I sprint to the balcony, heart hammering against my ribs. Did this idiot really just…
Looking over the edge, I expect to see Tommy's body splayed across the pavement with broken legs. Instead, he's thrashing in a dense row of ornamental bushes about fifteen feet below, legs kicking wildly as he struggles to free himself from the branches.
"Son of a bitch! Shit! Fuck!" Tommy's curses. His expensive polo shirt snags on thorns with each movement, tearing small holes in the fabric.
Relief floods through me. I don't need an injured college kid on my conscience, especially a rich kid. "Stay right there!" I shout down.
Behind me, the room has erupted into chaos. The blonde girl is crying. The football player is groaning by the bookshelf. The waterbed guy is finally regaining his balance, swaying like a drunk as he steadies himself against the wall.
"Nobody move!" I command, turning back to face them. My voice cuts through their panic like a knife, sharp and dangerous. I tap my watch meaningfully, feeling the familiar rhythm under my fingertips. "Everyone stays in this room. Touch a phone, try to leave, and things get much worse. Understand? This ain't a game, and I ain't bluffing." I scan their faces one by one, making sure the message sinks in.
They freeze, nodding with wide eyes, the reality of their situation finally registering.
"Good. Five minutes. That's all this takes if nobody does anything stupid."
I dash back through the bedroom door and take the stairs three at a time, my hand sliding down the polished railings. The marble floor nearly causes me to slip as I round the corner through the kitchen, but I recover quickly, pushing through the side door that should lead to the garden.
The humid Miami air hits me as I burst outside, scanning the landscaped yard for movement. Tommy has finally extracted himself from the bushes, leaves and twigs stuck in his hair, scratches on his arms. He's limping slightly but moving fast toward the side gate.
"Tommy!" I shout. "This only gets worse if you run!"
He glances back, terror in his eyes, then increases his speed despite the limp. The kid is determined, I'll give him that.
I take off after him, gaining ground quickly. Tommy reaches the gate, fumbling with the latch, when a figure steps out from behind a nearby tree.
Ricky appears like he materialized from nowhere, standing casually in Tommy's escape path, one hand resting on his holstered revolver, the other extended straight out like a traffic cop.
Tommy, focused on looking back at me, doesn't see Ricky until the last second. He slams into Ricky's outstretched arm at full speed, the impact catching him right across the chest. The clothesline maneuver is textbook, Tommy's feet fly forward while his upper body snaps backward. He hits the ground with a heavy thud, air whooshing from his lungs.
"Howdy there, partner," Ricky drawls, looking down at Tommy. "Seems like you're in an awful hurry."
I jog up, slightly winded but grinning despite myself. "Nice timing, cowboy."
Ricky tips his hat dramatically. "Figured you might need backup when I saw this fella taking the express route down from the balcony." He nudges Tommy with his boot. "Not the smartest getaway I've seen."
Tommy's still trying to catch his breath, his face contorted in pain and fear. Twigs and leaves cling to his designer clothes, and a thin line of blood trickles from a scratch on his cheek.
"The thing about debts, Tommy," I say, crouching beside him, "They always catch up."
I grab Tommy by his collar and hoist him to his feet. His expensive polo shirt tears slightly at the seam.
"That was quite the performance," I say, dusting some leaves off his shoulder with mock concern. "What were you thinking? That you'd just fly away?"
Tommy wobbles unsteadily, wincing as he puts weight on his right ankle.
Ricky laughs, adjusting his cowboy hat. "Man, I've seen bull riders with better dismounts. You came down like a sack of potatoes."
"My ankle," Tommy whines, testing it gingerly. "I think it's sprained."
"Better than broken," I say, gripping his arm firmly to guide him back toward the house. "Which is what would've happened if those bushes weren't there."
Ricky walks on Tommy's other side, occasionally chuckling. "You know, in the Old West, they used to hang horse thieves. Debt dodgers just got tarred and feathered."
"Nobody's getting tarred today," I assure Tommy, who looks genuinely terrified. "We're just having a conversation about money."
We march him through the garden and back into the house. His college friends are still upstairs, exactly where I left them. When we enter the bedroom with Tommy limping between us, their eyes widen.
"Everyone sit down," I command, pointing to the edge of the waterbed. They comply immediately.
I position Tommy in a chair facing his friends, then step back and cross my arms.
"Tommy, that was very rude," I say, shaking my head. "Running away like I'm some kind of dangerous monster. You made me chase you. Is that how you treat business associates?"
Tommy stares at the floor, saying nothing.
"Look, this is just a banking operation. You borrowed money, you lost it on cockfights, and now it needs to be repaid. Simple transaction."
His friends exchange glances, clearly surprised to hear about Tommy's gambling habit.
I pull up another chair and sit close to him, our knee almost touching. "So, Tommy, do you want to cooperate now? Make this easy for everyone?"
Tommy shifts uncomfortably, still avoiding eye contact. His hesitation is obvious, he's weighing his options, probably thinking about calling the police once we leave.
I reach forward slowly and take his index finger, holding it firmly but not painfully. His head snaps up, eyes widening.
"I asked if you want to cooperate," I repeat quietly, giving his finger the slightest twist. Nothing that hurts, yet, but enough to make my point crystal clear.
"Yes! Yes, I'll cooperate," Tommy blurts out, his voice cracking. "But I don't have any cash here. I swear!"
I release his finger and sit back. "No cash? What an inconvenience. What we gonna do about it?"