Free The Serial Killer's Wife by Blake Crouch, Robert Swartwood Page A

ma’am.”  
    “No,” she said, “what’s nice is that I also know exactly what kind of man Van really is. And I don’t mean that he’s gay; everybody knows that. What I’m talking about is the stuff the FBI would just love to get their hands on.”  
    The hand finally lowered, went back to the bouncer’s side. He said, “Ma’am, if you’re threatening Mr. Riley, I’m going to have to—”  
    Elizabeth pushed past him, headed into the bar. He reached for her, grabbed her arm, and she spun around him, lifting up the back of his shirt, pulling the Glock he had concealed at the small of his back.  
    Digging the gun’s barrel into his ribs, she said, “I also know that everybody here carries, even the bouncers. I always told Van it was stupid to have bouncers carry, especially the guy on the door, but it seems he never took my advice. Now, if you would be so kind, I would very much like to see him.”  
    The bouncer didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. He just stood there without a word, and it occurred to Elizabeth that he would continue standing there until she was forced to shoot him. That was how Van liked them, after all, his employees willing to die for anything. Elizabeth had been the exception, and she had told him that up front and he had always said that was what he liked best about her.  
    She said, her teeth clenched, “You have no idea what I’ve gone through today. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you don’t let me see Donovan Riley in the next minute.”  
    This last was something she shouldn’t have said, not with a gun jabbing the bouncer in the ribs, because it came off much too threatening toward the man’s boss. She realized this a second too late, but by then the barrel of another gun was placed gently against the bottom of her skull.  
    “Easy now, Elizabeth,” said a voice behind her, “step back and hand me the gun.”  
    Without moving, without even turning her head in the slightest, she said, “Harlan?”  
    “That’s right, E.”  
    “I’m here to see Van.”  
    “I figured as much.”  
    “It’s important.”  
    “I’m sure it is. First though, you need to step back and lower Jerry’s gun.”  
    Harlan’s own gun still kissing the back of her neck, Elizabeth took one step back and lowered the bouncer’s Glock.  
    “Good,” Harlan said. Then, “Turn around slowly, Jerry, and take your gun back.”  
    Jerry did as he was told, turning and taking his gun back.  
    “Now thank Elizabeth here for not killing you.”  
    The bouncer said nothing.  
    “Jerry,” Harlan said, his voice growing dark, “don’t make me repeat myself.”  
    “Thank you, ma’am, for not killing me.”  
    The barrel against the back of her neck disappeared, and next thing she knew Harlan was taking her arm and leading her deeper into the bar. His grip tight, walking quickly, he said, “Are you crazy?”  
    She decided it best not to answer that and kept pace with him past the tables and chairs, then through the door that led into the kitchen. Through another door, then up a flight of stairs, they came to the second floor and there was another man wearing all black standing in front of a closed door.  
    “You know,” Harlan said, releasing his grip on her arm, “you could have saved yourself some time and hassle and just asked for me first. I am Mr. Riley’s right hand man.”  
    She turned to face him for the first time, this small man wearing a dark suit, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his scarred face.  
    “Honestly? It never even crossed my mind.”  
    “Mr. Riley is in a meeting right now. Do you mind waiting?”  
    “That depends.”  
    “Depends on what?”  
    “The psychopath that’s kidnapped my son.”  
    Harlan’s scarred face twitched slightly, which for Harlan was the same expression he would give to being shot in the chest. He glanced at the door, took a breath, then stepped forward, nodded at the man who stepped away.