“Is he supposed to recognize you?” James asks.
“Nope.” I move back, away from the door, my eyes unmoving from the flustered, flat-out panicked form of Derek Green. “Speaks volumes, doesn’t it?”
His mouth moves, forcing some smiles, and the men at the table start gathering their laptops and files, leaving the room, every one of them recoiling when they spot us waiting outside. As soon as the room is empty, except for Derek, I stroll in, taking the seat at the far end, opposite him. James takes the chair directly to his right, Brad the one on his left. He eyes them both. Then me.
My lips straight, I place the machine gun on the table. His eyes land on it and stick. “Nice office,” I say, taking my time to gaze around. “What do we have here?” I muse. “Maybe five thousand square feet. Premium spec, unrivaled location, so maybe thirty bucks per square foot a year.” I pout, looking at the ceiling. “We’re talking twelve and a half thousand dollars per month.” I blow out my cheeks. “That’s a massive leap from the . . . what? Fifteen hundred you were paying a few months ago?” I reach for the machine gun and swivel it to the left, and then back to the right. “Business must be booming, Derek.” I look at him. “Care to explain?”
His sweat is very real. So is the fear in his eyes, so if he tries to play dumb, I can’t promise I won’t rape him with this gun. “It’s been a good year.” His words shake, his hand instinctively reaching for his tie and loosening it.
James, as hotheaded as I’ve learned he is, picks up his gun and rests it on the desk, aimed at Derek. He flies back in his chair, hands up.
Brad chuckles. “You’re playing with the big boys, and a little machine gun makes you shit your pants?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
James releases the safety and loads, the sound making Derek flinch. “You sure?” he asks, moving a fraction to the right and firing, obliterating the wall-hung TV behind Derek. The sound is earsplitting, as round after round sounds, the belt jumping across James’s shoulder as it feeds the machine gun. James? He’s motionless, expressionless, a fucking robot. Derek? Oh, poor Derek. His arms go over his head, his body folding over the table. I can see Brad laughing. Can’t hear him, though. Fuck me, my ears are bleeding. But I let James at him, knowing how he feels about any poor fucker who’s stupid enough to get embroiled in The Bear’s business.
James finally relieves us all of the noise and relaxes back in his chair, eyeing the glass wall into the corridor. “Tell them you’re okay,” he says quietly.
I look to see people on the other side of the glass, some stock-still in shock, others running scared. “Do it now,” I order. “Get up and reassure your staff that all is well.” I watch, amused, as Derek stands on shaky legs and more or less stumbles to the door, swinging it open, sweat pouring. “And if anyone calls the police . . . well, I don’t think I need to spell it out.”
“No need to panic,” Derek says, sounding pretty fucking panicked. “We’re just . . . um . . . acting out a crime scene to . . . um . . . yes . . . to corroborate some evidence.” He coughs. “Back to work.” He shuts the door, presses a button, and the room is suddenly private.
“Acting out a crime scene,” I say, thoughtful. “Very good, Derek.”
His forehead meets the glass. “Why are you here?”
Why am I here? I brush my lip slowly with my middle finger. “You’ve upset my wife,” I say quietly, and he peeks at me. “Therefore, you’ve upset me.” I stand, walking around the table and claiming Derek’s arm. I manhandle him back to his chair, pushing him down. “Take a seat, Derek. You’re gonna need it.”
“I’ve done what any decent father would do,” he cries, his arms thrown into the air.
“You’re not his father,” I point out, crouching beside him, my glare deadly. “You’re the man who paid handsomely for a baby who was ripped from his mother’s arms. Unlucky for you, the victim in all this happens to be my wife. I could have ended you three years ago, Derek. But I did the right thing by Daniel because I knew that was what Rose wanted.” I get up closer, making him lean back. “She’s done everything right, and now you’re saying she can’t see him? Do you understand the consequences of your actions, Derek? Do you really understand?” I reach for James’s gun and turn it a fraction, so it’s aimed square at Derek’s forehead. He inhales. “Now this can be solved pretty easily, and you know how.” I rise to my full height, slip a hand around the back of his head, and smash it down onto the desk with force. He cries out, grappling at his bloodied nose, his glasses bent and broken. “So fix it, because I won’t be so nice next time.”
The door knocks and opens, and the lady from reception appears with some tea. I slap on a smile and go to her, relieving her of the tray. “Thank you, very kind.”
She can only nod, her eyes glued to a bleeding Derek Green behind me.
“He’s a great actor, eh?” I chuckle, holding up the tray. “Thanks for the tea. We were just taking a break from acting out that crime scene.” I step forward, forcing her to retreat. She quickly shuts the door, and I take the tray to the table, lifting the lid off the pot and stirring. “Now let’s move on to Vince Roake.” The staff may have indirectly been told not to call the cops but, let’s face it, who wouldn’t?
Derek glances up, his nervous form becoming more frantic.
“A client of yours, I believe. On remand. Found guilty at trial, has appealed, fired his attorney, and hired you. Of all the people in the world, Derek. He hires you.” I pour the tea, a cup for each of us. “Milk?” I ask the tray, getting a grunt from James, a “please” from Brad, and nothing from Derek. “Do. You. Have. Milk?” I look at him, and he nods jerkily. So I add milk. “No sugar for me.” I smile at him. “Obviously.” I proceed to spoon sugar into Derek’s cup, one after the other, until the bowl is empty, and Derek’s tea looks like toffee. “Drink up.” I slide it toward him and hand out the delicate cups and saucers to James and Brad, taking my own and sipping. I hum, holding the cup up and inspecting it. “You know, no one makes tea like my mum.”
“No one,” Brad agrees, joining me and testing. “She’s not passed on that talent to you, Danny.” He grimaces, placing his cup down.
I take another sip, just to test it again. “What do you think?” I ask James, who’s contemplating me with a poorly concealed smirk.
“It’s average.”
“It’s average,” I mimic, returning my attention to Derek. “I’m wounded. How about you, Derek? Do you like my tea?”
With shaky hands, he lifts the small cup of goo to his lips and practically chews his way through half of it, his skin turning a fetching shade of green, fighting to suppress his heaves. “Very good,” he coughs.
My nose wrinkles. “Don’t lie to me, Derek. I hate liars.” I slip the cup and saucer onto the desk, move the guns closer to him so the ends are touching his chest, and retake my seat at the end of the table. “Bear that in mind when I ask my next question.” I push the tips of my fingers together, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair. “Who do you answer to?”