?The message is that he?s dead and will see you in hell.?
Ortega refused to be rattled. ?Uh-huh. Yes, very colorful. What is it you want, Mr. Foley??
?I need you to answer some questions.?
?And what if I?m not in the mood to answer your questions??
Mike said, ?Then you?ll see your pal Enrique sooner than planned.?
A bemused smile from Ortega. ?You are in no position to make threats, old-timer. My man Pedro behind you can bench-press a Buick.?
?Maybe,? Mike said. ?But he wears sandals.?
Mike lifted his leg and brought the heel of his new wing tip down hard with everything he had. He felt the bodyguard?s little toe
As the bodyguard dropped, Mike snatched his pistol from the bruiser?s waistband. He thumbed the hammer back, spun toward Ortega.
But Ortega had overturned the table, scattered coffee cups. He was running back toward his house. Mike tried to follow, but something caught his ankle. Mike looked down, saw the bloody splotch where the toe had exploded. He also saw the bodyguard up on one knee, pawing at Mike?s leg. Mike aimed the revolver, squeezed the trigger. The shot caught the bodyguard in the gut and he sprawled facedown.
Mike tried to run after Ortega, but his knees wouldn?t let him. He fired the revolver twice, trying to catch Ortega in the leg, but both shots went wide. Ortega was already around the pool. Mike limped after him.
He made it back through the French doors, saw Ortega at his desk, reaching for something in the top drawer. Mike thumbed the hammer back again. ?Hold it!?
Ortega didn?t hold it. His hand came out of the desk drawer clutching a nickel-plated snub-nose revolver.
Mike fired, splinters flying up from the desktop an inch from Ortega.
Ortega dropped the revolver on top of the desk, put his hand up. ?Okay, okay. Take it easy.?
Ortega had taken it as a warning shot, but Mike knew better. He?d been aiming for Ortega?s chest. The shot had gone wide again. It was the eye patch, Mike realized. It was throwing off his aim. He?d gotten lucky. Now he could ask Ortega about Cornwall-Jenkins and Enrique Mars and the hit on his nephew.
?Why was Andrew Foley marked for a hit??
?I don?t know,? Ortega said. ?I got the call and put my man on it.?
?Who gave you the order??
?A woman named Meredith Cornwall.?
Mike nodded. Meredith pulled Ortega?s strings, not the other way around. That explained why Meredith and Mars seemed to be in different leagues. Mike asked, ?What about her sister??
?I don?t know anything about that,? Ortega said.
?Think harder.?
?I?m telling you,? Ortega said. ?I?m a middle man. I never ask why. Someone says take the guy out, and that?s it. I haven?t heard from either Mars or Cornwall.?
?They?re both dead.?
?How??
?Me.?
Ortega blinked, bewilderment on his face. ?Who
