Promise Me (Myron Bolitar 8)

The man threw off his bent glasses. He met Myron’s eye. This was part of the game. The staring down. The guy was good. Win had said so.

But so was Myron.

Mrs. Seiden screamed.

To both men’s credit, neither of them turned away at the sound. But Myron knew that he had to get to her. He faked a charge, just enough so that Art would back up, and then he darted toward the front of the house, where the scream had originated.

The front door was open. Mrs. Seiden was standing there. And next to her, with his fingers digging into her upper arm, was the other man who’d chased him from the car. This guy was a few years older than Art Teacher and wore an ascot. An ascot, for crying out loud. He looked like Roger Healey from the old I Dream of Jeannie show.

No time.

Art Teacher was behind him. Myron slid to the side and threw a roundhouse right. Art Teacher ducked it, but Myron was ready. He stopped mid-punch and looped his arm around the man’s neck.

Myron had him in a headlock.

But now, with a grotesque rebel yell, Ascot leapt toward Myron.

Tightening his grip on the neck, Myron aimed a mule kick. Ascot let it land on his chest. He made his body soft and rolled with the blow, holding on to Myron’s leg.

Myron lost his balance.

Art Teacher managed to free himself then. He threw a knife hand, aiming for Myron’s throat. Myron tucked so that the blow hit his chin. It rattled his teeth.

Ascot held on to Myron’s leg. Myron tried to kick him off. Art Teacher was laughing now. The front door burst open again. Myron prayed it was Win.

It wasn’t.

Dominick Rochester arrived. He was out of breath.

Myron wanted to call out a warning to Mrs. Seiden, but that was when a pain unlike any other he had felt ripped through him. Myron let loose a blood-curdling howl. He looked down at his leg. Ascot had his head lowered.

He was biting Myron’s leg.

Myron screamed again, the sound mixing in with the laughter and cheers coming from Art Teacher.

“Go, Jeb! Woo-hoo!”

Myron kept kicking, but Ascot dug in deeper, holding on, growling like a terrier.

The pain was excruciating, all-encompassing.

Panic filled Myron. He stamped down with his free leg. Ascot held on with his teeth. Myron kicked harder, finally landing a kick on top of the man’s head. He pushed hard. His flesh ripped off as he finally pried himself free. Ascot sat up and spit something out of his mouth. Myron realized with horror that it was a meaty chunk of leg.

Then they were on him. All three. Piled on.

Myron ducked his head and started swinging. He connected with somebody’s chin. There was a grunt and a curse. But someone else hit him in the stomach.

He felt the teeth on his leg again, the same spot, opening up the wound.

Win. Where the hell was Win . . . ?

He bucked up in pain, wondering what to do next, when he heard a singsong voice say, “Oh, Mr. Bolitar . . . ?”

Myron looked. It was Art Teacher. He had a gun in one hand. In the other, he had Mrs. Seiden by the hair.

CHAPTER 23

They moved Myron to a large cedar closet on the second floor. Myron was flat on the floor. His hands were duct-taped behind his back, his feet bound together too. Dominick Rochester stood over him, a gun in his hand.

“Did you call your friend Win?”

Myron said, “Who?”

Rochester frowned. “You think we’re stupid?”

“If you know about Win,” Myron said, meeting his eye, “about what he can do, then the answer is yes. I think you’re very stupid.”

Rochester sneered. “We’ll see about that,” he said.

Myron quickly assessed the situation. No windows, one entrance. That was why they’d brought him up here: no windows. So Win couldn’t attack from the outside or at a distance. They had realized that, considered it, been smart enough to bind him and bring him up here.

This was not good.

Dominick Rochester was armed. So was Art Teacher. It would indeed be nearly impossible to get in here. But he knew Win. Myron just needed to give him time.

On the right, Ascot Bite was still smiling. There was blood—Myron’s blood—on his teeth. Art Teacher was on the left.

Rochester bent down so his face was close to Myron’s. The cologne smell was still on him, worse than ever. “I’m going to tell you what I want,” he said. “Then I’m going to leave you alone with Orville and Jeb. See, I know you had something to do with that girl disappearing. And if you had something to do with her, you had something to do with my Katie. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Where’s Mrs. Seiden?”

“No one is interested in hurting her.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with your daughter,” Myron said. “I just gave Aimee a ride. That’s all. The police will tell you.”

“You lawyered up.”

“I didn’t lawyer up. My lawyer arrived. I answered every question. I told them that Aimee called me for a ride. I showed them where I dropped her off.”

“And what about my daughter?”

“I don’t know her. I’ve never met her in my life.”

Rochester looked back at Orville and Jeb. Myron didn’t know which was which. His leg was throbbing from the bite.

Art Teacher was redoing his ponytail, making it tight and wrapping it with the band. “I believe him.”

“But,” Ascot Bite added, “we got to be, got to be certain, tengo que estar seguro.”

Art Teacher frowned. “Who was that?”

“Kylie Minogue.”

“Whoa, pretty obscure, dude.”

Rochester stood upright. “You guys do your thing. I’ll keep watch downstairs.”

“Wait,” Myron said. “I don’t know anything.”

Rochester looked at him for a moment. “It’s my daughter. I can’t take that chance. So what’s going to happen here is, the Twins are going to work you over. You still telling the same story after that, I know you had nothing to do with it. But if you did, maybe I save my kid. You understand what I’m saying?”

Rochester moved to the door.

The Twins crept closer. Art Teacher pushed Myron back. Then he sat on Myron’s legs. Ascot straddled Myron’s chest. He looked down and bared his teeth. Myron swallowed. He tried to buck him off, but with his hands taped behind him, it was impossible. His stomach did flips of fear.

“Wait,” Myron said again.

“No,” Rochester said. “You’ll stall. You’ll sing, you’ll dance, you’ll make up stories—”