Kill who they dare not touch.
I will destroy the network of crime syndicates and families and gangs or I will die in the attempt. I will most certainly die, but it will be a good death. A worthy death.
When I was very young I dreamed of being a knight. Rescuing ladies and such. Somewhere along the line I turned into a blackguard, the worst of the worst. I became the bad guy.
I don’t think I’ll ever be a good guy, but I can do something with the time I have left.
The gear I’m taking with me isn’t enough and I don’t have time to move the rest. I’ll have to consider it abandoned since I can never come back here, ever. I need more.
I’ll need whatever Dale can spare. He’s not going to be happy to see me, which is why I’m not calling.
When the first pass on the data eraser is done I get in the car, start her up, and drive out. It’s almost daylight now. I ease off the gas as I pass Rose’s house for fear of waking her, and drive too fast through the rest of the development to the front gate, angrily choke my steering wheel while the gate goes up, and drive.
I don’t care about lying low or tickets or anything like that. I want to drive, to feel the blood sing in my veins, for something, anything to break this hot gray malaise that grips my soul. I know nothing can fill the void Rose left within me. I leave my heart behind tonight. Tomorrow I am a dead man, waiting for my ticket to get punched.
I’m going to punch it first. In the face.
Easy, Quentin. Let’s get to Dale’s place first.
It’s not a long drive into Philly but it makes me nervous. I’m not exactly low key here. I ease off the gas even on the interstate as I get to the city. I take the exit onto Columbus and then Market Street, watching the city breathe in quiet before it really comes awake. They say cities never sleep but everybody sleeps at four in the fucking morning.
Including me, if I wasn’t out of my mind.
This is what I should have done in the first place. Meet them head on. Instead I run and discover that life is actually worth living, but I can’t keep it or I’ll poison it.
I used to spend most of my downtime in this city. Walking in Chinatown, eating in the Old City around the Liberty Bell, visiting theaters, picking up women at the clubs. If I wasn’t sneaking up on someone to shoot them in the back I’d be here.
I’ve wasted my life.
I take a circuitous route to Dale’s place, constantly checking that there’s no one following me. The city may be mostly dead, but mostly dead is slightly alive, and there are still cars on the road. A police cruiser slides by and I tug at my seat belt and give him a little wave as he gives me the eye.
He might be looking for me. Cops can be on the payroll in a town like this. I know I’ve greased my share of palms for the authorities to look away after a messy job. It’s part of the business.
The route I take to Dale’s garage is a big spiral, circling ever closer, until I edge around the big power substation and park in the alley behind the building. From the outside it’s exactly as I remember, a nondescript brick two-story appointed in early postindustrial hell. I cruise around the building itself on foot before approaching.
He’ll know I’m here now and open the door.
Except he doesn’t. I buzz, no answer. Okay, it’s now five in the morning, he might be asleep. I’ve never known him to be anything but a night owl, but it’s almost early right now. I give him a few minutes, feeling more and more exposed. It’s hot but I feel cold.
Finally I head around back and go in through the garage. The lock on the back door poses a problem, it’s better than you’d find on some random house, but not much of a challenge for me. Once inside I weave around Dale’s booby traps and alarms. I know them all; he showed them to me, in case I ever needed to get in if something happened to him.
My stomach closes to a grim, cold place as I pass through the garage. The door to the upstairs is unlocked. I let my eyes adjust and step carefully, watching for a tripwire or motion sensor.
They’re there but they have been disabled. That’s not normal. Dale never shuts down his grid.
As I ascend the steps, a wave of putrid, sickly-sweet odor hits me, and I step back heedless, gagging. When I muster the willpower to step into his dingy living space I’m confronted with a scene from hell.
Somebody took a giant ice-cream scoop and carved out the top of Dale’s head and most of his face, or rather a shotgun made it look that way. It was a long time ago, too. He smells. There are critters.
Good thing I skipped breakfast.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “Oh fuck me.”
“Hello, Quentin.”
At the sound of Santiago de la Rosa’s voice I jump and spin, drawing a pistol from behind my back, and it’s only from years of training and conditioning that I don’t put a bullet through the computer screen.