Page 72 of Bidding War

“You don’t know what I want!” Jonesy snarls. Sweat trickles from his brow, and he winces from the sensation. It’s like anything might set this guy off.

“Calm down, eh? You make my associate nervous.”

Associate. He’s still not using my name, and it takes me a blink to realize why. If Jonesy knew who I was, he might kill me out of spite for my father. Even now, with a gun pointed at him, Moss is thinking clearer than anyone I know.

“You think I give a shit, Moss?”

Moss clicks his tongue. “I think you love your wife, Edgar. She does not want this for you.”

The gun hand twitches, and soon, his hand goes into full-on shakes. He shouts, “Don’t talk about my wife!”

But Moss presses him on it. “And your sons? What about them?” His hands drift downward. He’s about to do something, and I need to be ready for it.

Everything tenses inside of me as I try to keep my face placid. If I don’t react, hopefully, Jonesy won’t, either.

Jonesy’s gun stays trained on us as he stumbles around his desk to face us down. This isn’t going right. He should be calming at the mention of his family—why else would Moss mention them? The CPA’s jaw tightens, his eyes ferocious. “Get out now!”

I want nothing more than to do exactly that. But he’s gone wild, and I get the sense that the moment we turn our backs, there will be holes in them. I think Moss knows that, too—otherwise, he would be getting us out the door.

“Edgar—"

“This … this is what happens,” Jonesy mutters to himself. His tone reminds me of junkies on the street when they talk to themselves. His eyes dip for just a moment, then they scatter around the room. But that gun is still aimed at us the whole time. “This is what happens when you do the wrong thing, Eddie. The mob comes to kill you?—"

“I am not here to kill you,” Moss says quietly.

Jonesy doesn’t seem to hear him. “They come, and they bring a wet work guy for the clean-up, and then you’re nothing but a stain on an office rug you overpaid for, and they roll your body in it and dump you into a river or set you on fire, and no one knows,” he rambles, gun still shaking at us. I don’t think he even took a breath before he starts again. “Not your wife, not your kids, you just disappear on them, and they don’t know what happened, only that you’re gone, that you abandoned them … ” For a moment, his eyes focus on Mosses face. “I didn’t abandon my family, Moss.”

“You never would,” he says serenely. “You’re a nice man.” Mosses hand is dangerously close to his gun.

“I can’t … I can’t let them think that of me.”

“No one ever would. Everyone knows Edgar Jones is a stalwart. A pillar of community.” Mosses next-level reverse psychology game is unnerving me. How many people has he had to do this with? Talk them down until he can take them out? The better question is, will this work with Jonesy? Moss continues, “You will have a long and happy life with them.”

The CPA slowly nods. “I will.”

Moss nods, too. “Let us figure out how to make that happen. Just put the gun down?—"

“I won’t.” The steel is gone from his eyes.

But I get the sense this just got worse. Something inside of me tenses.

Moss says, “Edgar?—"

“Don’t say my name like we’re friends.”

If he’s frustrated, he doesn’t show it. Nothing but cool, calm, and collected on the surface. Other than the hand gradually getting to his gun. Moss goes on, “Think about your family. What would they want for you to do right now?”

“To live.” His hand stops shaking. His eyes go completely sober and focused.

This is not going the way Moss wants it to, and I am the only one who knows it.

He tries to coax him with more words. “That’s right. They want you to live. So, all you have to do is?—"

“Pull the trigger.”

Mosses hand jerks for his gun, but I dive for him as a loud sound cracks through the air. Something hits the middle of me, knocking me against Moss. But the man is a wall of muscle and doesn’t budge from the impact, while I fall in front of him, slamming onto the expensive office rug. My shoulder hits it first, followed by the rest of me.

I’m on my side when the pain hits. I try to gasp for breath, but the wind was knocked out of me. Or it doesn’t want to go into me. I can’t tell which it is. My head rings with pain, but I don’t think I hit it. I look down at my body. My hands are in the way of seeing what I already know. I don’t really remember grabbing for my stomach. When I pull my hands back, they’re covered in red.

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