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“Let's go,” he snapped when I didn't move.
    I licked my lips. There was no way I could run fast enough to outrace a bullet. I clomped down the stairs, stomping on the steps as if the existence of trees personally offended me and I wanted to dance on their graves. “Twenty million dollars,” I said when I reached the bottom.
    “You think you can bargain?” Don asked me as we turned on the second floor and started down to the first. “You think you are in a position to bargain?”
    “I think you won't miss twenty million dollars,” I said.
    “Perhaps not. But you would miss your head. Think of it that way. A million dollars... or your head.”
    We reached the bottom of the stairs and I gave him my best glower. He just laughed at me, then took a step forward. He was tall, like Malcolm, and his presence far more oppressive. Dark eyes glared down at me from behind the lenses of his fine glasses. He could have been a college professor, or someone's father if it weren't for the air of menace he carried.
    Well, maybe he could have been someone's father...
    I shoved the thought away, but it was already there, worming into my subconscious. He was going to hurt me, just like my father used to do, and it made me afraid. He saw it in me, too, and a humorless smile grazed over his lips.
    “Perhaps,” he mused, “if you show me what Malcolm thought was so wonderful about you, I'll double that sum.” And he reached out and ran a finger over my cheek.
    Everything in me rebelled. He repulsed me. But I couldn't let him see that. Instead I let my mouth drop open, shocked. “Are you... are you saying you'd pay me a million dollars to wrap you up in a tarp and beat you with a rubber chicken?” I asked.
    The finger on my cheek paused. “What?” he said, then he realized I was making fun of him, and his dark brows drew down. “Don't mock me,” he told me, his voice low and dangerous. He stepped back again and opened the front door. “Let's go.”
    The lump in his coat pocket was still aimed at me. I had no choice.
    I went.
    ––––––––
    The warehouse where Malcolm had hidden all his things was north, in the Bronx.
    I had quietly entered the private car Don had brought with him, but the privacy screen was up between the back seat and the front, so I couldn't even see the driver. So much for silently pleading for his help with my eyes in the rear view mirror. Don sat next to me in the back seat, the gun trained on me, and I tried to plaster myself to the door, keeping as much distance between us as possible.
    Now the silence between us was tense as we headed north. I watched the residential streets change and morph from the grand houses of Malcolm's neighborhood into more staid apartments. We crossed the river into the Bronx and I gritted my teeth. The further we drove, the less chance I had to survive. I'd told the driver I'd be back in an hour. I'd burned only thirty minutes of that. By the time he realized something was wrong, I'd be dead.
    Industrial buildings began to creep into the landscape. Graffiti and run-down projects became the background floating past the window. My only consolation was that the sleek black car we were in was going to stick out like a sore thumb. Someone would definitely notice it. Not that that was going to do me much good... but maybe it would make Don nervous.
    We finally found the warehouse. It was a small, squat building painted yellow and covered in tags. It had its own industrial charm, but I was shocked all of Malcolm's stuff could fit into it. His house was huge. Then again, I wouldn't have put it past Malcolm to pick it precisely because of its certain gritty artistry. Rich people love that shit.
    I wondered if I'd have a chance to make a break for it when we got out of the car, but my door was locked from the inside, and I had to slide across the seat after Don to get out. He never let the gun waver from my body, though he kept it concealed in his coat at all