I gave Nate a quick bob of my head, got a nod in return, and then walked over to the door. Just as I got within reaching distance of the handle, Shoe's thick fingers grabbed my shoulder, arresting my movement unexpectedly.
"Hold on," he said gruffly, turning me around. "No weapons. You leave everything here. I take Mister Diavolo's security very seriously."
After I giving him a 'be my guest' sort of shrug, Shoe patted me down for weapons in most of the usual places, taking his time and being as rough and obnoxious as he could while going about it. He seemed genuinely surprised that I didn't have a gun on me, which probably contributed to the fact that his search took twice as long as it should have. He made me empty my pockets and spread their contents on the top of the bar counter - a wallet, passport, handkerchief, two sets of keys, zippo lighter, a credit card holder, and a small pager.
Yes, that's right . . . a pager. I don't own a cellphone, much in the same way that I don't have a death wish. After finding out just how ridiculously easy it is to locate and hunt down someone using their cellphone, I developed a healthy aversion to the things. And that's just regular cellphones, too - don't even get me started on 'smartphones'.
"Okay," Shoe grumbled finally, "let's go."
I began to retrieve my various items so I could put them back in my pockets.
"No," he said, waving at my collection of stuff. "That all stays here."
"Well then, I guess I stay here too," I said, continuing to pick up my things.
"I'm serious!" he warned.
"So am I. We gonna play this game again?" I gave him a level stare. "I'm willing to bet a whole pile of money that Diavolo didn't give you instructions any more specific than 'bring him to me'. You've checked me for a gun - I don't have one. I'm not leaving without the rest of my stuff, and if you think I am, then we're about to have an interesting problem."
We traded dirty looks in silence. Despite the fact that Shoe didn't appear to have much of a learning curve, I began hoping that he'd eventually figure this sort of stuff out beforehand when dealing with me. This constant tough guy act was starting to become a bit of a time-waster.
"Fine," he growled under his breath. "Bring your junk. And hurry the fuck up!"
I shrugged and gathered my things, putting them into my pockets slowly, inspecting each for blemishes before I did. Then, that done, I walked the rest of the way to the door, moving much slower than if I hadn't just been asked to hurry. Upon arriving at the door I stopped.
Shoe came to a stop as well, and looked a question at me.
I indicated the closed door with my head and smiled patiently.
If you haven't already noticed, I'm a bit of a shit-disturber when it comes to dealing with tough guys.
Snarling, Shoe kicked the door savagely with his foot, causing it to explode outward and slam into the shoulder of the rather surprised thug who was waiting outside. The fellow turned and looked at the two of us, hand reaching inside of his coat as he did.
"Why, thank you," I said, walking through the open door and onto the sidewalk, my expression calm and serene.
We all got into the large gray sedan parked out front, the four of us not saying a word. During the twenty minute drive to wherever they were taking me, it was about the same. Neither Shoe nor the other two passengers so much as looked at me, though I heard Shoe mutter the occasional snide remark in tones too low for me to hear. I did manage to hear him say something to the effect of, "Wouldn't want to be in his shoes," to one of his compatriots, which got a chuckle.
Get it? His name's Shoe, and he didn't want to be in my shoes? Ha ha. Hilarious.
I spent my time enjoying some of the coastal scenery, projecting unconcerned calm, and unobtrusively memorizing as much of the route as I could.
Always working, that's me.
Soon, we passed through a nice wrought iron gate and up a cobbled driveway, at which point the car slowed down and came to a stop. This time, rather than waiting for someone to open my door, I was the first one out. I took in the large dwelling and briefly considered what I was supposed to call it. Was it a mansion? A chateau, perhaps? Maybe a manor? I pondered these possibilities as we walked up to the front doors.
"Hold on a sec," a gruff new voice said. "Frisk 'im."
And so I was patted down again, and just about as rough as Shoe had been. Nope, still no gun. This time it only took about ten seconds or so before I was given a nod and escorted inside.
Once inside, I was frisked by an entire different set of meaty hands, and this time the fellow doing the searching wasn't nearly as polite or courteous as Shoe or the second guy had been. He shoved my shoulder roughly to get me to turn around, and halfway through the process he actually looked me in the eye and sneered.
When he was done, he shoved me in the direction of a nearby hallway and said, "Move." Both Shoe and his companion moved to flank me, like I were some sort of prisoner being escorted somewhere.
It was becoming clear that my treatment was consistent with the idea that they thought I was some terrified underling being hauled in to get dressed down by his boss. Completely inaccurate, to be sure, but it might be some sort of blustering form of negotiating tactic they'd been told to employ. That, or an even more likely explanation - they were assholes.
I kept my rage under control, shoving it in the same place that I'd locked up all of the other anger I'd been nursing.
Keeping the implacable smile on my face, I started walking down the hallway. Shoe, behind me and talking just loud enough to be overheard, muttered, "Wouldn't wanna be in this guy's shoes."
The statement got a wry chuckle from Shoe's pushy companion.
At the end of the hall was another large, gruff fellow with a low-sloping forehead, much like the one I'd noticed on Shoe. This one also frisked me for weapons, though much more carefully than his fellows, and without any unnecessarily rough treatment. Very professional.
Yup, you heard me right - frisked a total of four times.
It was possible that they were truly that scared of me. It was also possible that each guy simply wanted to cover his own ass, and didn't trust the job their fellows might have done. That made sense, I supposed. Of course, it could also just be that a couple of them had a pretty high opinion of their ranking in the underworld food-chain, and simply felt like pissing me off.
Mission accomplished.
It's too bad that none of the guys searching me had a fucking clue about what they should have been looking for . . .
Once the fellow was done checking me for weapons, he opened the door and nodded me in. I straightened out my suit jacket and nodded in return, opening my mouth in order to give the fellow a quick word of thanks-
A callous shove from behind caused me to shoot forward, and I practically flew into the darkened room, almost tripping over my own feet.
"Get in there! Quit yer stalling, asshole, or I swear I'll do you right here!" Shoe's companion snarled. I heard Shoe make an amused, sniggering sound.
I decided that I didn't really care for this pushy fellow at all. Or Shoe, for that matter. The guy at the door seemed okay. I began making a few mental notes about how I wanted this to go down.
This newest room I was in was dimly lit and shaped like an 'L', so that half of it, presumably where Diavolo himself sat, couldn't be seen from the doorway. The half I could see was full of tasteful wood furnishings that matched the hardwood floor to a tee. I noticed small coasters attached to the legs of chairs that surrounded the elegant dining table to the left, and throw rugs were strategically deployed under china cabinets and large shelves to ensure there would be no scuffing or scratching of the floor.
Diavolo really liked his hardwood, I guess. That was unfortunate.
I continued walking forward, dwarfed by my escorts, which now included the fellow who had been guarding the doorway to this particular room. On my left, the rest of the room slowly came into view, and I saw the room's only other occupants sitting behind a huge onyx desk.
Angelo Diavolo was a lean, older man with sharp features and the sort of black, oily, immovable hair that you saw in Brylcreem magazine ads from the fifties. His suit creases were as stiff and crisp as his posture, and his forehead was completely free of wrinkles, giving his face an appearance that was not completely unlike a shark's. Sitting beside him was . . .
Something of a surprise, actually.
The woman was perhaps in her early thirties, stunning, and dressed like an adolescent male's 'sexy librarian' fantasy made flesh. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her blouse done right up to the hollow of her neck, and her eyes considered me from behind jeweled spectacles that were quite a bit larger than they truly needed to be. Obviously a calculated effect, the sort of 'I am not to be ogled, and will not tolerate anything less than proper respect' schoolmarm vibe that couldn't be mistaken by even the most dull-witted thug. This was a lady who wasn't there for decoration, and who took no guff.
I got the feeling that, despite the fact that Diavolo was the one in charge, this woman was someone I should take very seriously.
No obvious weapons, though. Neither of them had one, from what I could see. But then, there was always the desk. Desks like that one were great for concealing things like emergency weaponry.
I made some quick mental calculations. Three guns that I knew of currently in the room. Six people total, including myself, two of them seated. Approximately a fifteen second sprint from where I stood to the front doors, with one guy standing guard outside of them.
Diavolo looked up from the papers of his desk and gave me a considering look for a moment. His face curled itself into a reasonable approximation of a smile a few seconds later.
I slipped my hand into my pants pocket.
"Ah, Mister 'Nobody', I take it," he drawled, a poorly concealed smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Good. I figured it was high time for a-"
The faint 'clink' of my Zippo lighter being opened stopped him mid-sentence, and his eyes managed to catch a glimpse of the shiny silver object as it fell onto the immaculate hardwood floor.
It made a metallic 'clunk', which was followed by a high pitched 'beep'. I looked away.
There was an impossibly bright flash of light, a thunderous, torso-rattling explosion, followed by several cries of surprise and pain.
Slipping my right index finger behind the faceplate of my wristwatch, I wriggled it through the rubber-coated wire loop and pulled, my watch making a faint 'wrrrrrrr' sound, not unlike that of a fishing rod letting out some line. Same concept, really.
Already stepping behind me and to my left, I took my garrote wire and threw it in a lazy loop over the head of Shoe, who, though blinded, was already reaching inside his jacket for his gun. I quickly transferred the end I was holding from my right to my left before yanking the wire tight, causing him to yelp in surprise. Both of his hands, including the hand holding his gun, went up to protect his neck.
Using my free hand, I twisted the Glock nine-millimeter from Shoe's grasp, yanked the wire against his neck once more while launching a savage heel-kick to the back of his left knee. As he crumpled to the floor, I whipped the pistol to my right, firing two shots in rapid succession. The first took Shoe's companion in the throat, causing him to spin backwards in a spray of arterial blood. The second caught door-guy in his right shoulder, a non-mortal wound, causing him to drop the pistol he'd only half-managed to pull out of his shoulder harness.
See? It pays to be on my good side.
Still pointing my gun at the door-guy, I tightened my grip on the wire that was looped around Shoe's throat and tugged experimentally. I heard a strangled exclamation of pain, and felt him posture up on his knees to keep from choking.
I waited. Soon the door-guy had managed to blink away the last of the effects of the flash-bang grenade. He looked down at Shoe's companion, who lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. Then he looked at me.
I gave him an upward nod with my chin while staring at his gun on the floor. His eyes went to it, and, grimacing slightly, he pressed his foot against it and slid it across the floor at me. I stomped on it with my right foot once it was within range, and then step-kicked it behind me to the far side of the room. I could hear it skitter onto a rug underneath a cabinet somewhere.
That done, I finally turned to face Diavolo and his female companion. Both were also slowly recovering from the effects of the flashbang, blinking enough of the explosion's afterimages from their eyes to make out what was now happening in front of them.
I pressed the muzzle of my newly acquired Glock firmly against Shoe's temple, pulling on the garrote wire as I did. He made a weak, gurgling noise of protest.
"Sorry about that folks," I said, my voice filled with idle nonchalance. "Didn't mean to interrupt you mid-sentence there. Please, do go on . . . high time for a what?"