I roll off, but stay close enough to wrench the son of a bitch up by the front of his shirt. He coughs blood as his eyes pinwheel in their sockets, delirious with pain.
Phoenix comes up behind me. “You okay?” I ask him.
“Fine,” he replies. “The bullet just grazed me.”
I give him the once-over just to make sure. Then I turn back to the bearded fucker in my grasp. Re-gripping my gun, I jam it up under the man’s chin.
“We don’t have time for this,” Phoenix says urgently. “He’s getting away.”
“You planted the tracker?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” My eyes are fixed on the man in front of me.
“Where’s he headed?” I ask for good measure.
“Fuck you, you fucking mick.”
I roll my eyes, drop him down, and shoot him three times in rapid succession. The man’s lifeless body twitches and then stills. His face is a messy patchwork of blood. The coroner will have their hands full identifying this one.
“Come on,” I tell Phoenix as I wipe the man’s blood splatter off my face. “We can still catch up to the loyalist.”
“The boys are on it.”
“Well, then, we don’t want to be late to the party, do we?”
Since my men have taken the main vehicle, Phoenix gets into mine and we start the chase across Long Island. “You think he’ll still head to the meeting?” he muses.
“Doubtful,” I reply. “But it doesn’t matter. If we catch him, we can get him to talk. Find out what the Italians and Greeks are planning.”
“You think he’ll talk?”
I laugh and stomp down harder on the gas. “By the time we’re done with him, he’ll be fucking screaming.”
* * *
It takes us ten minutes to catch up to the poor bastard. With a little coordination, my men block his vehicle from the other side, trapping him down a residential street. Houses pave the area down adjacent roads, but the one we’re on is relatively deserted.
I can see his silhouette in the driver’s seat. He’s definitely alone. I jump out of the car and saunter over to his vehicle, making sure to shoot out his tires first.
His face is stark-white when I try to pull open his door. It’s locked. “You really want me to shoot it open?” I ask him calmly.
Shaking, he unlocks the door and I open it.
“Get out here,” I tell him as my men flank me.
His arm is twisted behind his back, and even though I can’t see it, I know he’s trying to hide the gun in his hand.
“Don’t do it—”
The moment he moves to shoot, I fire first, burying a bullet right in his bicep. Idiot.
He screams, long and loud. The sound seems to travel for a mile before dissolving into the midnight silence.
“Stupid move,” I tell him as he collapses into the driver’s seat. I grab him by the collar of his shirt and hurl him out of the car. He drops to the road, his chin smacking the tar and splitting open.
He groans low, but refuses to raise his head. Using my foot, I hook it underneath one arm and roll him over onto his back. Then I step between his legs, making sure he can see my gun where it glistens in the moonlight.