Chapter One
Sebastian Sutcliff
Glancing over my shoulder, I lead the gun-toting teenager away from my Brooklyn office door. Newly etched withSuds and Sam, Private Investigators, it’d be a damn shame to have the glass ruined. Besides, it was a birthday present to my wife, and she’s rather fond of it.
As I lure my would-be assassin away from the storefronts to the subway platform across the street, my fists clench and stomach acids churn. Only moments ago, I left my toddler at his grandparent’s house a few blocks away. Had they not insisted on spoiling him, he would’ve been in front of me in his stroller.
I don’t take kindly to people threatening my family and almost everyone in this neighborhood knows better. The cocky bastard has the fuckin’ nerve to follow me up the flight of iron steps, then grins, and pulls a pistol from his pocket.
What a damn fool. I’ve narrowed his means of escape which for him, is no laughing matter.
“Gun! Get.” I shoo four people to the opposite side of the platform and being a peculiarly smart breed of Brooklynites, they pay attention and run like hell.
Once they’re gone, I squat behind a bench, unholster my Glock and aim at the inked bald head appearing above the elevated floor. “Best you skedaddle.”
In response, the kid fires high and his bullet digs into the wooden seat, far to my left.
“You ever heard of a practice range?” SEAL training insists I weigh my options as I put the dangerous young man in my sights.
I suppose I could shoot him and spend the afternoon in the police station. I do enjoy a good ramble, but lawyers are expensive. My other choice is to wound him and let him get away.
Whatever I decide, I need to do it fast because the tremor under my feet is a clear indication the city-bound train’s about to arrive. Both arms forward, I steady my grip, and pull the trigger. The dumb-ass squeals, drops his handgun, and as he clutches his wrist, I jump to his side, certain he’ll never hold a weapon again.
With any luck, his gang buddies will ditch him, and he can find a new hobby.
“Who sent you?” The tip of my pistol to his temple, I catch his gaze, and he spits in my face. Damn if that ain’t nasty as fuck.
Wiping a sleeve across my cheek, I move the metal between his eyes. “Talk. Who wants me dead?”
“Luis.” Eyes wide, the idiot has the good sense to show fear but not enough for my liking.
Thinking of my son, I finger the trigger. “I don’t cotton to people shootin’ at me. Say your prayers.”
“They’ll kill me if I snitch.” From the stench of ammonia, I deduce the teenager pissed himself.
An oncoming headlight rounds a corner, and the conductor blares his horn, no doubt nervous how close we are to the rails.
“Choose wisely because I’m about to throw you on the tracks.”
He glances down at his pool of blood and urine, then closes his eyes. “His name is Luis Delgado.”
“Gonna have to do better than that.”Hell, there’s probably a million baptized men of the same name in this borough alone.Grabbing his good arm, I push him closer to the tracks and he struggles until he realizes he’s no match for me, and stares into the train.
Breaks squeal and as I count down, the young thug screams, “He leads The Kings! Pull me in. Pull me in.”
“There’s no way they’d piss in Vincent Vitale’s backyard.”My wife’s uncle would start an all-out war.Grabbing both his arms, I tug him off the platform, and drag him down to the street.
“Vitale? I have no idea who he is, man.” His insolent tone back, he juts out his chin but he’s shaking so bad, I fear he may have a heart attack.
He’s got a good reason to be scared. Vinny is fiercer than a junkyard dog when it comes to these few blocks and if the kid was from around here, he’d have a clue.
If he hadn’t tried to kill me, I’d almost feel sorry for him. “Where you from? Don’t lie. Make it fast.”
“Detroit. Okay? A brother gave me your address and said I was to shoot you.”
I let him go. “I’m givin’ you a head start. Leave town or the next time I see you, I’ll aim for another appendage, and you’ll be using a bag for the rest of your life.”Shit, there’s only one reason someone in Motor City would want me dead and it has to do with a container truck full of fentanyl-laced Muppets.
Chapter Two
