Chapter Seven

Myron called Esperanza as he walked back to the Mercedes SUV.

"There's going to be a lot of Brian Connors."

"Mother is named Grace." Myron slid into the backseat of the car with the phone on his ear. The driver shifted the SUV into drive and started down the road. "He's maybe from Oklahoma."

"I'll get on it."

"Thanks." Myron hung up and sat back.

They'd traveled about two more blocks when Myron realized something was wrong.

"Excuse me," he said to the driver. "Where's Harold?"

"He had to take off. I'm his replacement."

"What's your name?"

"Sal."

"Sal, I'm Myron."

"Nice to meet you, Myron."

"Likewise. Harold said something about his wife being sick."

"Yeah, that's why he had to leave. Sorry for the inconvenience."

"No worries," Myron said.

Myron surreptitiously tried the car door. Locked. Not unexpected. He checked his phone to make sure the phone locator was on. It was. It always was. He and Win shared locations all the time.

Just in case.

Just in case something like this arose. Myron dropped a pin and pressed the silent alarm button on his phone. It would reach Win and let him know that trouble was a-brewing.

Then, with the car stopped at a traffic light, Myron leaned forward, snaked his arm around Sal's neck, and pulled back hard against the man's throat.

Sal made a gurgling noise.

Myron dug in deeper, cutting off the air supply. Sal's hands flew up to the crook of Myron's elbow, feebly clawing at it, trying to find some way to dislodge or loosen the grip.

Myron held tight.

With his mouth close to Sal's ear, Myron whispered, "My driver's name was Fred. And he's single."

Myron flexed the bicep to get an even tighter squeeze.

Sal's body bucked.

Myron spotted the car's key fob on the console between the seats. It was awkward—right arm around Sal's throat, left arm reaching across it—but Myron was able to stretch over himself like in some childhood game of Twister. Once he got hold of the key, he debated how to play it. Did he stay in the car now and get Sal to talk? Or did he just get the hell out of the car and to safety?

All of the calculations went through his head in nanoseconds. Chances were, Sal the Driver wasn't the only one in on this. Someone had gotten rid of Fred, either through trickery or coercion, and if it was coercion, it was important to figure that out and find Fred as soon as possible.

There was also Rule One in the Myron Bolitar Rules of Engagement: Get to safety. Confronting your adversary came later.

Win would want to take on this fight. He would relish finishing Sal off.

Myron not so much.

The light turned green.

Myron unlocked the doors with the fob. He worried that when he released his grip to leave the vehicle, Sal might hit the gas on him. Myron couldn't risk that. Could the fob turn the engine off? He didn't know how. So Myron tried a simpler move.

He reeled back and punched Sal hard in the side of the head—hard enough, Myron knew from experience, to stun him until Myron could get out of the car safely.

But that was not how it worked out.

After the punch landed, before Myron could make another move, both back doors of the SUV flew open.

Two men climbed in, one on the left, one on the right. Both had guns.

This wasn't good.

Myron didn't hesitate. Before the door had a chance to close, with the man on his left still sliding into the seat, Myron elbowed him hard in the nose. He could feel the bones in the man's nose spread and give way.

Myron pushed the man hard and started to roll out.

"Don't move!"

That was the guy entering the vehicle from Myron's right. Myron stopped, debated his play here. Would the guy shoot him? Probably not. If they wanted to kill him, they would have done so. Maybe. They had tried to abduct him. Who were they? And for what purpose? Myron didn't know.

He only knew that his best bet was to get the hell out of the car.

Then again, he'd dropped a location pin and alarm already.

Win would be on the way.

So maybe the answer was to stall?

No.

Myron raised his hands as though in surrender. Here is a truth. Myron was a good fighter. He was well trained. But more than that, he had the reflexes and speed of a professional athlete. No, that's not faster than a bullet. But yes, using the element of surprise as well as his size and strength and genetic gifts, Myron slowed down the hand raise, all the while planning the move. When the time came, when he could feel just the slightest overconfidence and lapse in the gunman's concentration, Myron saw an opening.

Now, he told himself.

The fingers on Myron's right hand formed a spear. He struck cobra-like at the throat. The gunman's eyes widened in pain. Myron's left fist came right behind it. The blow landed flush on the jaw, sending the guy reeling. With the door still slightly open, Myron shoved the man right out of the car.

"Okay, that's enough!"

The voice had come from the front seat. His buddy Sal the Driver. Now Sal had a gun too, and with the roomy backseat of the Mercedes-Maybach, Myron would have no chance to reach him in time. Sal pointed the gun, his eyes wide and full of rage.

He wanted to shoot.

Myron hesitated. And that was all it took.

The man on the left, the one he'd elbowed in the nose, hit Myron on the side of the head with the butt of the gun. Myron saw stars. There was another blow—Myron wasn't sure from where—and then another.

And then there was blackness.