Crush by Phoef Sutton Read Free Book Online

was joking or playing for time or trying to get his job back. Then Guzman went back to have a look.
    They evacuated the yacht just in time. The last of the kitchen crew was crossing the gangplank when the bomb went off. A loud pop and billow of drifting smoke. What the hell, Rush thought. It looked like a something out of a magic act. Something to, what was the phrase, divert the eye? At that moment, someone stepped on deck from below. Two someones. One close behind the other, holding an arm around his neck. As the smoke cleared, Rush could just make out his fish-like features. In the mad rush to evacuate the boat, one man had been forgotten: Walter Trask, the always neglected younger brother. Wouldn’t you know it?
    There was a huge hunting knife held tight to hisneck, and the man behind him kept leading him forward until they were clear of the smoke and in full view. Then the man stopped, cleared his throat, and positioned Walter Trask a little to the side, so that he could take the stage.
    â€œI want television cameras here!” the man declared. “I want to make a statement. I have Stanley Trask, and I’m prepared to kill him.”
    â€œFuck you!” Stanley Trask roared from beside Rush on the dock. He had a bathrobe on now, but it was hanging open in front, and Trask didn’t mind one bit. “You don’t have me, you fat fag!”
    The man looked troubled. Then he took a good look at his hostage. Despite being identical twins, Walter and Stanley weren’t hard to tell apart. For one thing, Walter didn’t shave his head—he kept a monkish ring of gray hair around the crown of his skull. For another, Walter didn’t live the life of a rock star as much as his brother did, and consequentially, his face had a more relaxed, healthier glow about it. It also sagged a bit more, since it hadn’t been artificially lifted and Botoxed. In short, Walter looked like a sixty-three-year-old man, whereas Stanley looked like a sixty-three-year-old man who was desperately trying to look forty.
    Bob Steinkellner knew in a glance that he had the wrong Trask.
    He cursed under his breath, and then he tried to put a good face on it.
    â€œAll right,” he said, using his best stage projection tomake sure he was heard. “It doesn’t matter. I have your brother. Do you want to see him die?”
    Stanley didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked one of his own: “What do you want, asshole?”
    â€œI want a television crew. I want to tell them what you did to me.”
    Walter was whimpering now. He’d been left out of the conversation, as he had been left out of so many others, and he was making himself heard. “Do it, Stanley. Give him what he wants,” he blurted out.
    â€œYou stay out of this,” Stanley said. “This is between me and the fag.”
    â€œMy name is Bob Steinkellner! Do you remember that name?”
    Rush watched the exchange between the two men with cool interest. It was clear who was getting the better of it. He also watched Stegner as he took cover behind a pylon next to Rush, with his Steyr Scout sniper rifle at the ready, watching for a clean shot through the sight. Stegner had waited years to play Navy Seal sniper with that thing. Now it looked like he was going to have his chance.
    â€œNo,” Stanley Trask said. “Why would I remember that name?”
    â€œYou called me,” Steinkellner said, sounding like a jilted lover. “You made me buy more phones. You channel stuffed me!”
    Stanley Trask laughed. “Is this to do with Feniro? That fiasco?”
    A bee was buzzing around Steinkellner and Walter now, and that only added to Steinkellner’s fury. “Yes, that fiasco! That fiasco ruined my life.”
    â€œWell, you got the right Trask for that. That was all Walter’s idea. Tell him, Walt.”
    Walter’s eyes bulged with fear. “Stan!” he cried.
    â€œGo ahead, Walt.