Jenn scrambled up a sandy hillside, muttering a few choice words as she struggled with her footing. She regretted her choice in attire, wishing she had opted for anything other than the bright sundress she wore today, even if the day had started with a calm, pleasant break from the constant running and the culmination of deeds she could only describe as mischief. The thong sandals on her feet were filling with sand that grated against her instep. If only she'd worn the dark, drab outfit Philip had given her, she thought to herself. She might have looked a bit conspicuous running around in it, but at the very least, it would have been more comfortable.
With the help of a patch of surprisingly sturdy sea oats, she breached the top of the steep hill and looked out over everything. She could see the entire area where Ivanovich's warehouse once stood and imagined she could make out the tiny shape of Vitus Bethel standing amid the ruins with his good arm raised. She could see the yacht now docked alongside the pier and the whole of the bay, which stretched out as far as she could see. There was nothing around her--no one nearby to help or even chase after her. It was a lonely place to be. Her eyes scanned the shore, tracing a line from Ivanovich's pier all the way to the section of beach closest to her, where a small private pier that had no obvious use hung out over the water. She had an idea and immediately began to dig through the bag formerly belonging to the man once called Hemingway. She found the handheld radio Vitus had used to contact the rest of their crew, held down the button on its side, and spoke.
"Um, Hayes?"
"Jenn? That you? Something wrong?"
"No," she said. "Well, yeah, but just Vitus' plan and his impending demise. That's about it. But I do have an idea."
"Do tell."
"There's another pier near the warehouse," she said. Her finger slipped from the button as she looked around, as if trying to gain a sense of direction for the first time ever. "South, I think. Maybe southwest, just down the coast."
Hayes was quiet, but Jenn had come to realize that Hayes was never in too much of a hurry, even when it came to thinking. A minute later, a prolonged "Hmm" came across from his end of the radio.
A group of five men, each dressed in a dark suit and carrying similar pistols, emerged from the yacht and buzzed around the dock like flies until settling on Vitus. He had only the one good arm to raise, so he held it high in the air to show that he had no intention of putting up a fight. When each of the five guns had settled into position (each pointed at a different part of his body), one of the men spoke a few words in Russian into a headset.
Malcolm Ivanovich stepped onto the dock. He primped his blue, pin-striped suit, which appeared infinitely more colorful than the black suits of his compatriots. He wore a bandage across the bridge of his nose and sported several large bruises elsewhere on his face. He walked with a smirk and an air of superiority and invincibility that immediately made the antique-dealer want nothing more than to punch his already-broken nose despite the guns currently trained on him.
Ivanovich swatted at his men, pushing a hole for himself so that he might have a better look at the antique-dealer and the fearful face he had hoped to find. Ivanovich was sorely disappointed, however, to find that Vitus looked rather amused by the entire incident, and this saddened him greatly.
"Where's Hemingway?" asked Ivanovich. "He was supposed to be here."
Vitus shrugged. "Haven't seen him," he said.
"And your girlfriend? Don't think I've forgotten what she did to me."
Vitus shrugged again. "She's not here."
Ivanovich sighed. "This is nowhere near as satisfying as I thought it would be."
One of Ivanovich's henchmen, who had apparently gone off to survey the premises, reappeared at his employer's side. He tapped his massive finger on Ivanovich's diminutive shoulder, nearly creasing the pin-striped jacket.
"Hemingway is dead," he reported, pointing toward the abandoned sedan parked along the warehouse ruins. "No sign of the girl."
"Dead? Really? Well, Vitus, I must admit that I'm rather surprised. I didn't think you had it in you," said Ivanovich. "Where's the gun?"
Vitus, whose good arm was still in the air, gestured at his bad arm with his head. "In the sling."
Ivanovich smiled confidently, belying his caution and concern, as he reached into the sling and pulled out the small derringer. Then he studied it closely, wondering where he had seen it before.
"Is this one of mine?"
"Possibly," said the antique-dealer. "We did take quite a bit the last time we were here."
Ivanovich shook his head. "This is a real mess you've made here, Vitus," he said. "It took me years to build this place. I'm a rather obsessive collector, as you know, so when I was approached with an invitation to purchase several antiques that I had already paid for once, I was rather displeased. I knew it had to have been you, and it pains me to say that. It really does."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Malcolm, but you were the one that brought me into this to begin with and... well, let's just say that displeased doesn't quite cover what I'm feeling at this very moment."
Ivanovich grinned as he put on a pair of white latex gloves and took a gun from one of his goons. Vitus was nervous, but he kept his newly-found cool demeanor wrapped around him, like a projection of a far braver man.
"Now what should I do with you, Vitus?"
"I suppose you could always let me go," said the antique-dealer.
"You had your chance to run away, but you're still here. Why is that? What are you up to?"
"I'm just living up to my end of the bargain, Malcolm. You are here after the settee, aren't you?"
"Well, of course I want the settee, but that doesn't mean I can't settle some personal business at the same time. I'm a business man, Vitus. I know how to multi-task. I also know when someone is not being completely honest with me."
Vitus said nothing.
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this so soon, but you've really left me no choice." Ivanovich sighed and raised his pistol.
"You need me," said Vitus, just when he thought he'd never have the opportunity to speak again. "You need me if you want to make the trade."
"Most of you, anyway," said Ivanovich. "Sorry, but I like to cut to the chase."
The antique-dealer's heart began to beat just a little faster. He stared down at Ivanovich and the smug grin currently plastered across his face.
"Oh, Vitus, is that what this is about? You give yourself to me, and I stop chasing your hard-fisted little girlfriend? Is that a fair summary of your plan? Because if it is, let me assure you how completely flawed it is. I still want her to suffer very, very much. You as well, of course. That's all part of that pesky, aforementioned obsessive nature of mine. In fact, I've been looking into taxidermy so that I might stuff the both of you and keep you in my living room as trophies. I've been practicing on squirrels--really not as difficult as you might think."
Ivanovich paced slowly in a circle, the gun waving back and forth as the sociopathic collector spoke with emphasized hand motions. Vitus merely watched, deciding that there was no reasoning with his captor following that particular insane rant.
"Okay, I can honestly say that I was not expecting that," Vitus commented to himself.
"Now, as a rule, I don't ordinarily shoot people. I have men to do that for me, and I find the entire idea rather repulsive, to be perfectly honest. But for you, Vitus--for you I'll make an exception."
"Malcolm, wait!"
It was no use. Ivanovich raised his gun, his face expressionless and his eyes cold, and fired.
With the help of a patch of surprisingly sturdy sea oats, she breached the top of the steep hill and looked out over everything. She could see the entire area where Ivanovich's warehouse once stood and imagined she could make out the tiny shape of Vitus Bethel standing amid the ruins with his good arm raised. She could see the yacht now docked alongside the pier and the whole of the bay, which stretched out as far as she could see. There was nothing around her--no one nearby to help or even chase after her. It was a lonely place to be. Her eyes scanned the shore, tracing a line from Ivanovich's pier all the way to the section of beach closest to her, where a small private pier that had no obvious use hung out over the water. She had an idea and immediately began to dig through the bag formerly belonging to the man once called Hemingway. She found the handheld radio Vitus had used to contact the rest of their crew, held down the button on its side, and spoke.
"Um, Hayes?"
"Jenn? That you? Something wrong?"
"No," she said. "Well, yeah, but just Vitus' plan and his impending demise. That's about it. But I do have an idea."
"Do tell."
"There's another pier near the warehouse," she said. Her finger slipped from the button as she looked around, as if trying to gain a sense of direction for the first time ever. "South, I think. Maybe southwest, just down the coast."
Hayes was quiet, but Jenn had come to realize that Hayes was never in too much of a hurry, even when it came to thinking. A minute later, a prolonged "Hmm" came across from his end of the radio.
***
A group of five men, each dressed in a dark suit and carrying similar pistols, emerged from the yacht and buzzed around the dock like flies until settling on Vitus. He had only the one good arm to raise, so he held it high in the air to show that he had no intention of putting up a fight. When each of the five guns had settled into position (each pointed at a different part of his body), one of the men spoke a few words in Russian into a headset.
Malcolm Ivanovich stepped onto the dock. He primped his blue, pin-striped suit, which appeared infinitely more colorful than the black suits of his compatriots. He wore a bandage across the bridge of his nose and sported several large bruises elsewhere on his face. He walked with a smirk and an air of superiority and invincibility that immediately made the antique-dealer want nothing more than to punch his already-broken nose despite the guns currently trained on him.
Ivanovich swatted at his men, pushing a hole for himself so that he might have a better look at the antique-dealer and the fearful face he had hoped to find. Ivanovich was sorely disappointed, however, to find that Vitus looked rather amused by the entire incident, and this saddened him greatly.
"Where's Hemingway?" asked Ivanovich. "He was supposed to be here."
Vitus shrugged. "Haven't seen him," he said.
"And your girlfriend? Don't think I've forgotten what she did to me."
Vitus shrugged again. "She's not here."
Ivanovich sighed. "This is nowhere near as satisfying as I thought it would be."
One of Ivanovich's henchmen, who had apparently gone off to survey the premises, reappeared at his employer's side. He tapped his massive finger on Ivanovich's diminutive shoulder, nearly creasing the pin-striped jacket.
"Hemingway is dead," he reported, pointing toward the abandoned sedan parked along the warehouse ruins. "No sign of the girl."
"Dead? Really? Well, Vitus, I must admit that I'm rather surprised. I didn't think you had it in you," said Ivanovich. "Where's the gun?"
Vitus, whose good arm was still in the air, gestured at his bad arm with his head. "In the sling."
Ivanovich smiled confidently, belying his caution and concern, as he reached into the sling and pulled out the small derringer. Then he studied it closely, wondering where he had seen it before.
"Is this one of mine?"
"Possibly," said the antique-dealer. "We did take quite a bit the last time we were here."
Ivanovich shook his head. "This is a real mess you've made here, Vitus," he said. "It took me years to build this place. I'm a rather obsessive collector, as you know, so when I was approached with an invitation to purchase several antiques that I had already paid for once, I was rather displeased. I knew it had to have been you, and it pains me to say that. It really does."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Malcolm, but you were the one that brought me into this to begin with and... well, let's just say that displeased doesn't quite cover what I'm feeling at this very moment."
Ivanovich grinned as he put on a pair of white latex gloves and took a gun from one of his goons. Vitus was nervous, but he kept his newly-found cool demeanor wrapped around him, like a projection of a far braver man.
"Now what should I do with you, Vitus?"
"I suppose you could always let me go," said the antique-dealer.
"You had your chance to run away, but you're still here. Why is that? What are you up to?"
"I'm just living up to my end of the bargain, Malcolm. You are here after the settee, aren't you?"
"Well, of course I want the settee, but that doesn't mean I can't settle some personal business at the same time. I'm a business man, Vitus. I know how to multi-task. I also know when someone is not being completely honest with me."
Vitus said nothing.
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this so soon, but you've really left me no choice." Ivanovich sighed and raised his pistol.
"You need me," said Vitus, just when he thought he'd never have the opportunity to speak again. "You need me if you want to make the trade."
"Most of you, anyway," said Ivanovich. "Sorry, but I like to cut to the chase."
The antique-dealer's heart began to beat just a little faster. He stared down at Ivanovich and the smug grin currently plastered across his face.
"Oh, Vitus, is that what this is about? You give yourself to me, and I stop chasing your hard-fisted little girlfriend? Is that a fair summary of your plan? Because if it is, let me assure you how completely flawed it is. I still want her to suffer very, very much. You as well, of course. That's all part of that pesky, aforementioned obsessive nature of mine. In fact, I've been looking into taxidermy so that I might stuff the both of you and keep you in my living room as trophies. I've been practicing on squirrels--really not as difficult as you might think."
Ivanovich paced slowly in a circle, the gun waving back and forth as the sociopathic collector spoke with emphasized hand motions. Vitus merely watched, deciding that there was no reasoning with his captor following that particular insane rant.
"Okay, I can honestly say that I was not expecting that," Vitus commented to himself.
"Now, as a rule, I don't ordinarily shoot people. I have men to do that for me, and I find the entire idea rather repulsive, to be perfectly honest. But for you, Vitus--for you I'll make an exception."
"Malcolm, wait!"
It was no use. Ivanovich raised his gun, his face expressionless and his eyes cold, and fired.
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