13.
“Don’t turn around,” says the man
with the gun.
He’s speaking the King’s English
mixed with a foreign accent. But the accent doesn’t quite sound Italian in
origin. Of course, I could be wrong about that. The Italian language consists
of many dialects.
I look straight ahead, but since
the sun has gone down almost entirely and the electric lighting is illuminating
the car, I’m able to get a look at his reflection in the semi-tinted window
glass just by glancing over my left shoulder. He’s of medium height and bald.
Clean shaven, as far as I can tell. Dressed entirely in dark clothing. A
turtleneck and an overcoat. I have no idea what age he is. Or if it matters.
“Might I ask you your name, my
son,” I say.
“Cut the bullshit, Chase Baker,” he
giggles. “I’m well aware of who
