“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Paul mutters. His hard eyes focus on Russo. “You talk a lot about family, Tommy. I want every man out here to think about his son. Because you’ve got my son locked in that camp house, scared to death. He’s worried about his mama. And for what? You sons of bitches ought to be ashamed. You know me. You knew my daddy. Some of you knew my granddaddy. You know the history. When it came to gunplay after the Civil War, which family did you count on to take care of business? The Mathesons, that’s who. Well, what’s changed? Nothing. And I hold every man here personally responsible for whatever happens next. I may not be a rocket scientist—that’s my wife’s department—but when the enemy’s at the gates, I’m the guy you call. You don’t believe me, ask Marshall here what he left out of that book about Iraq.”
Rapt faces stare at Paul with something close to worship in their eyes. There’s no respect among American men like that reserved for soldiers who have survived combat.
“One more thing,” Paul says in a softer voice. “Marshall here screwed me over pretty good. But that’s personal. I’m no angel myself. God knows I haven’t treated my wife right over the years. And the thing is, me and him go back to kindergarten. Dixie Youth baseball. Jerking off to our first Playboy. Building forts in the woods. We fought together in Ramadi, and I can tell you this: when the insurgents overran us, he returned fire till his gun ran dry. Today we both lost our fathers. The same day. Now you got us out here for this bullshit inquisition?”
Paul looks at the ground and shakes his head. “I’m not killing him for you. I won’t do it. He’s gonna hold up his end of the deal. And if you kill him—and that bookstore lady, who hasn’t done a damn thing to you, and whose coffee I like—then I put your names down in my book. And one night soon, you’re gonna wake up just long enough to see the blood spurting from your carotids before you bleed out.”
“I told you!” Holland cries with satisfaction, pushing his derringer closer to Paul. “We’ve got to kill him, too.”
Holland seems to believe that Paul has condemned himself.
“He’s right,” Paul concludes. “You boys got a choice to make. Kill half a dozen people for no good reason, then pray the FBI doesn’t kick down your door tomorrow morning. Or lay it all off on Max and this prick, and call it a day.”
Holland swallows hard. He looks to Russo but finds no support there. Summoning all the conviction he can, he says, “None of this is up to Paul. Jet’s the one with a copy of the cache. And remember that video. These two are about to wind up in divorce court. Guaranteed. How many of us have been divorced? Seven out of twelve? Think about it. No matter how you start, it ends up a war. No prisoners. Does anybody here think this bitch won’t use everything in her arsenal to get custody of her kid? Be smart! Let’s find out what she knows and put an end to the threat once and for all.”
“You’re thinking again, Beau,” Jet says, stepping between Holland and the other men. “Who says I’m getting divorced? What did you see on that screen? Me having sex with Marshall? No. He doesn’t want me. He’s in love with Nadine. Sure, I strayed once. So what? It’s nothing Paul hasn’t done a dozen times. All you dinosaurs think if the woman strays, the marriage is over. Well, that’s not how it is anymore. Paul and I have a son to raise—together. And that’s what we’re going to do.” She looks at Russo. “As for your losses, that’s your problem. If the club wants to make you whole, fine. There’s no reason that should fall on Paul and me. Claude, assess every member of the club. Split eleven ways, that’s $909,090.90 apiece.”
I’m worried she’s moving too fast for these old guys, some of whom appear to be trying to mentally check her math.
“Why eleven ways?” Holland asks.
Jet smiles at him. “Because you’re going to be dead.” She turns to Buckman. “You could get him to write you a check tonight. After all, you own the bank. You could still honor it Monday, even after he’s deceased. Right?”
Her brazen confidence and mental acuity have stunned the assembled businessmen.
“Mr. McEwan,” Buckman says. “What about Avery Sumner? I’d very much like him to retain his Senate seat. Bienville needs him. He’ll vote honestly on all China-related bills. You have my word. Can you live with that?”
I barely have enough spit in my mouth to form words. “I can.”
Buckman looks over at Donnelly, who nods once. Then at Arthur Pine. Pine is slower to agree.
“This is crazy!” Holland yells. “You’re willing to risk our security because of this bitch? Because you haven’t got the nerve to do what needs to be done?”
“I’m about tired of this motherfucker,” Paul says.
Holland’s eyes blaze. “You don’t get to—”
Like a rattlesnake, Paul’s right hand strikes Holland’s throat and clamps around his windpipe. Holland fires the derringer, but Paul’s left hand has already parried it, and the bullet ricochets off the cement into the night. Holland tries to speak when Paul wrenches the little gun from his hand, but no sound emerges.
As Beau’s tanned face darkens, Paul cracks his head against a vertical post, stunning him senseless. Tommy Russo whips out a pistol and aims at Paul, but Paul ignores him. Buckman looks at Russo and lifts a restraining hand.
“I’m a new member, Claude,” Paul says. “Do I need a show of hands or what?”
The silence stretches while Buckman’s mind races, calculating odds. In the end, he takes too long. In one violent motion Paul slams Holland down to the concrete, then rises and stomps his neck so hard that a shock runs up our legs.
Several men jump in their seats, and Jet turns away.
“Can I get a second?” Paul asks, straightening his shirt and looking around the circle.
“Second,” says Wyatt Cash. “Goddamn.”
“Well,” croaks Buckman, staring at Holland’s motionless corpse. “I guess that’s that.”
Paul looks around. “Somebody find a blanket and show Marshall where the skinning shed is. And lend him a truck to take Nadine home.”
“What about my ten million?” Russo asks, staring at Holland’s body.
Buckman’s mouth works silently as he thinks about it. “The club will cover half your losses, Mr. Russo. What would that be, Mrs. Matheson?”
“Eleven ways?”
“Yes. I can assess a share from some of Mr. Holland’s shadier deals.”
Jet clucks her tongue. “$454,545.45 apiece.”
Buckman smiles. “You have a job at my bank any time you want it.”
“No thanks.”
Paul looks at the semicircle. “Dr. Lacey, how about you step over here a second?”
Lacey looks left, then right, hoping someone will excuse him from this reckoning. No one meets his eye. The doctor rubs his knees, then gets up and walks slowly to where we stand.
“You like my wife’s ass?” Paul asks.
Lacey’s face goes red. “Paul, listen, I’m into the gin pretty good—”
Paul backhands the doctor with a blow that sends him reeling, then turns his attention to Wyatt Cash. “Wyatt, how ’bout you take Jet in there with Kevin and Tallulah? Once they’ve calmed down, put them in your chopper and fly them home. I’ll stay here till Max is in the ground. Claude and I will work out the fine print going forward. Somebody needs to lose Beau’s Porsche.”