Chance dropped down from the tall broken streetlight. It never ceased to amaze him how some humans could be so oblivious to their environment-especially ones who prided themselves on being cunning. If Robert, Paul, or Ritchie had even once looked up, they would have noted that the south street light was significantly taller than the ones around it. They might not have been able to see what-or who-was perched on it in the darkness, but they could have realized that something was there.
Instead, they just gaped at him when he appeared behind them with nothing more than a faint rush of wind to announce him.
"Nice night, isn't it?" Chance remarked.
Robert was the first to recover. His hand slid inside his jacket and he pulled out his gun.
"Yeah, it is. Paul, Ritchie? You gonna stand there, or are you gonna pull your pieces and maybe point them at this ass**le?"
Chance watched with amusement as they scrambled to obey, replacing their formerly amazed expressions with tough ones.
"You just don't f**king learn," Paul breathed. "We do, though. Ritchie, pat down this joker and make sure he's not hiding any more bulletproof vests. Or wires."
Chance spread his arms out obligingly as Ritchie came closer. The other man was wary, no doubt remembering how Chance easily had dodged his attempts to pummel him before. Don't worry, Chance thought coolly as Ritchie gave him several quick, thorough pats. If I wanted you dead, your blood would already be warming my stomach.
"He's clean," Ritchie announced.
Chance wrinkled his nose with mild distaste. "Can't say the same about you. Really, man, soap is nothing to fear."
Ritchie reared back like he was going to punch him, but Robert grabbed his arm.
"Did I tell you to hit him?" he asked in a dangerous undertone.
Ritchie gave Chance a hateful glare before facing his boss. "No. Sorry."
Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "All right." Then he turned his attention to Chance. "They told me you had a smart mouth. Okay, smart mouth, we're going to take a walk. And then we're going to take a ride. You got a problem with that?"
"If I did, I suppose Bowling Ball and Smelly would just shoot me again," Chance drawled.
Robert shook his head. "Not them. You know what they say. When you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself."
Chance let out a bark of amusement. "My thoughts exactly."
They led him at gunpoint to the far end of one of the finger piers where a boat was moored. Robert waved, and a man on board waved back, powering the craft to life.
Chance was rather impressed that Robert had arranged to have another getaway from the docks. The Salucci brothers hadn't had that foresight. They seemed more brute muscle than operative brains. In a straight physical fight they might win, but if it was a matter of strategic planning, Robert would prevail. Not that Chance cared. The lot of them could drop dead and society would be far better off. In fact, he'd probably be helping society very soon when it came to that. Just not before he had his questions answered.
Chance went aboard the boat, surmising that this was an excellent opportunity to get Robert to himself and dispose of Paul's body, if he did decide to indulge and eat him. When the four of them were clustered around the back of the boat, the driver sped off without much consideration for the waterway's "no wake" zone.
Ritchie and Paul gestured with their guns for Chance to sit on the aft bench, which he did, stretching his legs before settling down comfortably.
After about twenty minutes of glaring at him while the boat navigated the waterway, Robert spoke.
"So, what's your name?"
"Chance."
Robert grunted. "Bullshit. What's your real name?"
"Ask your men. Didn't they find any identification when they rummaged through my pockets the other night?"
"You know f**king well you didn't have a scrap of ID on you that night. Plus, Paul and Ritchie tell me you must've been wearing Kevlar, on account of you bein' here instead of resting in plastic under six feet of dirt. What I want to know is, what kind of a man walks around with no ID while wearing Kevlar? Seems pretty paranoid to me."
Chance shrugged. "If you say so."
Paul leaned in and shouted in Chance's face. "Answer the question, ass**le!"
"Quit pissing me off," Robert said in a more mild tone. "In my current mood, I have no intention of letting you off this boat alive, so you're gonna need to work to change my mind."
That was meant to scare Chance, but he found it ironic instead.
"I can personally guarantee that I won't be getting off this boat alive," he replied.
"He's insane," Ritchie said in wonder. "Look at him. Thinks he can smart-mouth his way out of anything."
Paul held up a length of chain. "See this?" he asked, rattling it for effect before he began to wrap it around Chance. "We bought this in case things went south with the Salucci brothers. This is fifty pounds of steel. I'm going to tie you up with it and then lock it around you."
Chance glanced down at the chains as Paul began carrying out his threat. If it made them feel more secure... and the more time they wasted trussing him up, the further along the river they were getting. How convenient. He wouldn't have to worry about anyone overhearing screams.
"You're tryin' my patience," Robert growled. "Now, I'm gonna ask you again, and you'd better cut the shit. What's your name? Your real name?"
Chance did have another name, of course. The one he'd been born with well over a hundred years ago, but even though it would be of no use to Robert, he still refused to utter it.
"Chance is the only name you're getting out of me."
Robert jerked his head at Ritchie, who left his position looming over Chance to go around the side of the boat. When he came back minutes later, he was wheeling a large bucket on a dolly filled with something gray and grainy.
Chance closed his eyes, but only so the others didn't see him roll them with annoyance. Couldn't they do anything original?
"Cement," Robert supplied, though Chance already knew that. "You keep it up with your smart mouth and that bucket's gonna be your new pair of shoes. There's no getting out of this one. You talk, or I'm gonna shove your chained, cemented ass off this boat. Hell, I'll even let Paul shoot you in the head first, 'cause I know he's itchin' to."
Chance winced. Head shots hurt like hell, silver or no silver. He knew he'd have a terrific headache for about ten minutes while everything knit back into place. Damned melodramatic mobsters, he thought irritably. He was eating every last one of them before this whole mess was finished!