
He said it to the man but knew his words hit Samuel the hardest.
Without another word Connolly approached the Mustang and raised the gun at the windshield.
Behind him, a voice said, “Don’t.”
At first Connolly thought it was the man. The voice certainly didn’t sound like Samuel’s. But then the voice spoke again—“Put it down, asshole”—and Connolly’s blood went cold.
He turned, slowly, looking first at Samuel, then at the man, then at Casanova Bartkowski standing only a few yards away. Bartkowski had a gun in his own hand. He wasn’t aiming it at Connolly, but Connolly knew that didn’t matter. He knew that if Bartkowski wanted to, he could place a bullet between Connolly’s eyes in less than a second.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
Bartkowski shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.”
As if on cue, a dozen more men appeared around the warehouse. They all wore black tactical gear, much like the kind Connolly’s men had worn last night, and each had assault rifles aimed at Connolly.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bartkowski said. “You’re thinking if you raise that gun of yours, these men will take you down. You’ll go out in a blaze of glory and won’t have to spend the rest of your life in prison.”
“What makes you think I’ll go to prison?”
“Your uncle spilled his guts to me in five minutes. Told me the whole operation, front to back. Just imagine what he’ll tell the authorities.”
“It’s his word against mine.”
“And your men?”
“What men?”
“The truth is,” Bartkowski said, “I don’t see you going to prison. I don’t even see you going to trial. The people above you—your investors—will never take the chance you’ll turn on them.”
Connolly said nothing.
“They got people everywhere. It doesn’t matter where you go, they’ll find you. You could promise to flip right now and want to enter WITSEC, but they would still find you. I wouldn’t be surprised after the shit that just went down in Parrot Spur, they’re not looking for you already. They already know you’re planning to leave the country. The authorities already have every airport in California on high alert. It didn’t take long at all to find the private jet you were planning to use. Even if you had bypassed this place completely, you never would have gotten off the ground. But a hunch told me you would stop here first. And look what happened—you now have a dozen men aiming weapons at you. So drop the gun, get down on your knees, and put your hands on your head.”
Connolly stood motionless. His fingers tightened around the rubber pistol grip. His gaze swept the warehouse, from Bartkowski to the men surrounding them and then back to Bartkowski. Samuel and the man who had led them in here had seemingly disappeared. They were not important. What was important now was Bartkowski and those men in tactical gear. And the gun in Connolly’s hand.
“Don’t,” Bartkowski said. “I can see it in your eyes what you’re thinking. And trust me, nothing would please me more than to place a bullet in your head. Now drop the gun and get down on your knees.”
Connolly’s grip on the gun tightened even more. His gaze swept the warehouse again. This time Samuel and the man who had led them in here reappeared. He saw Samuel watching him. Waiting to see what Connolly would do. Connolly wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for Samuel. If anything, Samuel was the one who had brought everything to this point. Samuel was the one who needed to die.
“Do you want me to count to ten?” Bartkowski said.
“Don’t bother.”
The gun slipped through Connolly’s fingers, fell to the concrete floor. His glare burning into Barkowski, he lowered himself to his knees and placed his hands on the back of his head.
The men in tactical gear advanced. Connolly was thrown to the ground, quickly searched, and secured with zip-ties. They pulled him to his feet and pushed him toward the front of the warehouse.
As he passed Bartkowski, Connolly said, “This isn’t over yet.”
Bartkowski didn’t even blink. “Yes it is.”