The rifle
Declan
Connor loves his golden Nighthawks, calls them his girlfriends. The grips are real gold, so the guns are heavy, which is how he likes them. He would be put out if he had to get rid of them.
I’m not sentimentally tied to my rifle, even though the rifle has served me well. Sentiment is not the reason I nod at the rookie cop sitting behind the desk at the police station I walk into. I head straight toward the evidence room as if I know where I’m going. I’ve never been here before, and I definitely don’t belong here.
The walls need a coat of paint. The city’s public sector is poor, having been under the rule of a criminal kingpin for over a decade. The chief of police is just as much a criminal as my father was. The hallways smell like mold, the floors are old, and even the bleach they wash them with can’t remove the stains that could only be fixed by remodeling.
I open the door that leads down the steep stairs and into the basement, then flip the switch so I can see where I’m going.Goose bumps rise on my arms. It’s cold down here. I step into the messy room. Clear bags of evidence have been thrown into piles everywhere besides where they belong—the shelves. It looks like a dump.
“What the fuck?” I mumble to myself as I examine the room for cameras. I see none. Of course not. There’s a table in the corner with white powder on it. I approach and rub some powder on my gums. You’ve got to be kidding me.
An oversized notebook catches my attention, and when I flip it open, I find it’s an outdated filing system. I go to the date when they confiscated my rifle.
F1234408u58u
Huh. Would you look at that. They logged it. But which pile is the F pile? I groan at the thought of having to sort through this mess.
“You good, man?” someone (presumably the guard from up front) asks me from the stairs.
“Yeah, just looking for something.”
“What are you looking for?”
“The cash that we confiscated from Dina Ferrar’s apartment,” I lie.
“Cash, you say?” The cop descends the steps.
I keep my head down. My eyes will give me away. While I’m not the only person with heterochromia, I’m Declan Crossbow.
The cops profiled Connor and me. Based on that, they developed a strategy, and since Connor would have approached the situation differently, the chief will be terribly put out when he finds out the rifle from his evidence locker was used to take down the same people he wants to protect.
When I profile my assignments, I judge them based on the psychology of a group or the label I tag them with. But an individual is more complex than the sum of their parts, anddeveloping a strategy based on a profile isn’t the best move. Yet, we all do it.
“How much money are we talking?” the cop asks.
“Thirty-five thousand.”
He whistles.
My rifle cost more than that. Hell, my cheap suit cost more than that. But I’m not so far removed from reality that I don’t know that thirty-five thousand dollars would change this man’s life.
“It’s probably still at the apartment,” I say.
“You think so?”
“Yeah, I was stationed at Dina Ferrer’s hospital room, and I heard her mention the money, so I came here to look for it, but it’s not here, or it would’ve been written down in the evidence book. I only see the rifle number.” I’m fishing for info.
The cop smiles. “That woman was fire.”
“Was she?” I ask, using the nasal voice my dad used right before he lost his shit.Ah fuck. It’s a clue that I’m about to become the monster I fear the most: myself. The little boy whose toes soaked up his mother’s blood from the floor, while he stood there feeling absolutely no sadness about losing her.
I’m not a child anymore. I’m a trained killer. That’s the scary part.
The cop makes a derogatory gesture with his hands, making me think of his hands groping her. “Fine ass.”
I take off my hat.
