They brought him to the lounge on the main deck. Aaron wasn't far behind him. Maxwell might have thought they had taken him somewhere else, except for the occasional sob that escaped the frightened boy.

With his hands clasped behind his neck, the mercs presented him to their boss like he was a prize fish they had just hauled up from the deep. Benicio Terrealba sat with his legs set wide apart on a coffee-colored sofa. In his hand was a cut crystal glass of tequila. On his smug face was a pathetic starter mustache.

Had Emily really slept with this little turd?

"So are you the one that has been causing me so much trouble? Or perhaps you're just a lackey sent by my foe?" He took a deep drink and put the empty glass down. "A lackey, I think."

He stood up, straightening his overly tight pants. The navy blue fabric clung to the undefined contours of his legs. There was a saunter in his step that wouldn't be there if a pistol wasn't pressed against the back of Maxwell's head.

The fucker wouldn't be able to walk if there wasn't a gun on me.

He came over and examined his captive's face with amusement. With three armed guards, Torrealba truly felt he had the upper hand.

He pulled Aaron forward. Roughly tugging him into motion with a grip on his shoulder. "Go sit down."

The boy didn't move. He only let out a soft groan. Torrealba shoved him toward the sofa. "Callarse. I said, go." Aaron scampered to the corner seat.

The bearded mercenary, who seemed to be in charge of the trio said, "He had these on him." He made a beckoning gesture and the youngest of the group, dumped Maxwell's belongings on the table. The man looked nervous. His baby face was coated with a sheen of sweat. As soon as the items were disposed of, he retreated to stand by the door.

Benicio Torrealba poked through Maxwell's belongings. He ignored the Glock and gravitated toward the commando knife.

"What have we here? Very nice." He held it up to the light appreciating the blade.

With a quick and clumsy motion, he placed the knife up to Maxwell's face. "Now you are going to tell me who you work for, comprender?" Slowly, Torrealba dragged the blade across the upper side of his cheekbone.

Maxwell didn't flinch from the pain. Did the fool think he'd wither under so light a scratch? After all the things he had endured in his career. Heck, after all the things he had endured in his years with Bertrand, this was barely a paper cut.

He could have stood there stoically and taken worse, but instead, he made them think he was weaker than that. He sucked his breath in loudly and recoiled. The gun pressed into his scalp moved, as the guard readjusting to the sudden change in distance. The idiot's misguided instincts made him move off to give Torrealba room to work. There was no doubt that the pistol was still cocked and aimed, but it was an improvement.

Maxwell looked up at the pampered playboy playing master criminal with quivering fear in his eyes. "Please don't. You're right. I was just hired to get the boy."

"Who do you work for?"

Maxwell acted the scared rabbit as the knife hovered by his eye, but he didn't say anything.

"Come, come. Do I need to blind you, to get you to talk? I admit, it sounds like fun, but I would hate to have to replace the carpet."

There was a tittering from the men. It was a strange half-laugh that didn't seem natural.

Maxwell kept up the terrified prisoner routine, "I don't know who he is. We only communicate by phone. We've never met. He wired the money to my bank account."

Torrealba moved in close and the man's rotten breath escaped his mouth as he spoke. "I want details. Did he have an accent? What nationality? What number did you use to contact him?"

That was the question Maxwell had been waiting for.

"I don't know. I don't remember the number."

Torrealba got a distant look in his drunken, bloodshot eyes. Some memory was trying to fight its way to the surface. Maxwell gritted his teeth willing him to make the connection.

The man slowly withdrew over to the table and surveyed the items they had taken off of Maxwell. Eagerly, he snatched up the satellite phone and held it up. He waggled it back and forth. "Aha."

He strode back over to Maxwell. "Who you gonna call? Huh? I don't think it's the Ghostbusters."

The guards all immediately broke out in an exaggerated laugh as though it was part of their job description.

Torrealba opened the phone up and searched the address book. There was only one number programmed in. "Is this perhaps how you talk to your employer? Huh?"

Maxwell blanched and looked down at the floor. "No, it...that number has nothing to do with anything."

Benicio Torrealba laughed in his face. "You are a horrible liar."

He tossed the knife down on the table and paced away, back toward the sofa and Aaron with the phone at his ear. "You better hope he answers."

"He won't pay you to release me," Maxwell squealed.

"That doesn't matter. If he answers, I'll kill you quickly so he can hear. But if he doesn't..." Torrealba turned and gave a smirk. "I will take you up on deck and kill you slowly. Truthfully, I hope he is not at home."

Maxwell took slow measured breaths.

The problem with using cell phones to trigger a detonator was that you were never exactly certain how long it would take to connect the call. He just had to hope the dumbass didn't hang up.

When the C4 blew, the ship lurched with a sudden pitch that felt like the world was ending. Maxwell swung around and swept the pistol away from his head. A bullet blasted out one of the room's windows.

Aaron was screaming but Maxwell couldn't turn to check on him. The merc was bringing the gun back up. The heel of Maxwell's hand slammed into his throat. His airflow died under his crushed trachea and Maxwell wrestled the Colt .45 from his weak grasp.

The other guards rushed to raise their Russian made SR-3 assault rifles. He put two into the chest of Mr. Beard and then aimed at Babyface, who still hadn't gotten the barrel higher than his waist.

"Drop it. No one else needs to die today."

The mercenary might have laughed at all of Torrealba's inane jokes but apparently he wasn't willing to lay down his life for him. He slowly put the rifle on the ground and took a step back.

Aaron was gone. Maxwell was scrambling to think of how he could have gotten out of the room when the boy peeked out from around the overstuffed arm of the couch. Clearly terrified he ducked back into his hiding spot. Things were going a lot rougher than Maxwell had planned. Aaron shouldn't have been subjected to any of this. It was too much for a three-year-old. Maxwell reminded himself that none of this would be happening if the bastard in front of him hadn't kidnapped the boy in the first place.

Torrealba was on the ground, staggered on one knee from the blast. In defeat, his face was twisted in pain. He stared up at Maxwell with a demonic look of frustration. "So now what? You take the boy from his father? The only father he will ever know?"

There was no point wasting words on him. Deep in his heart, Maxwell knew some fathers weren't worth knowing.

He pulled the trigger three times, even though the first shot pierced the center of Torrealba's forehead. Then, he had the gun pointed back on Babyface. But with his employer dead, the man seemed twice as resigned to his surrender.

Maxwell eased his way over to Aaron and wrapped his arm around him. "Come on now. Let's get you home." They'd have to move fast. The flames were spreading across the deck and dancing in the spider web of the broken window.

***

Author's Note: I'm getting super excited about the ending. Right now I am dashing through the rough draft of the last chapter and the words are pouring out faster than I can type them. I hope all of you will be just as excited about the outcome and I'd love to hear what you're thinking about it. Up until now, I have been very reluctant to include author notes except at the very end of the chapter, but I will be putting up lots of notes from here on out in hopes of provoking discussion.

What do you think of Maxwell shooting Torrealba? Was it justified? Was it cold-blooded murder? Should he have done it? Was it in character?

What about Benicio Torrealba? I was going for some pathetic dolt with undeserved power (and a sadistic streak) acting the way he thought he was supposed to. Was he too over the top and cartoony?