Quinn shook his head. 'No, we're just supposed to arrest him. Doc Stern's got a safe room set aside to restrain him in.'
'What's this big thing that's supposed to happen?' Carson asked.
Branson stiffened, and glanced at Quinn. The red-haired pilot shrugged.
'There's an army on the way here,' Branson told them while cleaning his glasses on his shirt. 'A zombie army. They've got heavy armament-tanks, Bradleys, the works.'
'Shit,' Carson breathed. 'What's their ETA?'
'Anytime now.'
DiMassi sneered. 'Fuck. I'm out of commission for a few days and this whole place goes crazy. What's big bad Bates's plan for this army?'
'I don't know,' Quinn admitted. 'All I know is we've got our orders.'
'This doesn't seem right,' DiMassi grumbled, 'arresting Mr. Ramsey. I mean, he's Darren fucking Ramsey. The guy's a celebrity. A billionaire.
Maybe Bates is mistaken. You guys ever consider that?'
The other men didn't respond. Weapons drawn, they crept down the hallway. Quinn produced a key card that Bates had given him, and slid it into the office door. The door opened silently. Inside, the office was pitch black. The air-conditioning hummed quietly.
Quinn fell back as Carson and Branson rushed in. Quinn charged in behind them, ducking low. DiMassi brought up the rear, and flicked on the lights. It looked like a hurricane had blown through the office. The computer monitor lay smashed on the floor, and the tower casing was dented. Shredded paperwork lay strewn like confetti. The desk's contents were scattered across the carpet. Chairs and lamps had been knocked over, and soil from the potted palm tree covered everything.
Quinn pointed at Branson and indicated the private restroom door, then motioned for Carson to check the closet.
'It's clear, dog,' Carson confirmed.
'He's not in here either,' Branson called.
'Why would Mr. Ramsey do this to his own office?' DiMassi asked.
'Because,' Quinn said, ruffling through some paperwork, 'I told you. He's suffered some kind of breakdown.'
'How do we know Bates didn't do this? Maybe him and Forrest are gonna pull a coup.'
The other three looked at him with distaste.
'Come off it, DiMassi,' Branson grumbled. 'You really think Bates would lie about this?'
'Wouldn't surprise me one bit. Makes more sense than this cock-and-bull story about Mr. Ramsey going insane.'
'That's crap and you know it,' Carson snapped. 'You're just pissed off because Bates reprimanded you last month for taking the chopper out without clearance.'
'Shut up, Carson,' DiMassi warned.
'Why should I? It's true. You took that blond schoolteacher for a ride, just so you could get laid.'
'Least I got laid by a woman, you fucking faggot.'
Carson ran across the room, fists clenched. His eyes shone with anger.
Quinn stepped between them.
'Knock it off, both of you! We've got a job to do. DiMassi, you stay here in case Ramsey comes back.'
'But I-'
'Carson. Branson. You guys come with me. We'll check out the rest of the floor.'
'Quinn,' DiMassi argued, 'this is bullshit! If there's a fucking army getting ready to attack us, we should be doing something about it, not looking for the old man.'
The two pilots squared off. Quinn stepped closer, his face inches away from DiMassi's. The fat pilot's breath reeked, and drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. Quinn's nose wrinkled in disgust.
'I told you,' he hissed, 'that Bates has it under control. Now unless you want to face disciplinary action when this is all over and done with, I suggest you do as you're told. We don't need you, DiMassi. In case you've forgotten, Steve and I can fly that fucking chopper too. You dig?'
DiMassi stepped back. 'Yeah, man. I'm cool. Shit, Quinn, you don't have to bite my head off.'
Ignoring him, Quinn stalked out of the office. Carson and Branson followed. On his way out, Carson blew DiMassi a kiss and curtsied.
'Call me a faggot when this is all over, you fat fuck.'
A pencil snapped beneath DiMassi's boot. He sat Ramsey's leather chair upright, and then plopped down in it. The springs creaked beneath his weight. He laid his pistol on the desk and cracked his knuckles. His shoulders slumped, and after a moment, he closed his eyes and rested.
He opened them again a few minutes later, when he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head.
'Mr. DiMassi,' Ramsey whispered, 'I would appreciate it if you did not move. My office is already a mess. It
