Upgunned Read Free

these intruders who had come to change my whole life.
    That, in retrospect, was my problem: I didn’t care enough about anything to kill it.
    There on the table: ten large, tax free, for a quickie. Forget the guns.
    â€œFigure an hour,” my new life advisor said.
    â€œWhat do I call you?” I said.
    â€œWhy?” His gaze went flinty. “Why does that matter? Do you care? You think you’re going to Google me or something? Friend me? Do you honestly believe a name is worth a dry rat turd? What fucking planet do you live on?”
    Automatically I felt the urge to apologize, which was even more stupid. Instead, I pointed out a good package of minimal, transportable equipment (something I knew how to do on autopilot) and the two heavies geared up.
    If I could pretend this was just a normal, eccentric gig, I might survive to continue wearing my own body.
    The northern freight elevator was actually installed in the building during the reconstruction to add bogus veracity to the concept of loft living, in a space not originally designed as a loft. It was a sell point. We rode down in silence and wound up packed into a rental Crown Victoria, me in the backseat with my gun-toting guide.
    He was still irritated.
    He seemed to boil over; he pressed the muzzle of his pistol against my temple.
    â€œMy name is headshot, you rich dick!”
    â€œI’m not … rich…”
    â€œ Shut the fuck up! ” he yelled. “What is that?” He mimicked a puling weasel voice: “‘ Euuuw, what do I call you ?’ Is that some kind of hostage bullshit you learned from HBO? Humanize the assailant so he won’t fucking kill you? Did I ask you who you fucking were? No! Am I going to blow your fucking face off if you don’t shut the hell up and do as you’re told? Yes!”
    The shaved apes in the front seat were glancing backward, as though concerned for their leader’s calm.
    He blew out a harsh sigh. “Jesus, you guys make me fucking mad.”
    I risked answering. “Uh—me?”
    â€œYes, you, moron! All you privileged horse cocks with your faggoty little photo shoots and goddamned hot models and little fucking cocktail parties and receptions and magazines and christ you piss me off!”
    We dropped down to Sunset and headed west, toward Beverly Hills.
    â€œI’m not saying anything,” I said.
    â€œYou don’t have to. It’s oozing out of your skin. Fear. Pure animal panic. Because tonight the real world suddenly butt-fucked your little dream existence.”
    He seemed satisfied with that—or at least mollified—and we finished the trip in silence except for a few directions. Turn here. Pull in there.
    Below Sunset off the Strip there existed a number of big-ticket hotels not on the paparazzi map, hidden-panel sybararies that catered to a clientele who paid large for guaranteed privacy and excellent room service with no questions asked and no request too outrageous. Security was plainclothes and omnipresent.
    As we debarked in the parking garage my captor advised: “Signal. Shout. Do anything and you’re all done. Be businesslike.”
    I nodded. Without a title or pseudonym to mark him, I had shortformed him in my mind as Gun Guy.
    Suite 240 rated a presidential subtitle and came with polarized blackout glass. You could fire up a searchlight inside and no one outside the building would see a hint. My new crew and I entered the largest room of four in the suite, lavishly appointed. Cigarette smoke unreeled in lazy webs across the air. The occupants of the room had butted about half a pack in waiting.
    Gun Guy steered me around for introductions.
    â€œElias, say hello to Cognac.”
    Seated on a wingback sofa was a brassy, implanted redhead who resembled whats-her-name, that British soft-core celebutard. She had on steel-tipped spike heels, about two parallel miles of nylon stocking, a garter belt, an extremely