“So, you kill me here. Let’s work this. Kill me here. You’ve got a drain in the floor here, so you could chop me up into pieces. Little chunks. But, man, that’s a lot of blood! Three gallons’ worth, I bet. Lots of tiny cracks and crevices for that stuff to hide. Could you get it all, seriously? And, really, someone will find evidence. I’ve seen the shows. They’re professionals. Even if you burned this place to the ground, someone would recognize my leg bones. My femurs won’t look like yours, after all.”

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A pause. An agonizing pause while Ben stews, his mind starting to swim.

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“Now,” Galtier says, “you can try to take me somewhere else for it, except for one problem. Why would I go willingly? Right? You can’t coax me—you have nothing to bargain with. Don’t think for a second that a loaded gun scares me, either.”

 

What? Why not? Who doesn’t fear guns? Nobody. He’s lying, the arrogant bastard. He’ll be scared enough if you flash it, if you put a bullet in his arm. But not his leg, no, not his leg. That would make your job much harder. And will it work? What if he isn’t lying? What if he really isn’t afraid? Some people just refuse to be dominated. Rather go to the grave than do anything against their will…

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Where these thoughts come from is frightening to Ben. They’re alien, unexplained. He’s no hardened criminal accustomed to this kind of thinking. He’s Benjamin Gerrard, devoted father of two and law-abiding citizen.

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To be continued...