“How much of a danger can I be, with my House all torn up like it is?”
“That's not what I meant, buddy. That's not what I meant at all. Don't you get it? A man's most dangerous when he has something he’d die for. Listen, I need to call Amanda, tell her goodbye. I’m just gonna reach in and grab my phone—”
He reaches into his pocket but behind me, Finch gives a shout.
“Look out!”
A gun goes off; Sonny give us a yelp of pain as the bullet hits his thigh, and he slumps over.
“Hold your fire!” I shout. “He was going for his phone.”
“No he fucking wasn’t,” Finch snaps as he pushes past me, holding the gun as steady as I’ve ever seen, aiming right at Sonny’s head.
And what do you know, Finch is right. As Sonny's jacket gapes open, I see the butt of a small hand gun.
I let my liking for the guy get in the way of my survival instincts.
Sonny is whimpering, pleading with us to help him. I lean in, grab the gun, and pull Finch past him, on down the stairs. “I'll send the paramedics up, Sonny,” I call over my shoulder.
I think it might be too late for him, but I gave him my word.
We make it down to the lobby, and when I peek out, it's deserted. The West Coast men have fled but the cops are beginning to mass outside. There's a fire truck pulled up as well, and those men begin to swarm in, heading straight for our stairwell. I tuck the guns behind me, and tell them, “Upstairs,” as they burst through the door. “And you’ll need the medics, too.”
I pull Finch out of the stairwell, around the reception desk, and down a small hallway to the back door. It pays to scope the environment, and I owe Angelo for supplying me the floor plans for this building.
Finch and I jog down another block to the car we left waiting and Finch collapses into the front passenger seat, gasping for air like he’s run a marathon. I think it must be shock.
“Did I kill Sonny?” he pants. “Fuck. Did I?”
“No. You got him in the leg. But hey, your aim’s improved,” I say, as I start the engine. “You didn’t shootme, at least.”
“I was aiming for his fucking heart.”
I start laughing as I pull the car out into traffic and Finch shakes his head at me, until it infects him too, and he joins in.
“I never shot a guy before,” he says thoughtfully, after we’ve both laughed it out of our system.
“Try not to think about it,” I tell him. “Anyway, you weren't the first to shoot Sonny Vegas today, and it won’t be your bullet that killed him.”
“Maybe the paramedics will save him,” he says mournfully.
“Maybe.”
“What about the others? Rossi, Alessi, Clemenza?”
“The Feds’ll swarm in and arrest them, see what they can make stick, if anything. But at least Rossi and Alessi will owe us from now on, and Clemenza, if he pulls through. Even in jail, if that's where they end up, they'll still be pulling their Families’ strings.”
“You didn’t kill Clemenza.”
“No.”
“Because of some strategic advantage?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d want me to.”
Finch is quiet for a while as we drive fast through Chicago, heading to the airport. “Thanks,” he says at last. “But what about Maggie and Gus?”
“Oh, they’re out of passes. You agree?”
