Don't Let Go By Harlan Coben

Don't Let Go By Harlan Coben

Prologue: I hide the baseball bat behind my leg, so Trey—at least, I assume it is Trey—won’t see. The Maybe-Trey bebops toward me with the fake tan and the emo fringe do and the meaningless tribal tattoos lassoing bloated biceps. Ellie has described Trey as a “purebred twat waffle.” This guy fits the bill. Still, I have to be sure. Over the years, I have developed a really cool deductive technique to tell if I have the right guy. Watch and learn: “Trey?” The choadwank stops, gives me his best Cro-Magnon forehead furrow, and says, “Who wants to know?” “Am I supposed to say, ‘I do’?” “Huh?” I sigh. See what kind of morons I have to deal with, Leo? “You replied, ‘Who wants to know?’” I continue. “Like you’re being cagey. Like if I called out, ‘Mike?’ you wouldn’t have said, ‘You got the wrong guy, pal.’ By answering ‘Who wants to know?’ you’ve already told me you’re Trey.” You should see the perplexed look on this guy’s face. I take a step closer, keeping the bat out of sight. Trey is all faux gangsta, but I feel the fear coming off him in hot waves now. Not surprising. I am a respectable-sized guy, not a five-foot woman he could slap around to feel big. “What do you want?” Trey asks me. Another step closer. “To talk.” “What about?” I swing one-handed because that’s fastest. The bat lands whiplike on Trey’s knee. He screams, but he doesn’t fall. Now I grip the bat with both hands. Remember how Coach Jauss taught us to hit in Little League, Leo? Bat back, elbow up. That was his mantra. How old were we? Nine, ten? Doesn’t matter. I do just what Coach taught us. I pull the bat all the way back, elbow up, and step into my swing. The meat of the wood lands flush on the same knee. Trey goes down like I shot him. “Please . . .” This time, I lift the bat high overhead, ax-chop-style, and, putting all my weight and leverage into it, I again aim for the same knee. I can feel something splinter when the blow lands. Trey howls. I lift the bat again. By now Trey has both hands on the knee, trying to protect it. What the hell. Might as well be sure, right? I go for the ankle. When the bat crash-lands, the ankle gives way and spreads under the onslaught. There is a crunching sound like a boot stepping on dried twigs.

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