Countdown by Fern Michaels Page A

Cyrus, who was contentedly chewing on a rawhide strip. Then he pointed to Marks’s groin. He folded his arms across his chest and waited for a response. When none came he watched in slow motion as Dennis got up off his chair, walked around the table, and, before Jack knew what he was doing, pulled his arm back and then shot it forward, his fist slamming dead center on Marks’s nose.
    Blood flew outward in a fine mist, then gushed down Marks’s chin. Cyrus looked up to see if his services were required, decided they weren’t, and went back to his chew bone.
    “Way to go, Dennis,” Ted chortled.
    “I’m sick and tired of coddling him. It’s getting late; we need to get ready to leave if you want to stick to the timetable,” Dennis said fiercely.
    Jack looked at Harry and hissed, “You created a monster.” Harry actually laughed.
    Maggie ripped off a length of paper towels from the sink at the bar and shoved them at Marks. She couldn’t resist adding, “Don’t worry about that designer suit you’re wearing. Where you’re going, you won’t be needing it.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” Marks bellowed as he tried to staunch the flow of blood coming from his nostrils. “What gives you the right to steal my money? I’m calling the FBI right now. You’d better keep that damn dog away from me. And that crazy asshole that just punched me. I’ll see you all in jail. You’re crazy!”
    “It means whatever you want it to mean, you dickweed,” Dennis snarled. To Jack he said, “Look, we already know everything, so why does this dickweed have to confirm it? We’re going to run late. I say we dump him, then head for Middleburg. We can question him in the van if you think it’s that important. Let’s take a vote.” Every hand in the room shot in the air.
    “I’m not going to Middleburg. Get that idea out of your head right now,” Marks sputtered.
    “You’re right, you are not going to Middleburg, we are. You are going to the Southeast Ritz Carlton. Okay,” Jack said agreeably. “Let’s load up. You need to shut up, Marks. I don’t want to hear another word out of you. If you so much as breathe heavy, I’m going to let Cyrus play with you.”
    Cyrus understood the words load up and play . He grabbed his ragged duck and raced to the back door.
    “Tie this jerk up and load him into the back of the van,” Ted ordered as he tossed a set of flex cuffs to Espinosa. Abner set his briefcase down in the event he was needed to help with a noncompliant Marks. In the end, cursing and yelling, Marks went limp. Ted threw him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and they all marched single file out to the Post van.
    Thirty-five minutes later, the Post van pulled to the curb right behind Marks’s stripped-down Mercedes. Luther Jones appeared out of nowhere, three of his gang behind him. He high-fived Dennis and the others as he introduced himself and his friends.
    “What do you need us to do, man?”
    Dennis drew Luther to the side, clued him in, then walked back to the little group. “He understands he and his friends are to stand guard until we get back. Once we dump Marks on the second floor, there is no way he’s going to leave unless Marks can fly. There is no heat inside this condemned building, which, by the way, belongs to Sandford. The water is still running so they can flush, but the system leaves a lot to be desired. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. They rigged up some electricity earlier and there is a fifteen-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. And, Luther tells me the temperature is a robust forty-nine degrees. There is no furniture in the apartment, the floors are rotted, the windows broken, and when they rigged up the light, they let loose a dozen or so rats that they had trapped over the past few days. Hungry rats!”
    “That excites me,” Jack said as he eyed Marks, who looked like he was going to black out at any moment. Espinosa grabbed one arm and Abner took the