Matt stood frozen in shock.
The older man brought the club down a second time. Brought it right down on Kazmir’s head.
It made a sound like a pumpkin smashing on concrete.
“What the hell,” Matt said, stepping forward.
A steel band constricted around his waist.
The big guy’s arms. The bodybuilder. Mr. Rawson.
Matt gasped for breath. There was no air left in his lungs.
Rawson squeezed. He kept squeezing. Matt groaned, tried to pry the fingers apart. Useless. He couldn’t do anything. All he could do was watch. The older guy, swinging the club. Again, and again, and again. He didn’t look angry. He looked focused—intensely focused.
Matt kicked Rawson. Got him a good one on an ankle. Didn’t seem to hurt him at all. The big man just squeezed harder. Tighter.
The world spun in front of Matt’s eyes. Oxygen. He needed oxygen.
Then the ground reached up and smacked him in the face. He lay on the green, gasping for air.
He looked up and saw the older guy handing him the driver.
The clubface glistened with something wet. Something red.
“You can have this back.”
The club fell on the ground next to him.
“What…” Matt’s voice caught in his throat; he couldn’t manage more than a whisper. “What are you doing?”
“I thought it was fairly obvious.” The older man crouched down next to him. “I’m framing you for murder.”