“It’s a shame,” Cain said. “I bet this would have been a good read.”
Michael tightened his grip on the gun. Would have been?
“And I bet you would have made a bundle-probably even enough money to pay off Santiago.” He looked at Michael. “Isn’t that what this is for? These chapters, this letter of proposal? A last ditch effort to pay off Santiago? I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Archer. I can see right through you. The fear in your eyes is only slightly masked by your hatred of me. But I can understand that. I hold in my hand hours upon hours of your hard work. If I destroyed this, and if you were unable to pay off Santiago, he would rehire me and I would come back in a week to finish a job that I should have been allowed to finish today.”
He looked thoughtfully at the manuscript.
“Actually, I could use the extra money. There’s a little villa in Nice that I’d love to spend my winters at.”
Motionless, Michael watched Cain hold the manuscript over the metal waste basket at his feet. And then the man dropped the pages into the basket. The sound they made was like the rapid beating of wings.
Before Michael could react, Cain reached into his jacket pocket, removed the box of matches, struck one against the side of the box and dropped it into the can. There was a moment when Michael thought the match had gone out, but then a flickering yellow flower began to bloom.
And he knew it was time.
He leapt to his feet, revealed the gun and aimed it at a surprised Ethan Cain. He glanced over at the man standing at the door and saw that his gun was drawn and pointed directly at him. “You shoot, and so do I,” Michael said. He turned back to Cain. “Put out the fire. Now.”
Cain backed away from the basket, his hands at his sides, the fire reflected in the glass of his spectacles. “No,” he said.
“Do it!” Michael shouted.
“No.”
The fire grew in intensity. He didn’t have much time. He kicked the metal basket in an attempt to tip it over and knock out the fire, but the basket spun across the hardwood floor like a fiery comet, stopping with a metallic clank beneath the open window, where the curtains moved in the air.
There was a sudden burst of orange as the curtains ignited. With fresh air coming into the room, the fire had its fuel and it used it to roar and churn. It tasted the dry, cheap fabric and it twisted with surprising speed toward the stained ceiling, not stopping until that, too, was alight with fire.
And still the fire grew, creeping along the walls and ceiling, destroying everything it touched. Michael turned to Cain, who was staring at him, his gaze unwavering, daring. There was a bitter smile on his lips. Bits of fire and sparks were falling all around him from the ceiling. The heat and smoke were becoming unbearable.
Michael lifted the gun to the man’s head, cocked the trigger and heard a similar sound from across the room. He knew that if he pulled the trigger, his life also would end. After all he had been through, he wondered if that was such a bad thing.
“You don’t have the guts to do it, do you?” Cain said.
Michael’s eyes began to water. He wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke filling the room, or from the fact that he was facing certain death. He wondered if his father ever really loved him. And then he realized it didn’t matter.
He pulled the trigger.
There were two explosions.
Cain’s face erupted in a cloud of blood and he went down like a tenpin. Michael collapsed to his knees and fell to one side. As he lay there, his breathing slowing, the heat from the fire warming his already paling face, he knew he was dying. As bright as the room was, Michael was losing sight of it.
Breathing wasn’t an option.
He choked on his last few breaths and swore his father to hell.
He was floating now, lifting, no longer a part of his body. He saw his mother’s face but couldn’t hear her voice.
And then there was a flash of bright light and a sudden, terrible darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“There’s this little party tonight,” Celina said, steeling herself while she leaned through the doorway of Jack Douglas’ office at Redman International. “It’s in honor of two events-the work Countess Castellani has done for HIV research, and the recent discovery of twelve Monet paintings in the attic of a famous Parisian brothel. Now, look. I know you dislike these types of events, but it’s being held on Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht, which is the largest private yacht in the world, so that alone should be interesting. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”
Jack grinned. “Did you just say, Countess Castellani?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Is she a real person or a reality star?”
“I don’t know how to answer that-parts of her are real. And she’s very nice in a complicated way.”
He groaned.
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Agreed.”
“And you’ll like Anastassios.”
“What is it with these names?”
“They’re the international set.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I’m the American set.”
“They’re good people. They just have titles.”
“How much did they pay for those titles.”
“Depends on the method of payment. Are we talking cash or something else?”
“Let’s not go there.”
She cracked a smile. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it is what it is. I don’t want to go either, but I have no choice.”
He was seated at the desk that used to belong to Eric Parker, feet up and crossed on the shiny wood surface. Empty coffee cups and paperwork concerning the takeover of WestTex surrounded him. “If I go, can I borrow your father’s dinner jacket again?”
“Only if your car breaks down and it rains.”
“Then I’d better start praying for both,” he said. “Everything I own is at the cleaner’s.” He lifted his feet from the desk and stood. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“If you hate these events so much, why do you go to them?”
“Because it makes my father happy,” she said, stepping into the room. “And it's smart business. He always said you never know when or where you’ll strike a deal. And these are the sorts of events where deals are made.”
“All right,” Jack said. “I can see that. But something tells me you want more out of life than just striking a deal.” There was a silence while he glanced out the windows before him. Even at this height, the buzz and activity of midtown was noticeable.
“Have you ever been bungee jumping?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Bungee jumping. Don't tell me you haven't heard of it. You strap a heavy elastic cord around your ankles, dive off a cliff or a bridge, and plummet to a body of water, usually a river or stream. It’s fun. Just when you think you’re about to hit the water, the bungee slows your fall and you snap away from it, bouncing back into mid-air, where you start to fall again.”
Celina looked at him. “You do this?”
“I sky dive too.”
“What are you, Indiana Jones?”
