Zed
“I tried telling her about my brother,” Zed continued, his eyes focused on Mark's to gauge his reaction. “And you'd think she was made of ivory, the way she responded.”
Mark didn't say anything.
“Told her about how he killed his family while he was on Dimalerax, you see, and about how he's on death row now because of his psychotic break, something the medication was supposed to help him with.”
Still, the PV's head of sales didn't flinch, nor did he add anything to the conversation. Nothing.
Zed repositioned himself, moving a little closer to the other man. He'd had military training and done hand-to-hand combat. He knew the best place to be when his opponent had a firearm.
“Mark,” Zed said, after a while. “What if I told you that I know you're the one who approved everything? That I'd seen the files and your emails and memos pushing for the roll-out of Dimalerax, even though everyone knew it was a failure? What if I knew you were going to pin everything on Abby, when it was all said and done?”
“I'd laugh in your face,” Mark said, smiling a little.
“What if I told you, then, that it was being reported as we speak? That, if you turned on CNN, you'd see the evidence up on the big screen at prime time?”
Mark went to raise the pistol to level it at Zed, but the military vet was too fast. He grabbed the barrel, locking the slide in place, and stepped toward Mark as he pointed the barrel off to the side. He bent the gun in, twisting the other man's finger around in the trigger guard, nearly breaking it.
Mark's preservation instincts forced him to release the pistol and let Zed take control of it. If he hadn't, his body knew it would have been missing a finger by the end of the interaction.
Mark looked down in disbelief at his gun, which was now in Zed's hand. “How did you?”
“Never let someone within striking distance, idiot. Not when you're the one with the gun,” he said, taking a step back from Letterman and aiming the pistol at him. “Now, start talking. I want everything you know. Now!”
# # #
Abby
“Did you speak to them?” Abby asked Det. Reynolds, as he returned with two Styrofoam cups of coffee in hand.
“I did,” he said with a nod, as he offered her a cup of burnt coffee. “And you're right. They back you up. Also, from the questions the reporters keep screaming past the barricades at me, I gather your story hit the news. But all this still doesn't change the fact that we’ve got your crazy boyfriend out there waving his gun around, and that you're the key to bringing him in. I don't wanna hurt the guy, mainly because I tend to agree with him on Pharma-Vitae with this pill, but I can't have him injuring anyone, either. Ya get me?”
She nodded as she cradled the tiny cup in her hands. “What do you need me to do?”
“Well, there's still charges we gotta press. Whether the DA goes through with 'em, or not, who am I to say? That's above my pay grade, that's for damn sure. But, he ain't looking at a long stretch of time if he does go up. He'll have some restitution, I'd imagine, considering we've had two choppers chasing after him all afternoon, and all these men don't work for free. Now, all this is assuming he doesn't do anything stupid and hurt his newest hostage.”
Abby groaned. “Newest hostage?”
“Some guy, name of Mark Letterman. Works for your company, and I think you know him.”
Some guy was a pretty loose definition of Mark. More like piece of shit. She just nodded, though, and kept her mouth shut.
“If you can get on the phone with him and convince him to come out, it'd go a long ways toward helping him. If he doesn't have a chance to wave his gun at any cops, that keeps his offenses low. But, if he starts that shit, pardon my French, I can't make any guarantees on his safety.”
“How about,” Abby said, looking up at the gruff, but sincere, older detective, “I speak to him in person?”