A/N
Yes, I'm dragging it out some more
A reminder for mendenbar – I am a 41 year old man, therefore, not addressed as "mistress" :)
"Fuck you, Max."
"Now is that any way to speak to a man of the cloth?" the older man mocked as he let go of Booth's hair and produced a large silver coin he began flipping, catching and flipping again, one handed.
Booth's heart sank. He didn't need to a closer look to know Christopher Columbus was on the obverse.
He ignored Max's other hand which casually held his prized Forschtner-Victorinox butcher knife, the one with the 8 inch blade. Booth wasn't much of a cook, but he appreciated good cutlery, a sort of residue from his professional past, a past which now looked like it was going to bite him in the ass.
That knife cut bone almost as easily as others cut meat.
With his chin, Booth indicated Max's otherwise nondescript dirty clothing which included a windbreaker with 'Maximum Landscape' embroidered on one breast and name patch with 'Roy' on the other. Some sort of small frame automatic was tucked in his waistband. Booth tried to keep up a brave front.
"I see you traded in your Roman collar. Looks like a demotion if you ask me."
Stalling until a better idea came along was the only game in town, but stall too long and his son might get caught up. There was no point in screaming for help because Max could cut his throat and be long gone before Booth's neighbors got their deadbolts unlocked.
Max caught the coin one last time and pocketed it. He held up the knife in both hands and made a show of examining its edge before looking Booth in the eye.
"You know a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."
Max set the knife aside on the counter, next to a roll of duct tape – apparently the same with which he'd been bound, and the six inch long flat black cylinder of the steel ASP baton Booth kept in the drawer closest to the door in case of unwanted guests. Several strips of duct tape were already cut off and stuck by one end to the edge of the countertop. When Max looked at Booth again, his weathered face showed no emotion.
"Big, tough, young guy like you… frankly I'm surprised I got the jump on you so easily."
Booth kicked himself again for his woman troubles. " Uh, I was preoccupied."
The other man merely smirked a little.
It was time to try to find out just what the fuck was going on. Barring some miracle, it looked like talking was his only weapon.
"Why, Max?" he quietly asked.
"Why?" Max finally showed a sliver of anger. "Why? I could ask you the same thing. I trusted you to look after my little girl. I thought I'd found the proverbial honest cop, but apparently he's still just a myth."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
Surprisingly fast for an old fart, Max grabbed him by the throat in a choke hold then shifted his grip up to his jaw to force his mouth shut, slamming his head back painfully against the post. He leaned in close by Booth's ear.
"First, some ground rules. I ask all of the questions. You answer them truthfully and completely."
Max reached back behind Booth and squeezed his broken wrist. Hard.
Only a strangled scream made it past the hand on his mouth. His bladder almost cut loose.
Max's voice grated in his ear, "You are my messenger. This is the message: 'If they want to fuck with Max Keenan's family, he'll fuck back twice as hard.' It's up to you whether you get to deliver it on two feet or in a body bag."
Booth shivered, afraid he was slipping into shock.
After a few seconds Max hissed, "Ready to cooperate, to tell me everything I want to know about them?"
Booth grunted what was supposed to be an ok and nodded to the microscopic extent Max's death grip on his jaw allowed. The man was fucking insane. He had absolutely no idea what Max was talking about, which meant he had nothing real to offer.
Which meant he was going to die.
What Booth did next was stupid. He must have panicked. There was just no other explanation why he forgot his intention of staying cool and trying to talk his way out, bullshitting if need be.
Once Max let go of his jaw, but before he'd fully pulled back, Booth Tysoned his left ear.
The older man's only response was to grunt at the pain as he froze. Then, just as Booth tasted some blood, Max punched him in the gut, knocking the breath out of him. His gasp made him release his bite.
Max pulled back and checked his injured but intact ear. He looked at the small amount of blood on his hand and wiped it on his dirty jeans. He watched Booth without expression for a moment as he struggled for air, then he calmly raised his right hand. His eyes never left Booth's.
Max backhanded him across his broken cheek.
The world went away again.