2
Shep
Center City, Philadelphia
Iwalkedinsidemycity crash pad and closed the door behind me, muting the late-afternoon chaos of the busy streets. Silence at last. Too much silence, in fact, and the absence of a welcoming committee meant my only companion in this world was probably passed out on the sofa. Again.
After unpacking a bag of groceries in the small kitchen, I pulled the Glock from the band of my jeans. Through force of habit, I removed the extended mag and checked the chamber was clear before placing them both in an overhead cabinet along with my keys.
Quiet sounds from the TV drew me toward the living room where I spotted Ranger, all four paws aimed skyward and onmyleather recliner. His dog bed, which cost more than any pet mattress ought to, lay ignored on the floor beside him.
Ranger’s stumpy tail thumped hard against the armrest. Furry brows twitched as his brown eyes followed my approach, but the spoiled-ass pointer didn’t move.
“No, really, Ranger, don’t get up.” I shook my head and returned to the kitchen to grab a beer and a pre-dinner snack. Since Ranger sat in my spot, I relaxed into the three-seater sofa and popped the bottle top.
I flipped the channel to the evening news. The anchor reported a drug bust on a fishing trawler, a pile-up on the Delaware Expressway, and a decorated US Army veteran’s suicide after battling PTSD. His widow wept as she told the reporter how her husband, a courageous war hero, had struggled to adjust when he returned home.
A knot lodged in my throat as I stared at the worn leather band tied around my wrist, a personal reminder of the horror show I’d experienced while deployed in Afghanistan. I took a long swig of beer and raised the bottle in salute to the fallen soldier.
Fifteen years serving my country in the Special Forces and then in Team Zulu, a black operations unit, meant I’d seen and done a lot of nasty shit. We all had our ways of dealing with it. I’d lost teammates—brothers—to the black dog. Me? I buried that baggage so deep it was never resurfacing.
Transitioning to life stateside was an ongoing struggle. I didn’t miss the deployments, but I did miss the brotherhood. Now the guys from my team were all in different places, doing different things. Some were still operators, others had returned home to families and regular jobs.
Then there were the ones like me. Messed up enough to be misfits in the civilian world, functioning enough to avoid the psych ward.
On TV, the news anchor switched to a reporter with a breaking bulletin. Standing outside a run-down house in the North Philly Badlands, she told how Micky ‘The Tank’ Sherman, a notorious pimp and drug dealer, was missing and presumed dead in a case similar to other recent criminal underworld disappearances. She concluded by saying detectives were no closer to identifying a suspect.
I gave myself a mental pat on the back at a job well done.
No one would mourn that murderous son of a bitch.
Killing brought me no joy, but I took satisfaction in knowing that assholes like Sherman couldn’t terrorize anyone anymore.
When I opened the packet of chips, Ranger flipped onto his stomach so fast he almost fell off the recliner. Nose raised, he sniffed the air to determine what was on the menu and joined me on the sofa.
I handed him the first chip and scratched the scruff of his neck. “You’re a leech, you know that?”
Ranger’s brown snout snuffled my jeans and nudged my elbow before he settled with his chin on my thigh.
The news finished, and I smirked when a commercial for Palermo Pizza filled the screen, complete with a catchy jingle and a smiling Franky Russo touting their latest specials.
Wearing traditional Sicilian folk garb—black vest over a white shirt, black slouch coppola hat, and a red silk scarf knotted at his neck—and sporting a cringeworthy fake handlebar moustache, Franky came across as a friendly, respectable middle-aged man dressed up to promote his large chain of pizza restaurants. Yet the public had no clue that the philanthropic owner of Palermo Pizza was also the ruthless leader of the Wolf Street Mafia. Franky Russo’s upstanding citizen act was a clever mask, and one of many he wore.
The real Franky, the one who kept me well paid, couldn’t be more different from his public persona. His illegal operation had emerged following the events of 9/11. When the FBI switched focus from organized crime to international terrorism, they left a gaping hole for savvy criminals to take back the streets. Led by Franky, the Wolf Street crime syndicate grew into a much larger and more sophisticated beast than Philly had ever known. No longer about protection money, loansharking, and theft, the Mob had evolved into a multi-billion-dollar empire with international links to drugs, weapons, and human trafficking networks.
Through bribery and coercion, Franky Russo was, as they say, untouchable, with a stranglehold on Pennsylvania from homeless street kids right through to the Governor.
If the mob boss had someone’s loyalty and obedience, they were safe. If not, there were plenty of ways he could make them suffer.
I knew that better than most.
The next morning, Ranger sat at my feet licking his lips while eyeballing the omelet I ate straight from the pan. I tossed him the last piece, then opened my laptop.
The email with details of my next job had arrived. Franky had asked me to stay in town after taking out Sherman because he had another contract for me.
I’d agreed, but would be glad to get it over with. Both Ranger and I were itching to leave the city and get back to our true home—a cabin in the Appalachian Mountains. Far from civilians and the constant reminder that I didn’t fit into their world anymore.
The only place I was at peace.