Conviction

attacking told Fisher the Frenchman dealt poorly with uncertainty. This brazen stranger in his house had upset the order of things. Had interrupted his Saturday night.

“This is a mistake, asshole,” Doucet growled. “Do you know who I am?”

“You mean aside from a general dirtbag? No, I can’t think of a thing.”

“You’re dead, mister! Georges, call the others and get them over here. We’re going to need help burying this guy.”

Georges pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed. He stared at the screen, then frowned. “No signal.”

Fisher pulled a cigarette-pack-sized black box from his jacket pocket and held it up for them to see. “GSM signal jammer. Range is about thirty feet. You might have better luck outside.”

At Doucet’s nod, Georges headed for the door. It didn’t budge.

“Almost forgot,” Fisher said. “I locked us in.”

“Locked us in?” Doucet repeated with a smirk. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

“I don’t want any interruptions.”

Georges had returned to Doucet’s side. The four of them glared at Fisher. Doucet said, “You’ve got five seconds to get out of here alive.”

Fisher let the half smile he’d been wearing fall from his face. “Stop running your mouth, Lurch, and let’s get to it.”

Fisher barely got the words out before Doucet stepped forward, grabbed the arm of the couch, and tossed it aside as though it were a plastic chaise lounge. Fisher heard the distinctive snick of a switchblade opening a split second before Avent charged. The man was fast, but predictable, telegraphing his moves with his shoulders. He slashed wide at Fisher, who stepped back far enough to feel the blade’s passage under his chin but close enough that a quick step forward brought him inside Avent’s circle. He grabbed the knife arm at the wrist and the elbow, then dropped his own hips and twisted, putting all his weight into the torque. Avent’s arm shattered at the elbow. From the corner of his eye, Fisher saw movement — two smaller figures, Georges and Andre—so he spun again, levering the screaming Avent’s arm until he came around into their path. Fisher kicked Avent in the back of the knee, dropping him, then shoved him into Georges’s legs. Georges stumbled forward. Fisher met him, sidestepping left to keep Georges between himself and Doucet. As he drew even with Georges’s head, Fisher lashed out with a side fist that landed on the point of his jawbone, just below the ear. There was a muffled crack as the bone shattered. Georges gasped and went down, writhing. Seeing his two comrades down, Andre hesitated, but only for a moment before he, too, charged in, arms flailing in windmill punches. Fisher took a step back, waited until Andre’s weight was on his lead foot, then toe-kicked him in the kneecap, shattering it. As he pitched forward, Fisher rammed his knee forward, catching him on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he slumped backward, unconscious.

For a long ten seconds Doucet stared at Fisher, his chest heaving, the veins in his beefy neck pulsing. He glanced around, gave Fisher a sneering grin, and then walked over to one of the recliners. Beside it lay a cricket bat. Doucet hefted the thirty-eight-inch, three-pound length of white willow and squared off with Fisher again.

“Want to run now, asshole?” Doucet asked.

“No, thanks. In fact, that bat will suit my needs perfectly. I’m going to take it away and use it on you.”

“How do you figure?”

Fisher let the smile drop from his face. “You’re still running your mouth.”

Doucet charged. He hadn’t taken two steps before Fisher’s Gerber was out of its sheath. Doucet’s left leg was just coming forward when the dagger slammed, hilt deep, into his thigh. The left foot came down and immediately slipped from under the Frenchman as though he’d stepped onto an ice rink. He went down, knife hilt first, into the concrete. Then came the screaming.

* * *

It took ten minutes to get Pierre, Louis, Georges, Andre, and Avent cuffed and arranged on the couch. Doucet, who’d received a sedating tap from Fisher’s sap, was barely conscious, moaning gibberish as Fisher secured him to the sturdy oak coffee table, wrists and ankles cuffed to the legs.

Fisher made himself a cup of tea, sat down in one of the recliners, and waited until the others regained consciousness. Doucet was the last to come around. Fisher had bound the thigh wound using a sweatshirt he’d found stuffed between the couch cushions. Fisher’s aim had been true: The Gerber had struck no arteries, just muscle.

Pierre was the first to speak. “What the—”

“We’re done with questions, gentlemen. Now’s the time for answers. You run a thriving identity-theft business. I want to know where you keep your stock.”

Louis said, “We don’t have—”

Fisher silenced him with a raised hand. He picked up the cricket bat from beside his chair, then stood up and walked over to Doucet, who gaped at him. “I’m going to start hurting your boss,” Fisher said. “How badly is up to you. The quicker you give me what I want, the less pissed off he’s going to be at you.” Fisher brought the cricket bat level with his waist, extended his arm, let the bat hover over Doucet’s kneecap for a moment, then let it drop.

Crack!

Doucet screamed. Fisher let him get it out of his system, then said, “That’s not even broken, guys. Next time I’m going to put a little heart into it.”

“Tell him,” Doucet said.

No one spoke. They looked everywhere but at their boss.

“Tell him, or God help me!”

Louis said, “Behind the dryer. There’s a satchel.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Fisher said, then went upstairs, retrieved the valise, and came back down. “One more piece of business. Romain, you’ve been misbehaving—”

“I didn’t—”

“Shut up. You’ve been misbehaving and now it’s time to atone. I’m going to do some things to you, and it’s going to involve a lot of pain, but you’ll survive. While you’re recuperating, I want you to remember this night. If you so much as litter or steal a magazine or curse at an old woman, I’ll come back here and kill you.” Fisher looked at the others, staring at each face in turn. “All of you. And I’ll take my time doing it, too. Understood?” Six heads nodded.

Doucet said, “Hey, hey, you don’t have to do this. I can give you—”

“There’s nothing you can give me, and there’s nothing you can say. You’re a bully. Bullies’ brains are wired differently. To truly get it, you need an unforgettable lesson.”

“Please, don’t—”

“Too late for that,” Fisher said. He hefted the cricket bat, tested its weight, then walked closer to Doucet, who was openly sobbing now. “Don’t worry,” Fisher said. “You’ll pass out quickly.”

2

At eleven the next morning, Fisher’s taxi pulled onto rue de Vesles. Fisher let it go another hundred yards before asking the driver to stop. He paid the fare and climbed out. The block was lined with boutique clothing and shoe shops. Fisher crossed the street and walked another hundred yards, past the intersection of rue Marx Dormoy, then back across again. No sign of watchers. Once on the opposite sidewalk he reversed course again, past Marx Dormoy, and then into a tunneled alley called passage Saint-Jacques. Once through the alley he found himself in a warren of tree-lined courtyards and tall wrought-iron fences.

He found the right house number and pressed the buzzer. A moment later a wheezy voice replied, “Yes?”

“It’s Francois Dayreis.”

The door buzzed and Fisher pushed into the alcove, then down a short hall to a stairwell. He took it down one flight to the basement apartment and knocked. Fisher heard the shuffling of feet on carpet. Down the hall a ceiling