Free Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) by Harlan Coben Page A

about the new wife and kid, okay?”
    “Yeah, whatever. You care if I tell Win?”
    “Nope.”
    “‘Either get some—or get home,’” she said. “That’s pretty good.”
    “It should be a bumper sticker,” I said.
    We hung up. So now what? Esperanza was right. This wasn’t my business. If I could somehow help Terese, okay, maybe then this would make sense. But other than to keep her out of trouble on this—other than making sure she didn’t take the fall for a murder she didn’t commit—I couldn’t see how I could help. Berleand was not the type to railroad her.
    In my peripheral vision I saw someone sit next to me at the table.
    I turned and saw a man with a stubble-covered shaved head. There were scars on the top of his skull. His skin was olive dark, and when he smiled I saw a gold tooth that matched the gold chain dangling from his neck, urban bling-bling style. Handsome probably, in a dangerous, bad-boy way. He wore a wifebeater white T under an unbuttoned gray short-sleeve shirt. His sweatpants were black.
    “Look under the table,” he said to me.
    “Are you going to show me your wee-wee?”
    “Look—or die.”
    His accent was not French—something smoother and more refined. Nearly British or maybe Spanish, almost aristocratic. I tilted my chair back and looked. He was holding a gun on me.
    I left my hands on the lip of the table and tried to keep my breath steady. My eyes lifted and met his. I checked the surroundings. There was a man with sunglasses standing on the corner for absolutely no reason, trying very hard to pretend that he wasn’t watching us.
    “Listen to me or I will shoot you dead.”
    “As opposed to alive?”
    “What?”
    “Shoot someone dead versus shoot someone alive,” I said. Then: “Never mind.”
    “Do you see the green vehicle on the corner?”
    I did—not far from the sunglassed man who was trying not to look at us. It looked like a minivan or something. Two men sat in the front. I memorized the license plate and began to plan my next move.
    “I see it.”
    “If you don’t want to be shot, follow my instructions exactly. We are going to get up slowly, and you are going to get in the back of the vehicle. You will not make a fuss—”
    And that was when I smashed the table into his face.
    The moment he sat next to me I had started to consider the alternatives. Now I knew: This was a kidnapping. If I got into the vehicle, I would be cooked. Have you ever heard that when someone is missing the first forty-eight hours are most crucial? What they don’t tell you—maybe because it’s so obvious—is that every second that passes makes finding the victim that much less likely.
    The same works here. If they get me in the car, the chance I will be found plummets. The moment I get up and start following him to the car, my odds diminish. He isn’t expecting an early strike. He figures I’m listening to him right now. I am a nonthreat. He is still working on his quasi-rehearsed speech.
    So I work the element of surprise.
    He had glanced away too, just for a second, to make sure the vehicle was still in place. That was all I needed. I already had my hands gripping the table. My leg muscles tightened. I exploded up like out of a power squat.
    The table landed flush on his face. At the same time I turned to the side, just in case he got a shot off.
    No chance.
    I kept the torque in my torso and shot up and over. If there had just been Scar Head to worry about, my next step would be clear: disable him. Maim or hurt or just end his ability to fight in some way. But there were at least three other men here. My hope was that they would scatter, but I couldn’t count on that.
    Good thing too. Because they didn’t.
    My eyes searched for the gun. As I expected, he had dropped it on impact. I landed hard on top of my adversary. The table was still pressed against his face. The back of his head hit the pavement with a thud.
    I went for the gun.
    People screamed and scattered. I