“I need something to eat,” Bigga said calmly.

“So go get it, then. I can’t fucking concentrate with shit like this going on.”

“You want me to bring you back Chinese?” Bigga asked.

“You crazy? I ain’t eating on no fucking job.”

Bigga shrugged. “Okay, I’ll be back real fast,” he said, handing Slice the gun.

A moment later the door to the street slammed behind him, leaving Melanie alone with Slice.

48

SLICE PLAYED WITH HIS GAMEBOY FOR WHAT seemed like a very long time. Eventually it let loose a particularly loud series of beeps, then fell silent. The game was over.

“Hmm,” Slice said aloud. “My game all through. What I’m gonna do for some fun now?”

Melanie had stopped crying a while ago. Her eyes clear and dry, she watched Slice with heightened senses. Slowly he pulled himself up from where he sat against the wall and replaced the game in his pocket. He tucked his gun into the waistband of his baggy pants. Deliberately he walked the few steps to where Melanie sat in the swivel chair, pulling a roll of duct tape from his pocket. She knew what it was for. She hadn’t been afraid before, but she was afraid now. She began to tremble visibly, and a savage smile curled the corners of Slice’s lips.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “This my favorite part, bitch.”

He jerked her arms forward and taped her hands together at the wrists.

“The way I see it,” Slice said, “now we know where the blueprints is at and I sent somebody to get ’em, I don’t really need you no more. I’m free to do as I please. Don’t you agree?”

Melanie opened her mouth to speak, but only a wet, choking sound emerged.

“Cat got your tongue?” He tugged up his baggy pant leg and pulled a large knife, its curved, ten-inch blade glinting hypnotically, from a tan leather sheath strapped to his shin. He hefted the knife in his hand, testing its weight.

“You took No Joke. But I still got my knife. You know, my knife my favorite way to kill. I much prefer it to my gun. Just, like, a personal-taste issue, you feel me?”

He reached behind her and grabbed her hair, snapping her head back viciously to expose her throat. She exhaled all the air sharply from her lungs. The cold blade slithered along the skin under her chin. She felt the slightest sting.

“Yup, still real sharp,” he said, holding it before her eyes. The edge of the blade bore a tiny bit of blood. Melanie began to shake with pure terror. Slice laughed.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING, YOU FUCKING idiot?” cried Rommie from the doorway, his face contorted with rage. As Slice turned toward the sound of Rommie’s voice, brandishing the knife, Rommie swiftly closed the distance between them. Slice jabbed the knife straight at Rommie’s face.

“You psycho piece of shit!” Rommie screamed, jumping back, chest heaving. “You gonna kill her? You always have to hurt somebody for kicks, and all it does is fuck my shit up! Those blueprints weren’t where she said. You kill her, we’ll miss the stash again.”

“She saw my face. She can ID me. How I’m gonna let her live?”

“Get the fucking product first. Moron!” Rommie’s mouth was wet with spittle, his face rabid, transformed, nothing like the hail-fellow-well-met guy Melanie knew. He reached his hand inside his elegant, dark suit jacket. Anticipating shots, Melanie threw herself off the chair, rolling away from them to a sheltered spot behind Jed’s desk. Focused on each other, neither man stopped her. She nearly cried out at the sight of Sophie’s inert body on the floor; she’d almost forgotten she was back here. Melanie watched until she saw Sophie’s chest moving up and down. Thank God, alive! Then, needing to know what was happening, she inched forward on her stomach and peeked around the side of the desk.

Rommie and Slice loomed between her and the door, circling each other like boxers in a ring. By menacing Rommie with his knife, Slice managed to prevent him from drawing his gun. Rommie should have overpowered Slice easily, given his larger size. But Slice was lightning fast and armed. He danced around on the balls of his feet, his knife blade floating before him. As she watched, Rommie lunged for Slice’s wrist. Slice angled the blade just right so it slashed deeply into Rommie’s extended right hand.

“Aaaaagh!” Rommie screamed, clutching his bleeding hand against his chest and backing away.

“See what you get, fool?” Slice taunted.

Slice advanced toward Rommie, ready to stab, and Rommie went for his jacket again, with his left hand this time. Just as he managed to pull out his gun, Slice pounced, slashing. Rommie ducked aside, but not fast enough to stop the blade from making contact with his left arm. Slice couldn’t halt his forward momentum. The tip of his knife pierced the wall near the door and stuck in the decayed plaster. As he yanked it out, Rommie swung around wildly, howling with pain from his slashed arm. His gun went flying from his left hand, sliding across the floor and coming to rest near the swivel chair Melanie had just vacated, a few feet from her face. She stared right into its gleaming barrel. It was a sleek Glock nine-millimeter, and she’d fired one just like it recently on a courtesy visit to the DEA range.

Melanie thanked her lucky stars that Slice had taped her hands in front of her. The darkest parts of her past had prepared her for this moment: You acted. She’d learned that the hard way. You acted, or you became the victim. She lunged forward with all her strength, clasping the gun and rolling back into a sitting position, raising it in her bound hands to point straight at them.

“Drop the knife!” she shouted.

Slice whirled around and saw her holding the gun. Then he did something she hadn’t anticipated. He smiled, a condescending smile, as if the sight of her sitting there pointing a gun at him amused him considerably. His smile unnerved her for a second. But then it pissed her off.

“Drop it, or I’ll blow your fucking head off!” she shouted again.

Adrenaline pumping, breath coming in gasps, she lurched forward onto her knees, then sprang up toward Slice. She skidded to a halt less than five feet from him, pointing the gun straight at his head. Point-blank range, and she had decent aim. Assuming she was capable of pulling the trigger, she wouldn’t miss. But did she really have it in her to shoot another human being? Even this one?

Rommie, who’d been staring at his own blood dripping from his hands, looked back and forth between Slice and Melanie, dumbfounded, and did nothing.

Slowly and matter-of-factly, holding Melanie’s gaze, Slice pulled up his pant leg as if he meant to sheathe his knife. Did he think that would satisfy her?

“No, I said drop it! Drop it on the floor!”

She watched in mute horror as he slid the knife into its sheath and calmly reached for the gun stuck in his waistband. The trajectory the gun followed from his waist to pointing at her head seemed to happen in slow motion. She closed her eyes and squeezed the Glock’s trigger. A long time later, she felt the kick. Seconds seemed to last hours as she saw her daughter’s face. An enormous wave of sorrow washed over her. Far away, an earsplitting report sounded, and a fine spray of blood covered her skin and clothes.