“So, what? You’re just gonna gank me and walk away? You don’t think anyone will stop you?” the guy says. With blood covering his fake driver’s uniform, he looks like something out of a horror film. His eyes are piercing, green, made that much starker by the shock of crimson splashed across his face. I feel like I should know who he is somehow. Like I’ve met him before. The mystery of his identity is hovering at the very edges of my mind. It’ll come to me.
Now isn’t the time to be racking my brain over some maybe meeting that took place god knows when, though. Now’s the time to be kicking his ass and leaving as quickly as possible. I have to find that girl before she gets herself into even more trouble. McLaughlin won’t see it as trouble she got herself into. It’ll be trouble I got her into, and then subsequently failed to prevent from worsening. That’s how Paddy works. You take ownership for something, you’d better fucking make sure you can take care of it, otherwise he’s coming after you. And he’s not the kind of person to chalk something up to shitty luck or an accident, either. He’ll say that I should have known, like knowing is a supernatural gift that I must somehow possess.
“Come on,” the guy says. “We need to get out of here before the cops show up. And, sweetheart, if you want to live, you won’t make a fuss about it, okay?”
I want to throat punch this bastard. He comes at me, hands out in front of him like he’s trying to calm a startled deer or something, and I snap. I am not a startled deer. I am the predator that springs the deer and rips its fucking throat out. This poor asshole can’t know that, though. He can’t know about the fourteen years of Krav Maga training I’ve had. He can’t know about the army training I received in my late teens and early twenties. He can’t know about the countless hours and hours I’ve spent at the range, shooting and throwing knives until missing is something I just don’t do anymore.
He finds out pretty quickly, though.
He’s reaching for my gun, like he thinks he’s just going to be able to pluck it straight out of my hands. I wait until he’s within arm’s distance, and then I spin the gun around in my hand, gripping it by the muzzle, and I coldcock him with it right in the face. Blood explodes from his nose, his head kicking back.
The sirens sound closer.
When the guy looks up at me, hands cupped over his nose, his eyes are wide with disbelief. “You’re gonna regret that, sweetheart.”
“I don’t know. I’m feeling pretty good about it.” I shouldn’t be baiting him, but he’s an arrogant prick and I’m pretty sure he’s dead set on killing me once he has me safely out of the public’s eye. Stalking forward, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun. It’s a Berretta, an old one with a scuffed muzzle—clearly he’s used a silencer on it once or twice before. No silencer now, though. He doesn’t seem to notice that we’re surrounded by people anymore. People with horrified expressions on their faces and cell phones in their hands, recording every single step we make. I watch his body, watch the way he moves. I’m trained to do that before I make assumptions about anyone. I come to the conclusion very quickly from the way he holds his gun, the way he holds himself—sure, confident, his weight over the back of his feet—that he’s trained too. The way he steps one foot over the other is a typical army training move that could mean he served or he’s just had the benefit of professional coaching. Either way, I don’t plan on underestimating him.
When he lunges for me, I’m ready. I deflect the hand he was going to grab me with, slapping it downward, and then I grab onto his wrist, pulling him off balance. He seesaws forward but then rips his wrist out of my hand. I don’t expect him to turn his slight fumble to his own advantage, but he does. Dropping to the floor, he rolls and kicks out, landing a solid strike to my leg. I have less than a second to brace myself before I’m hitting the concrete.
Then he’s on top of me. “Oh, this is fun, sweetheart. But I don’t really have time to be playing games with you right now.”
He’s reaching for my arms, about to pin me to the ground, but I jab, landing a solid hit with my extended fingertips right in the base of his throat, in his windpipe. He chokes, his body falling sideways, and then I’m on top of him. Through watering eyes and a clearly sore throat, the guy grins up at me, shaking his head. “Well, if you wanna fuck me, I guess I could make some time.” Thrusting upward, he tries to unseat me, but I know this is what’s coming and I’m ready again. I compensate, leaning forward, pressing my gun into the guy’s neck.
“Who are you?”
His body goes still, his hands lifting so they’re palm up in front of him. “You know who I am, sweetheart. I’m the enemy.”
“My boss has quite a few enemy camps. Which one do you belong to?”
“The biggest one,” the guy says, smiling. “The Italian one.”
“So you work for Barbieri?”