Page 20 of The Damage Man

“Just one,” Buck says through clenched teeth. “Three offices down.” Saliva webs his chin. “And the boss.”

Evan moves on up the hall.

The last Ivan, no doubt drawn by the commotion, sticks his head out of his office as Evan nears.

Evan grabs him by the ear and slams his head against the doorjamb hard enough to dent the wood. Before he regains consciousness, Evan shitcans his pistol and zip-ties him to his desk.

The next two rooms are empty, which leaves Hay’s corner office.

Evan reaches for the door lever, presses it slowly down, aims, lets the door drift slowly open.

Hay sits cocked back in a plush chair with his loafers up on the desk. “Okay,” he says, showing his hands. “You’ve done this before. I’ve done this before. Let’s be professional.”

Evan unscrews the suppressor, holsters his pistol. Then walks over to him. Hay’s desk is spotless. Leather blotter, stapler, letter opener, phone, laptop.

Evan slaps the laptop shut, slides it out of reach.

Hay temples his fingers. A musky scent of trying-too-hard cologne wafts from his dress shirt. “What are you doing?”

“Both sets of books are on there. The prosecutor’s gonna need that.”

“Let’s not get hasty. I’m a negotiator. Let’s negotiate.”

“Get up.”

“You want … what? Cash? I’ve got a safe in the storage closet.”

“Get up.”

Hay slides his feet off the desk, bucks forward in the chair. “Not interested in cash? What then? A friend of yours borrowed money from us? How much? A hundo? Two hundo? Well, I don’t get my hands dirty for less than a mil. That’d be one of my associates.”

“Third and last time,” Evan says. “Get up.”

Hay makes prayer hands and tilts them at Evan, one of Evan’s least favorite alpha displays. “Let’s take it calm. You and I? We can clear the debt no prob—”

Evan picks up the stapler, thumbs the catch so it wings open. He slaps Jonathan’s head twice rapidly with the business end, thwacking two staples into his crown.

“Hey, fuck! Fuck, okay! What the hell.” Jonathan tumbles out of his chair, rises unsteadily. A tendril of blood snakes down from his hairline over his eye. “I’m up, okay? I’m up.”

Evan slams him over the desk, zip-ties his hands at the small of his back. Then he shoves him onto the blotter, belly down, and secures his ankles.

He picks up the laptop and walks out.

Hog-tied on his desk, Jonathan bucks and shouts after him. “Hey! You can’t just fucking leave me like this.”

Evan heads down the hall. The trussed-up Ivans, rustling and grunting, plead with him as he passes.

He hides the laptop beneath some empty files in the bottom drawer of the front desk. He will let Mia and her team know where to find it. And the guns.

He is eager to get back to Blake and Rusty. He imagines they are in dire need of relief from the threat and from each other.

When he crosses the lobby for the door, the receptionist calls out, “Find ’em okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Evan says. “Mission complete.”

“X?”

“What?”