Stupid old man, Zig thought, cursing himself for not seeing it coming. The attack on Andy—it was just a distraction.
Zig tried to turn, tried to fight. He didn’t have a chance. His attacker was massive, a huge Irish redhead as big as a building—moving with a speed his size shouldn’t allow. He hit Zig like a tornado, hooking his arm around Zig’s throat and pinching Zig’s neck in the crook of his elbow.
Zig gasped for air. Nothing came. He was choking, his face bright red, barely able to breathe.
“Let’s try this again, Mr. Zigarowski. I’m trying to save you from an awful day,” the redheaded woman repeated. “It’s a rather simple question. Tell us what you know about Black House.”
57
Zig’s head was about to pop. Blood flushed his face. He was fighting for air, trying to say something.
“Seabass, I think we all get the point,” the redheaded woman called out.
The big man—Seabass—rolled his eyes. Really? Like I’m some kinda novice? He eased up on his choke hold. Zig gasped, starting to cough.
“I don’t like funeral homes, Mr. Zigarowski. They bring back a bad memory for me about my sister,” the woman added. “So whatever you know about Black House—”
“I-I never . . .” Zig was still coughing, Seabass’s forearm still at his throat. “I don’t know Black House . . . never heard of it.”
The woman’s gaze slid sideways to Puerto Rican Andy. She gritted her teeth, tugging on the saw at his neck.
“Ziggy, please . . .” Andy begged. Snot, tears, and blood poured from his nose and lips.
“Wait . . . that place . . . Black House,” Zig said, hoping to buy time. “I can help you. Maybe I know it by another name. Tell me more about it.”
“You’re trying to stall,” Reagan said.
She was smart. Posture like a flagpole. Military for sure. The most unnerving part was her voice. As Zig had learned from years of reading Dover casualty reports, when a soldier panics or is about to do something desperate, they usually take suicide breaths, quick huffs to psych themselves up. Reagan was a flatline. If anything, she had a twinkle of larceny in her eyes.
“Andy, you okay?” Zig asked, purposely saying his name. Keep him human and you’ll keep him alive.
Andy nodded, the thin saw a black line across his larynx.
“Ma’am, I know you don’t know me, but I’m a man of my word,” Zig said. He was up on his tiptoes, still in a choke hold, his chin raised like he was standing in the deep end of a pool and trying to keep his mouth above water. “What I said about Black House . . . Let me help you. At the very least, trade me for him. Let him go. I can help you.”
The woman didn’t answer. She turned toward her partner. “Seabass?” she asked.
It was a bad sign. If she was using Seabass’s name, she’d already made her decision. Zig—and Andy—weren’t walking out of here.
“Ziggy, my kid . . .” Andy called out.
“You’re gonna be fine. I got what they want,” Zig insisted. “Ma’am, listen to me,” he added, locking on Reagan. “This place . . . Black House—it’s obviously a code name, yes?”
The two redheads exchanged another glance, then another, having an entire conversation in silence, like an old married couple . . . or brother and sister. Seabass shook his head. Don’t fall for his crap. He doesn’t know shit.
“Okay, so if it’s a code name . . . Talk to me about it,” Zig added. “Maybe I know it through someone else.”
Seabass shot another look at Reagan. Don’t let him fool you.