I shudder as the dust settles. I don’t much like basements and this cellar smells musty and abandoned, but I wait again in case I was heard. When enough time has passed without movement, I flick on my flashlight and slip out into a small hall with a couple of doors on each side that I ignore. It’s the stairs I’m focused on.
As soon as I’m on the main floor, I check my phone to find the layout of the house that Coyote sent me. Then I orient myself. The open spaces, the smell of newness, the shine from the floors. It makes me want to vomit. Rich people are sometimes the biggest crooks. Not all of them, but I think of people with so much money they could feed half the world. And yet, their only goal is to make more money, which is why they influence governments, cheat on their taxes, do insider trading. Destroy people that get in their way.
The rest of us are peons. The ants that scurry around paid shitty salaries so that the rich fucks have backs to climb on as they fight for dominance.
I’m a criminal too, I remind myself. I make a good living from the Jury’s activities. I give Oscar what he needs, at least materially. I don’t need a mansion to prove I have a big dick. Selkie has already established I do.
I jerk out of my musings, take another look at the map on my phone, then tuck it away and head upstairs. Big staircase, wide hall. Pictures on the wall that make me wish I brought a can of spray paint with me.
It’s easy to find Renfrew’s bedroom and I slide the door open cautiously. He’s in bed alone, which makes me breathe easier. He’s on his back, on the covers, naked. I want to shoot his dick off first. Maybe I’ll do it second. After he’s dead. No screaming that way.
He’s sleeping deeply, heavy breaths with the stale smell of weed and booze. I stand over him, gun in my hand. “Hey nutsack,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t move.
I punch him in the head. That gets his attention.
His eyes pop open, but it takes him a moment to focus. When he finally comes to his senses, he sees the gun first, then looks past it to see my face.
“What do you want? Did you bring the slut with you?”
I’m disappointed that he’s high. That he isn’t fully aware he’s about to die.
“No,” I say. “She wanted to kill you, so I left her home.”
He sits up, gropes around for his cigarette package. As he lights up, he says, “Then why are you here?”
“To kill you myself.”
He comes to his full senses when he realizes I’m serious.
I see the fear in his eyes, the slack of his face. Exactly what I was waiting for.
I pull the trigger. The lit cigarette falls on the bedding, and I briefly think of putting it out but decide it’s a good night for a bonfire.
When I’m back on the outside, Hangman is leaning against the wall, hands in his jean pockets. “Took you long enough,” he complains.
“It took a little while to wake him up.”
“We’re done then.” He heads towards his bike. “This is too much fucking walkin’. Gotta be an easier way.”
I catch up to him. “I’m not done. Johnny Fry is next.”
Hangman stops abruptly. “You didn’t say you were gonna do him.”
“I wasn’t thinking about it at first, but the bastard started this shit. Had Selkie kidnapped, used her as collateral. Set everything in motion.”
“Yeah, he did, but you can’t kill him.”
“I can,” I reply, pretending I’m mistaking his meaning. “I got a few more bullets in my pistol.”
“Don’t fuckin’ play games with me, cocksucker. He’s the bounty hunter’s father. You do that, she’ll be done with you. You don’t fuck up family whether they deserve it or not.”
“She won’t figure it out.”
“She’s not a half-wit. Three men die tonight. Kozlov, Renfrew. She won’t care. But add Jonny Fry to the mix, and it’s over.”
“Fine,” I say, not really meaning it. “I won’t kill him tonight.”
