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“Dad,” I sneer. “I’m here to have some good old father-son bonding.”
My father leaps forward, attempting to herd me back outside. “No. It isn’t a good time for me. You’ll have to come back later.”
“Fuck you!” I jam a finger into his chest. “I want some answers and I’m not leaving until I get them.”
A soft click from somewhere over my left shoulder tears my attention from the weak old man in front of me.
“Shut the door, Denny. I think it’s high time the boy gets some answers.” I have no idea what the man looks like who’s speaking, because all I see is the barrel of his massive gun, pointed directly between my eyes.
My dad must comply because the door closes with a fateful thump.
“Troy, don’t,” my dad pleads with the gunman, holding his hands up. “Leave him out of this.”
Troy. My heart spasms. Troy Wolski.
The man growls, a truly frightening sound, never dropping the gun or wavering a single inch. “You brought him into this Denny, not me! You’re the one who wanted him scared so far back in the closet that he’d never see the light of day!”
Denny?
“So you did start this,” I accuse, glancing at my dad out of the corner of my eye.
The man laughs. “Of course he did! Get over here,” he points the gun at the couch. “Sit down, both of you.”
Slowly, we both move towards the long sectional. I sit carefully, my eyes glued to the black handgun. After we’re both seated, the man tucks the gun in his waistband.
He’s disarming himself? I’m getting the fuck out of here. My mind goes over all of the different ways to attack this psycho and put him on his knees.
“Don’t.” My dad’s hand lands on my arm at the same time he speaks. “He doesn’t need a weapon to kill you.”
I must look confused, because the man chuckles, a deep, ominous sound that reverberates from his chest.
“He’s right. Former Special Ops. Marine Corps Amphibious Recon to be exact.”
I stare at the man called Troy. What I couldn’t see with a gun in my face, I can see now. The man isn’t very tall, maybe a few inches under six feet, but he’s bulky. All muscle and power, thickened across the shoulders and neck. His thighs are huge under his black cargo pants and his biceps bulge at the hem of his short-sleeved T-shirt.
The salt and pepper, short high and tight military haircut would be a dead giveaway of the man’s background. It’s exactly how my dad’s used to be until he grew it out for a more Hollywood friendly, less intimidating style. Troy is powerful and well trained, for sure, but it’s the man’s eyes that send chills down my spine.
Dark and shallow, I see nothing but death in his gaze. It’s the gaze of a killer, a serial killer. One who thinks nothing of slicing off someone’s finger to leave as a gift.
“Dad? How do you know this,” I swallow loudly. “This person.”
“Yes, Denny. Tell your son how we met.”
I shudder at the cold sound of his voice.
“Troy,” my dad whispers. “His name is Troy Wolski.” He doesn’t realize I already know his name. “We met on a movie set, six years ago.”
“Six years?” I shout.
“Quiet,” Troy snaps, leveling his terrifying gaze my way.
“On one of my films. He was a trainer for military extras or for actors who needed to look authentic,” my dad explains.
“Continue, Denny. Don’t leave the boy hanging,” Troy says, his slimy voice taunting my father who is slumped in his seat, looking years older than even yesterday.
My eyes bounce back and forth, the silence hanging over the room. “Dad?” Something bigger than me is going on here. Something that has the small hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
“Don’t make me do this,” my dad pleads with Troy, who only laughs.
