Page 110 of What Doesn't Kill You…

"I'm asking if you think your wife will show?" Damien said. "Or will she choose to save herself instead? How much do you think she loves you?"

Now, that was the million-dollar question. And not one he cared to speculate on with his torturer. But he could give him an honest opinion on the rest of his concerns.

"Oh, she'll show," Max said. "And she won't be happy. Is your will in order?"

"You think you're a funny guy," Damien said. "But nobody's laughing."

Max looked at the three goons, spread out around the room, each with their gun trained on him.

"I don't know," he said, cocking his head toward the guy beside the purely ornamental bookcase. "I saw him crack a smile."

The guard started to protest, but Damien waved him to silence.

"Where did your secret partner go?" Max asked. "Did he get fed up dealing with your problems and escape the island? He must be in the market for a new partner by now. I imagine it's hard keeping your business under wraps when one half of the partnership likes to attract attention."

"Still trying to glean information right up until the end, eh Maximillian? I don't know whether to be impressed or to feel sorry for you."

"If I were you, I'd be impressed." Max stared at Damien, with the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "I'd also be worried. I've been telling people about your secret meetings and the crime lords who use your island to launder money, not to mention the drug smuggling you're running out of your florist shop. Killing me isn't going to stop the story. It's already out there."

To his delight, Damien looked worried. "You're spinning tales. A desperate man, making up stories before he dies. Pathetic really."

"Juan Flores?" Max said, seeing Damien's surprise at the name. "Ivan Cadar? And that's just this weekend. I wonder how many more crime bosses come here on the pretense of having a wedding. I hear you have a steady clientele from Russia and South America. Bet most of them are here on business that doesn't involve a wedding ring."

Damien's jaw clenched. "So, you saw a couple of people you recognize in the resort. So what? I don't police my guests. Otherwise, you wouldn't have gotten in."

"Ouch," Max said. "It's a sad day when your business isn't good enough for a money launderer."

Damien smacked him across the cheek. It burst open the healing wound on the side of his head, making blood trickle onto his shirt.

"Might want to see somebody about your anger management issues," Max said when the ringing in his ears subsided. "You're a bit old to be having tantrums."

"You know nothing about me or my business," Damien told him. "You're a third-rate reporter who makes up crap for a living."

"Crap like Tina the florist?" Max tried to cock an eyebrow in a nonchalant gesture, but it hurt too much. "She ran from the island so you wouldn't kill her. How many more have there been?" He nodded toward the guards. "Will you kill these guys too when they've served their purpose?"

The guy at the bookcase shifted uncomfortably.

"You have been snooping around if you know about Tina." Damien shrugged. "I pay my people well, but I expect loyalty. Tina made a mistake when she took your new family into my warehouse. She knew better. Her fate is on her."

"Interesting." Max looked at the bookcase guard. “Remember that when you screw up, there are no second chances. Damien will assume you knew what you were doing and remove you from the picture. Sounds like a fair boss to me."

The guy was beginning to look very uneasy.

Before Max could say anything else, the patio door rattled and then opened.

He turned his head, expecting to see Violet, but she wasn't there. Instead, two metal canisters were tossed into the room.

There was a second's pause before one of the guards shouted, "Smoke and a Flash-bang."

"Max," Violet’s voice ordered. "Drop and roll."

And then the room exploded in a loud, flash of blinding light, that left Max disorientated and unable to see anything.

Fighting the confusion, he threw himself forward and rolled under the sofa Damien had been sitting on. The ornate monstrosity had a wooden frame with plenty of space for him to hide under it.

Smoke, he could smell smoke. But not the usual kind, this stung his eyes and made his throat convulse. He used his bound hands to pull his T-shirt up over his face, trying to block out as much of the smoke as possible. It still burned his lungs. He coughed, and prayed Damien didn't follow the sound straight to him. Opening his good eye, he tried to see what was happening, but he'd been blinded by the flash and the smoke made tears stream down his face.

He couldn’t see, could barely hear anything after the blast, and breathing was difficult. His only consolation was that everyone else was in the same boat.