Free Icon by J. Carson Black Page B

said, Max was being executed as they spoke.
    He repeated, “Are you out of your mind?”
    She gave him her best innocent look, which really was amazing.
    Talia L’Apel was the sexiest woman on the planet, did things to him in bed you couldn’t even imagine. But she had the instincts of a small-potatoes con. He understood that, and accepted it, because he was madly in love with her, but her intellect…
    What she lacked in innate intelligence she made up for in luck. Take her name, for instance. Talia’s real name was Talia Lipowitz. That could have actually worked, in this day and age. Look at Kim Kardashian. But starting out, she’d wanted a romantic name. One day, before she was even on the radar as a star (this was during her first marriage to Max Conroy), they were in a shop looking at women’s suits for a bit part in a film, and the salesgirl pointed out the lapel, saying it “really makes the garment.” And Talia got that shine in her eye. “Lapel,” she breathed, stroking the suit. “That’s French, isn’t it?”
    Jerry tried to talk her out of it. He thought she’d be a laughingstock. But Talia was not only stupid, she was stubborn. (Not to mention heartbreakingly beautiful.)
    And so Talia Lipowitz became Talia L’Apel, and lo and behold, people ate it up. Turned out that Talia was smarter about this kind of thing than he was. He’d overestimated the intelligence of Talia’s public, and it was then he decided to take dumbing-down lessons from her at every opportunity.
    Jerry balked at carrying her Yorkie, but otherwise, he deferred to her streetwise cunning and manufactured just-off-a-turnip-truck innocence.
    Except for now.
    This time she was flat-out wrong. “You’re going to screw up everything! What about your baby from Africa? What about your reunion?”
    “What about it? As far as I’m concerned, it’s less work I have to do. I don’t have to pretend anymore.”
    “Less work? Is that how you see it?”
    “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that. I thought you wanted something like this to happen. Now we don’t have to work so hard, don’t you see?”
    Dammit. How in God’s name had this shitstorm happened to him ?

Chapter Thirteen
    N OT LONG AFTER Luther left Max, the trapdoor opened again. Luther made his way down, followed by Corey, followed by Luther’s uncle, Sam P., who stepped delicately for a huge man.
    Corey carried a tripod and a small video camera. Black material swung from his belt—Max realized they were ski masks. The ski masks went with the scimitar in Sam P.’s hand.
    “Really?” Max said. He lay on his cot, legs crossed at his feet, hands clasped behind his head.
    “Get up, asshole,” Corey said. “It’s time for your close-up.”
    Max obliged. He was calm now, as if he were in the eye of a hurricane, and the hurricane was his own rage. The rage would be easy to tap, but he could control it. “Where’s my mark?”
    “Knock it off, jerko,” Corey said. “Do what you’re told and everything’s going to turn out fine. Otherwise…” He made a slashing motion to his throat.
    “You really think a video will change Talia’s mind?”
    They ignored him as they set up the tripod facing the wall. The lighting here was not the best, but Max thought it would only enhance the terror of the scene. “May I make a suggestion?”
    Sam P., who was about to don his mask, said, “Certainly, sir.”
    “Guess he wants us to shoot his good side,” Corey said.
    Max said, “Who are you supposed to be? Rabid Islamists? Because if you’re going the scary Islamist route, you’re setting up a certain expectation.”
    “Everyone’s a critic,” muttered Luther.
    Max shrugged. “If you’re going to do this, don’t you want to do it right?”
    Corey grumbled, but Sam P. said, “Let’s hear what the man has to say. He’s been around the block a few times, after all.”
    “If you want to scare them, fine. But what’s the endgame? They have to believe