“Yeah, Pops.” Mickey hovered next to him. “You need somethin’?”
“Soup? I gotta take my meds. Hurtin’.”
“Okay. I’ll make it for you, but then I gotta go back to work.”
“Thanks, Michael.”
Mickey went into their tiny kitchen and opened the barren cabinet to find the soup. It was the cheap dehydrated kind in a styrofoam cup, and he removed the outer packaging to add the water. He put it in the microwave, set the timer, and headed over to the couch.
A large, padlocked trunk served as their coffee table, and he cleared the trash on top of it to open it up.
It was full of guns, ammo, and equipment, and he quickly began to arm himself. He chose two sleek pistols with silencers, a few extra clips of ammo, and a shoulder holster to wear beneath his coat.
He was ready to go by the time the microwave dinged.
Back in the kitchen, he took a fork and stabbed the side of the styrofoam cup to drain out the water. He then poured the noodles sans broth into a small bowl to take to Pops.
The old man wouldn’t eat it any other way.
“Thank you,” Pops said, eagerly accepting his bowl of soup.
“You need anything else?” Mickey glanced around the cramped bedroom. “You got your juice? Your meds?”
“I’m fine. The nurse came by this morning. She said we’re behind on payin’ the bill.”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it. I’m expecting a big bonus today.” Mickey paused. “Anything else?”
“I’m all set. Go on.” Pops waved at him. “Don’t be late getting back to the office.”
“Okay, Pops,” Mickey said, well aware they both knew he wasn’t actually going to any office. “See ya later.”
They had never explicitly discussed the nature of Mickey’s work, and Mickey was happy to keep it that way. Pops had never asked where the money came from, and Mickey wouldn’t have told him anyway.
Pops didn’t need to know what kind of man he was. It was better like this.
Mickey drove back to the bar, his breathing calm and steady despite the flow of adrenaline making his skin tingle. He was running through the many violent scenarios ahead of him. He could see them playing through his mind like a reel of film, anticipating all the various ways he would attack.
The door would open, and he would take Tony and Robert first. They wouldn’t see it coming. Two shots in the head each.
Four bullets, leaving twenty-six.
By then the bartender would be up, unloading the shotgun he kept beneath the counter, and Mickey would take him down too.
Two bullets for him, twenty-four left to deal with the men in the back, plus the two extra clips he had with him. That made for a potential total of fifty-four bullets to finish solving the problem, and Mickey wouldn’t even need half that.
Taking a deep breath, he felt a familiar and eerie calm settle over him. It was comforting, letting his mind begin to shut down to focus on a singular task—killing every person inside the bar.
He knew openly attacking the Luchesi family was as good as suicide, but he couldn’t take the abuse for another second. Duncan would have to understand. They could always go to some other city and set up shop again.
That is, if they lived long enough.
When Mickey arrived, he noticed a car parked out front that hadn’t been there before. It was a black El Camino with gray and white flames painted on the sides.
Definitely didn’t belong to anyone he knew.
Mickey reset his mental plans to include ducking behind the bar for cover in case—
Gunshots.
