******

“Motherfucker, you better Let. Me. Out! We’re gonna kill you and that old English bastard, too!”

Old English bastard? Why the hell would they think I’d care if they killed Charlie? Frankly, they’d be doing me a favor, although there would be something very sweet about doing the job myself. I frown, swerving like a maniac through the streets of downtown Seattle. Not far to go now. I’ll worry about Charlie and Julio, and every other malevolent force out for my balls, when I don’t have a guy locked in the trunk of my car. It occurs to me that there’s only one real way to deal with Andreas. It also occurs to me I can’t just kill the man. Not anymore.

Not now I’m involved with a woman who swore a highly fucking inconvenient oath. Hippocrates obviously never came across any of the people I deal with on a daily basis. If he had, he would have amended that oath to say, I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone. (Unless they’re rolling up on me. In which case, it’s game on, motherfucker.)

I’m still puzzling over how the hell to make this whole kidnapping situation work by the time I pull into the underground garage of the apartment building on West Ave. Maybe not the smartest move, bringing Medina here, but I have an arrangement with the owner of the place. In return for a small and rather violent favor I did him, he gave me access to the basement storage areas underneath the building. No one else has a key—not even him. I’ve used the place a couple of times to put the hurt on a few people, and at the end of the day it’s central. I need to be around in case Michael calls.

I park and make sure no one else is around before I open the trunk. Just in case he’s stupid enough to try anything, the Desert Eagle is already trained on Andreas. His eyes shift quickly, adjusting to the light—yeah, the asshole was gonna make a move. His legs are drawn to his chest, as though he’s about to lash out with his feet. I’m beyond his reach, though. “Get out,” I growl.

Medina looks at me. Looks at the underground parking lot we’re in, and then says, “No.”

“No?”

“No way, ese. I get out of this car, it’s the last thing I ever do.”

I should have hit the asshole harder. This would be going a whole lot easier if he were still unconscious right now; I could have just lifted his scrawny ass out of there and slung him over my shoulder. As it stands, I’m gonna have to get persuasive. I shove his feet out of the way, leaning into the trunk, pressing the muzzle of the gun directly against his forehead. “You have two choices right now, ese. You can either die in the trunk of a car, or you can have a conversation with me about my friend and maybe come through the other side of this alive, depending on how badly you piss me off. Up to you.”

Medina’s jaw works, eyes sharp and assessing. “Fine.” He heaves himself out of the trunk with as much dignity as a man with a recently broken arm can, staring me down the whole time. I’m used to this look. A lot of people have used it on me. A lot of people have hated me, wished me dead. Imagined how they would kill me—played it over so forcefully in their heads that I can almost see the moment where they imagine my death register on their faces. It doesn’t bother me. Everyone can dream, after all. Shame for him that’s all it is, though—nothing more than a dream.

I shove him with the gun right in the solar plexus. “Move.” Medina narrows his eyes at me, but gets moving. I guide him to the service entrance at the far end of the parking garage, making sure no one sees me forcing a man to unlock the door at gunpoint. There are some seriously shady characters living in this building but even they get innocent houseguests who might witness this scene and think it a little fucking suspicious.

I take the key back from Medina and push him into the corridor. Lit by emergency strip lighting, the place pretty much looks like a set of a horror film. Medina isn’t exactly thrilled at following my directions as I point him where I want him to go, but he knows the alternative is for me to shoot him right here and now. We head through a maze of passageways before we reach the room I’m looking for.

Inside the empty concrete box is nothing but a single chair and a naked light hanging from the ceiling. Medina balks right away—this is the same thing Michael was faced with when Andreas took him down into Julio’s basement. It's only right Andreas gets a taste. I dig the gun into his back, growling low under my breath.

“You'd better move your ass or I'll knock you the fuck out and drag you over to that chair myself.”

Andreas must know I'm not the type of guy to exaggerate. He swears in Spanish under his breath and mans up, stalking over to the chair and sitting down on it, fixing a hateful gaze on me. “If you kill me, you'll never be able to set foot in California again, my friend.”

I smile at that, scratching my temple with the butt of the Desert Eagle. “California's overrated in my book. I've had my fill for a lifetime.”

Andreas’ eyes narrow, a thin, nasty smile spreading on his face. “Oh yeah, that's right. You grew up in Cali, didn't you? Heard all about that. Your mama, she got herself all banged up in a car accident, no? Was she pretty a pretty one? I bet I would have liked to fuck her, if—”

I shoot him. The Desert Eagle feels like it’s vibrating in my hands as I aim it at Medina’s right shin and I pull the trigger. The sound of the shot resonates off the walls, echoing around the small concrete box so loud that my ears ring. Medina’s blood curdling scream rides over the top of it, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. There’s a good deal of blood splattered all over the floor. The wound on Medina’s leg looks pretty neat and small. He’s still screaming when I pace behind him—there’s an exit hole. I find the round crushed and spent, half buried into the bare concrete floor.