7
Sage
Ifiredoffeachround in rapid succession, imagining the outline on the target was Tommy Genovese.
Earlier today, the news reported that the midtier Mob scum had gotten away with murdering a fourteen-year-old street kid.
Sourness churned in my gut from thinking about his bullshit trial. The judge had thrown the case out when the key witness refused to testify. The lab mix-up with the DNA samples didn’t help, either. And now, Genovese was a free man. You didn’t need a criminology degree to figure out his trial stunk worse than a truckload of blue cheese left in the sun for a week.
Every time a murderer went unpunished, it reminded me of Kieran’s case and how easily the detectives had given up on finding his killer. What the hell had to happen in this city to set things right? The cops were crooked; the judges were paid off. The Feds were too busy hunting down international terrorists to worry about the homegrown ones.
I holstered the Glock at my hip and brought the target toward me via the overhead electric cable. The head and heart were peppered with holes within a tight radius.
The guy in the next lane ducked out from behind his partition. His brows rose as he glanced between me and the target.
“Nice,” he mouthed as he nodded, although I couldn’t hear him through the earmuffs.
I flashed the stranger a small, satisfied grin before heading for the exit.
After dozens of lessons and regular practice at the range, I could wield my Glock like an extension of my arm. I carried it with me wherever I went and wouldn’t hesitate to use it if my life was at risk.
After riding my bicycle home, I secured it in the rack of my building’s underground parking lot and made my way up the flights of stairs two at a time.
At my door, I dug for my keys. When I slotted them in the barrel, I found the door already unlocked.
The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and my limbs tingled with adrenaline.
The logical part of my brain argued that Lettie must be home early and had forgotten to lock the door from the inside. Except she wasn’t careless like that. Perhaps the super had been to perform maintenance without telling us?
Another part of my brain, the part that had remained vigilant for potential threats since the drive-by, warned me something wasn’t right.
I didn’t dismiss it.
I removed the Glock from my backpack, flicked the safety off, and held it at the ready. Slowly, I twisted the handle, then used my foot to nudge the door open while keeping the pistol firmly gripped in both hands. One finger rested on the trigger.
The door swung wide.
I held my breath to listen. Except for the whir of the refrigerator and pounding pulse at my temple, there was silence.
When nothing seemed amiss, I took a cautious step inside.
From the side, a dark figure charged me. Pain lanced through my forearm. A huge man wrenched the Glock from me. His meaty hands gripped the back of my neck and shoved me forward.
My wrists jarred, and my knees cracked against the floor.
Move! Fast!
Heart racing, I flipped to face my attacker.
Oh, shit.Dante Moretti’s bodyguard. Terror surged through me.
Don’t freeze up. Think!
I reached for my ankle and the switchblade holstered beneath my jeans. The big bastard’s eyes caught on it as I flicked it open. He wore a stony expression as he raised the pistol. Before he took aim, I threw the knife at his chest. He brought one arm up defensively, and with a fleshy thud, the blade found his forearm.
His fingers twitched, and my Glock dropped from his grip. The giant stared at the knife embedded in him before his eyes flared and landed on me. With a growl, he tore the bloody blade from his forearm, tossed it to the floor, then came toward me.
I dove for his ankles. A sharp pain tore through my shoulder from how hard I slammed into the asshole. The tackle unbalanced him. He stumbled back, landing on his ass. I scrambled for my Glock, but the big guy lunged for me. One huge hand clamped around my ankle, dragging me toward him. I kicked out with my free leg, contacting something solid, but he didn’t let go.