He came at me again a second later, blood running from the top of his head, down his nose, into his eyes. “You’re going to pay for that, motherfucker,” he said, swinging a wooden stick in his hand. It whistled as it swung through the air. I dodged it a second before it struck me in the face.
Whoever he was—I had no fucking clue—he wasn’t trying to kill me. He wanted to knock me out to get me in the trunk. I acted like I was going to fling the tire iron at his head, to give me time to grab for my gun, but he was too fast. The wooden stick came down with awhap!against my arm, sending a shock to my chest when I lifted my arm.
He must’ve trained using the stick. He swung it like a controlled weapon.
I danced with this guy, getting hit here and there, trying to use the tire iron to deflect his stick. My knuckles were busted from getting in the way too much. On one go, I met his stick in the air, and he pushed against me as I pushed against him. Suddenly, he let go, going back a step or two, and when he came back at me, I kicked him in the kneecap as his stick hit me in the ribs.
I lost my breath, but he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Even with him being down, I couldn’t get close to him again. I knew he was going to use that stick to hit at me if I did. It was like a constantly striking snake.
Taking a deep breath, breathing in air and then releasing fire after I did, I took out my gun and pointed it at him. “You have five seconds to tell me who you belong to.”
He wasn’t with Grady, and he definitely was not a Scarpone. They would’ve whacked me and then hacked me. Or buried me in the woods to rot.
He lifted his head, laughing a little. “Go to hell,” he said, right before he went to reach for something inside of his jacket.
“See you there,” I said as I pulled the trigger and hit him in the center of his forehead.
He went completely still after the blast echoed around us and rattled the loose pieces of my skull. Moving his jacket to the side, I found the gun he was going for. He should’ve just used it from the beginning. Less trouble.
Again, though, he didn’t want me dead. Which was fucking strange. Not wanting to have a debate with myself on the street about it, I took him by a foot and dragged him across the cement, leaving him on the other side of my car. His head left a wet trail of blood.
What was I going to do with this fucking stick wielder?
I looked up as a car was coming from the direction of the country club.
It was an expensive make and model, and judging by the silhouette, a woman. She slowed when she came close, stopping over the main blood puddle. She rolled down the window. She was younger than I expected. “Do you need help?”
“Nah,” I said. “Flat tire.”
She stared at me for a second before she lowered her designer glasses. “Are you sure?” Her voice went lower, and her eyes were hard on mine, trying to establish the connection.
She could tell I was trouble, and in her plush life, exactly what she was probably looking for. A different kind of dangerous than the one she was probably married to. I was the one her husband called when he wanted someone snuffed out.
“Move along, miss,” I said, leaning down to pick up the tire iron. “Your husband is waiting at home for his dinner to be served.”
She huffed at me as she pulled off.
I checked my watch. Yeah. It was getting late and I had to get home to my wife. Even if she didn’t eat, she still had to sit with me at the table every night while I did.
I touched my head and pulled back fingers stained with fresh blood. Maybe Maureen would be generous enough to stitch me up.
Sighing, I took the fucking stick wielder by the leg, dragging him toward the small patch of woods. More traffic might pass through soon if something was going on at the club. These were high-powered figures who didn’t all think so highly of me.
That was the last thing on my mind, though. I kept going back to why the guy didn’t finish me off. He wanted me in that trunk.
It wasn’t wise to rule anyone out, so taking that into consideration, it could’ve been Grady who sent him, or one of his men, or even someone the Scarpones paid. But again, it made no sense. They would’ve never come in that way, with a fucking whistling stick and only one guy.
It didn’t fit.
They would’ve come in guns blazing—in and out. And not around here. Too many potential witnesses around such a high-profile place. Which backed up my theory about the stick wielder wanting to stick me in the trunk. He wasn’t looking to cause a scene, or a mess.
My gut told me it was someone new. Someone unrelated—or not.
It wasn’t unusual to be tested and tried. There was always a man, or two, who thought he was more ruthless, more powerful, more cunning than whoever controlled what they wanted. But the timing was too perfect. The man knew exactly where I was going to be at the exact time.
It smelled worse than this dead guy. It smelled like a rat.
I stopped for a second in the middle of the woods, looking around. I’d stick him against a tree and be done with it. I wasn’t even going to bother hiding him. Though I’d leave that fucking stick with him. He might need it in hell.
