Page 30 of Lethal Obsession

“You won’t take that much, if you’re smart.”

“Marty Hunter Jr. won’t be going to jail.”

“Good for Marty Hunter Jr. Whoever the fuck he is.”

The man places a card on the table that I don’t bother looking at. “You don’t need to get on that flight, Mr. Petrovsky.”

“Maybe not.” I look at the man directly for the first time. “But you need to get the fuck out of that chair.”

His smile, as bland as his nondescript features and his carefully gelled brown hair, doesn’t reach his eyes, which are narrow, with the very white eyeballs of the non-drinker and non-reader.

“We stand at a pivotal point in history, Mr. Petrovsky. The future of Florida—of the entire nation, for that matter—is about to change. The people I represent would like you to be a part of that change.”

I have to hand it to this fucker. Most people would have run for the door by now.

“I’d like to drink my Scotch. In peace.”

“I can make the federal interest in you disappear. It will be business as usual—only better. The current political environment won’t stand for the cartels taking power in Miami. You can take over their business. Add it to your own.” His smile reminds me of how gators look when they glide through the water, right before they open their jaws to take a corpse. “Our people will guarantee supply, as well as suppress any opposition.”

I check the board. There are two hours before my flight leaves, with nothing to fill them other than Scotch and extremely unhelpful fantasies about Ofelia Borovsky.

There’s no harm in torturing the man a little, if it helps pass the time.

“Either you like the idea of being carved into sushi or there’s something you want, Mr.”—I glance at the card on the table—“Owens.”

There’s no company on the card, just a global logo with crisscrossed lines that looks like it could belong to any corporation.

“You have some very interesting tech in development at Andersson Technologies.” The fucker is still smiling. “We’d like to be your partner in bringing those projects to fruition.”

“Then you should probably talk to the head of Andersson Technologies, instead of sitting in an airport bar with me.”

“We’d also like you to give your backing to Mr. Hunter and persuade your friends, such as the Luccheses, to do the same.”

“Have you looked at the front pages of the tabloids lately?” I sip my Scotch. “You might want to pick a better candidate.”

“By the time we’re through,” the man says, flashing his extremely whitened teeth again, “Marty Hunter Jr. will be washed as clean as a Miami beach after the November tides.”

By the time November rolls around, I think idly, those tides will be just in time to carry Marty Hunter’s body out to sea.

And this conversation is officially boring me.

“Your five minutes are up, Mr. Owens. I have a plane to catch.”

He stands up.

And pauses.

Just when I thought you’d be smart enough to fuck off.

“I suggest you call the number on that card, Mr. Petrovsky.” His smile has taken on a certain fixed quality.

“Do you, now.” I roll my Scotch glass in one hand, fingering the four-inch self-defense tool in my pocket with the other. Designed to resemble a carpenter’s pencil, it is crafted from a high-strength epoxy resin that doesn’t trigger metal detectors.

Thrust through an eye, it can kill a man instantly.

He looks pointedly at my hand. “Killing me won’t stop what’s coming.”

I’ll give it to Mr. Owens—he’s got a certain level of balls.