Chapter Twenty-Seven
Suds
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Shots fired. Twelve Columbus Place. Bed Sty. Come quickly.” I hang-up, climb the stairs, and at the end of the hall, wait at the window.
Come and get me, motherfucker.
Ten minutes later, as I expected, it’s not NYPD’s finest who show up, rather two goons in a dark sedan. Automatic weapons out, they make their way into the building as a black Cadillac pulls up behind them.
Out walks none other than Mr. Javier Gomez. Holy shit, I hit the jackpot.
Three against one? Piece of cake. They’re the ones who should be pissing their pants because I am fucking tired of this crap. This asshole conspired with a mobster who in turn, put a price on my wife’s head.
Hell, if she wasn’t friends with Frankie, she’d be dead by now.
For a split second, I struggle with a moral dilemma. What if the two with Gomez are real detectives and he gave them some line of bull about me being the bad guy. Killing two men on duty don’t sit well with me but neither does dying.
Their bulky form tells me they’re wearing armor. A body shot won’t be lethal but could break a rib, especially at close range.
Crouching under the metal steps, I give them fair warning. “Don’t come no closer.”
At this point, if they were legit, they should shout,NYPD, drop your weapon,but they don’t. Not feeling guilty at all, I fire three fast rounds. Two slam the DA’s pals squarely in the chest and they tumble back.
The third is a bullseye on Gomez’s pistol. It flies out of his hand, clatters down the stairs, and he screeches as he tucks his injured fingers under his armpit.
Jumping into the stairwell, I point my weapon at his head. “Inch yourself back down the steps. Best you don’t try nothin’ funny. The sight in my right eye is a little messed up. My aim ain’t what it used to be.”
“What do you want?” Gomez lifts his arms, joining his buddies doing the same.
“Simple. Why were you meeting here with Little Tony the night of the fifteenth?”
