Surgical Grade - The Wheelman

“I BET YOU THINK I’M PISSED OFF ’BOUT MY COUSIN HERE.” She didn’t reply.

“Well, you know, I’m not. Not really.”

Nothing.

“I’m all bidness tonight. You know what I’m saying?”

Nothing.

“Alright, play it hard. I can play it hard, too.” The white guy—the other white guy from this morning, this was—stood up. “Be right back.”

Katie watched him walk out of the bedroom. She looked around the room one last time—was there something she had missed? Something that would get her out of these handcuffs? No, of course there wouldn’t be. She’d been looking all afternoon, all evening, all night. The digital clock on Henry’s dresser was out of view. She could see the imitation wood-grain top, but not the numbers. She had no idea what time it was. And she had no idea how she was going to get out of this one.

Her entire body ached; her shoulder muscles were starting to spasm. She had lost control of her bladder more times than she cared to remember.

The white guy walked back into the bedroom. He was holding a kitchen knife.

Wonderful.

What would Michael say, if he could see her now?

“I know you’re knocked up and all. Wilcoxson told me all about it. And I was there when he told your old man. Boy, did he look surprised.”

Katie didn’t look at him, but her mind was reeling. If this little idiot was telling the truth, it was a cruel disappointment. The news was supposed to have been delivered in the warm breeze, with cold flutes of champagne in hand. Not here in Philadelphia. Not by Henry.

Why did Henry tell Patrick about the baby? Jesus, was he trying to make the Russian feel sorry for all of them? Playing the unborn-baby card?

She could only imagine what Patrick must be thinking.

“You want me to do you a favor?” the white boy asked, kneeling closer to her, holding the tip of the knife up to her nose. “How about I give you an abortion, solve all your problems?”

Katie looked at the knife handle. It was a Tenmijuraku, one of those high-end Japanese kitchen knives made with a single piece of surgical stainless steel. Henry enjoyed cooking, and insisted on owning the best kitchen tools. The white boy wielding the knife, however, probably didn’t appreciate the difference. Tenmijuraku, Ginsu, whatever. As long as it could slice a tin can in half. Or a woman, handcuffed to a pole in a luxury apartment.

This white boy comes anywhere near my legs with that thing, Katie thought, I’m going to pummel him with my knees. Or try to.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what seemed to be on the white boy’s mind.