Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand Page A

a second man crosses behind him and enters the room. He levels a black pistol in my face, circling to my left so as to leave the shotgun’s line of fire open. If I drew now, there’d be no way of taking them both, assuming I could beat the twelve-gauge in the first place, which is unlikely.
    “I’m a cop,” I say.
    “Do what I tell you and you’ll still be a cop when we walk out of here.”
    “You’re in charge.”
    “Good. Now, keep your hands flat on the desk, and without lifting them I want you to stand up. If you lift your hands, you’re dead.”
    He delivers the instructions calmly with just the hint of an accent—East Texas, maybe, or Louisiana. The man with the pistol says nothing. He just stands in the corner of the room, covering me. I glance his way, trying to burn the details into my memory. He wears a tight balaclava, too, and a gray T-shirt that leaves his nut-brown arms bare. There’s a gold ring on his left middle finger. A metallic skull with red stone eyes. Jeans and tan lace-up boots. I catch a smell of musky cologne on the air, the scent intensified by his stress.
    “Don’t sit there all day,” the man at the door says. “Get up.”
    Keeping my hands flat, I rise into a crouch. The pain in my leg flares up. I try to ignore the sensation. It feels wet, like if I put my fingers to my thigh, they’d come away bloody.
    “Okay. Now you’re going to stay like that while my associate takes your gun. This is for our safety and yours. If you try anything, I won’t hesitate.”
    “I won’t try anything.”
    The second man lowers his gun and tucks it into his waistband behind his hip. He approaches obliquely, removing my SIG from its holster in a practiced motion. Then he rests the muzzle against my back while his free hand roams over me.
    “Where is it?”
    “Left ankle,” I say, my throat tight.
    He stoops slightly, tugs my pants leg up, and slides the .40 caliber Kahr out of my molded ankle holster. A tremor runs up my spine. My skin feels clammy with sweat.
    Once he has both guns, the man fades back into the corner. The one with the shotgun finally reveals himself. He steps toward me, bringing the muzzle almost to my face. All I can see is that gaping hole, but I get the impression of a broad chest and thick forearms all blurred behind it.
    “We understand each other,” he says. “Now here’s what we’re gonna do. I want you to come around the desk and go over to that corkboard. I want your nose in that corner and your hands on the wall. When I say go, you lift your hands over your head and do it.”
    A drop of sweat runs down the side of my nose, hitting the desk.
    “Go.”
    I lift my hands off the desk. They leave damp prints. I raise them and straighten up, ignoring the needles in my hip and back. Unsteady on my feet, I shuffle around the desk, past the stack of clippings to the bare corkboard. In the corner I rest my hands on the two walls, staring into the crevice where they meet.
    “This is a mistake—”
    “Don’t bother with the speech,” he says. “We’re taking what we came for, then getting out of here. If you don’t move, everything will be fine. If you do . . .”
    The second man, the one with the skull ring, sniggers.
    “Shut up,” the Shotgun says. “Open the desk and find a folder or something to put all this stuff in.”
    I hear them moving behind me, gathering the clippings and putting them away. Then there’s a sound of moving furniture, metal scraping metal.
    “Are we taking this whole thing?” Skull Ring asks.
    “Just pop it open and take out the hard drive.”
    “You got a screwdriver?”
    “Just do it, okay?”
    A sudden crash makes me jump.
    “Don’t you move!” Shotgun yells.
    More crashes—they’re banging the computer on something, trying to break open the housing. Skull Ring huffs with the effort, but finally wrenches away the metal and starts digging inside. My shirt sticks to my chest. All I can think about is not moving, keeping