Man in the Middle Read Online Free PDF Page B

himself, but a vicious heel kicked his raised shoulders back down, causing his head to bounce off asphalt.
    “Not yet, mi amigo . You must learn the rules first.”
    Drucker flopped side to side like a dying fish on a dry dock. He struggled to focus on his tormentor’s expression, but the heavy tint of his glasses prevented that.
    “Let me explain how we play this game.” The voice came across as a whisper, sounding almost intimate. “Your sunglasses have been attached to your head with epoxy, and your tongue, injected with a toxin, is swollen.”
    I can take care of any investigation. I’m an asset . Drucker listened to his gurgled sounds and nearly choked over his thickened tongue and the saliva building inside his mouth.
    From his jacket pocket, the male enforcer, Ferret-Face, removed two rectangular metal boxes, each fitting into a palm. He then reached down and yanked Drucker’s half-naked body to its feet, forcing a box into each of Drucker’s hands. Ferret-Face clamped Drucker’s right thumb onto a raised button on the first box.
    More awkwardly, and never releasing the first hand, he did the same to Stanley Drucker’s left thumb. Tears dribbled down Drucker’s cheeks, and teetered on his upper lip until they built up and cascaded over, falling five empty feet to his blistered toes. With his gaze following that salty flow, he became aware of spider-webbing wires connecting several pounds of explosives strapped to his legs and hips. Barely visible across his naked chest were the words: Death Death . He recognized the building across the alley and street as the police station.
    “Here are the rules,” the man said, his words sounding rehearsed. “If you take either thumb off either device, you will explode. If you try and disconnect any wire, you will explode. If anyone else presses either of these buttons, relieving you, you will explode—each button is sensitive to your thumbprint only. In thirty minutes, no matter what you do, you will explode. This should be challenging. Do you understand?”
    Drucker understood all right. He clasped the detonators, putting maximum pressure on each of his thumbs.
    “And by the way,” the man said with a smile, “I will have saved you mucho dinero . You are not going to require a casket, I think.”
    Turning a corner, the well-dressed Mexican used a cell phone to call a local television station, alerting them that a suicide crackpot, lurking near the police station, had explosives strapped to his body. He even identified the man as one Stanley Drucker, violent alcoholic, divorced, unstable, and manager of a local fund that lost millions of dollars just this week.

    Rancho Santa Fe estates average four acres of grounds and more than 10,000 square feet of house. Nearly every one has a tennis court, a pool, and a stable of horses. Ayers’ estate went beyond even these lofty averages.
    Jason Ayers loved riding his favorite horse along the community trails. The aroma of Eucalyptus was soothing, and the tree’s shedding leaves and bark padded the trails and muffled the sounds of the outside world. In addition to these tall trees, Ayers’ property boasted close to a hundred lemon and orange trees—so many that he paid someone to harvest them twice a year and cart off the excess fruit.
    In the past, at night, with an absence of street lamps and sidewalks, Ayers felt at the edge of the world, alone and at peace. He cherished his home and had come to reconcile himself with his wife, Anne, these last few years. After his son Curtis had died ten years ago, he grew even more devoted to his daughter. Kate became the center of his life, and he would do anything for her.
    Longing for some of this former tranquility, but finding none, a diminished Jason Ayers spent Saturday afternoon slumped in a slip-covered chair, finishing a third scotch. “Oh . . . my . . . God,” he whispered. “How could I have let this happen? Hannah, why?”
    Sounds of footsteps at the door