Gun.
“Dodge!” I barked, although Baxter already had the sense to zigzag, and the shadow quickly picked a new target, drawn by my shout. He shot straight at the car, and Bax almost went head over heels as he ducked while running.
I shouted, “Down!” and discharged my own weapon; three quick shots designed to give cover. It worked for a moment. The dark figure moved back against the brick wall of the house.
Then Colin O’Sullivan came barnstorming out his front door with a shotgun. The night was turning into a complete shitshow.
Baxter had reached the car by then although he almost tripped again when O’Sullivan shot a cartridge into the air and let out a mighty whoop.
“Come and get it, motherfuckers!”
The dark figure did not reappear and I didn’t bother shooting at O’Sullivan. That particular asshole would meet his end at some stage, but tonight wasn’t his night, and I didn’t think Luca would thank me for eliminating an Irishman without his say-so.
Bax had made it into the passenger side, so I dived back into the driver’s seat, burned rubber in a 180 turn, then took off down the street. In the rearview, I saw O’Sullivan let off another shot, but we were too far away by that time.
“Are you hurt?” I demanded.
Baxter was checking himself over, patting himself and looking at his hands as though he expected blood. “I think I’m okay,” he gasped. “Holy shit, that wasnotlike training. Who the fuck was that guy?”
“Which one?”
“Well, I figured out who the dude with the shotgun and the Irish accent was,” he said snidely.
I took a hard left, throwing Baxter against the door. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I didn’t think—”
“You got that right,” I snapped. I pulled down a side road towards the industrial area and drove as far as I could toward the river. I turned into an empty parking lot, got out of the car, came around the side, and yanked Bax out.
“H-hey!” he yelped.
I ignored him, slamming him up against the side of the car. There was no one around. In another circumstance, with another man, I might have pulled my gun on him, too. But the truth was, I wasn’t just angry.
I was terrified.
I was not a man for whom fear was an intimate emotion. The last time I’d felt it had been the night Tino Morelli died, and it had been just as unfamiliar to me then as it was now. “I ought to leave you right here,” I spat. “What the hell kind of stunt was that, Flynn?”
“I saw a guy, he looked suspicious, so I checked it out.” He was less indignant now, more vehement.
“You’re not a cop. You’re not even an FBI agent anymore. You need to remember that. And more importantly, the first rule I told you when I said we could work together was that you would dowhat I told you. You don’t get to make decisions, Baxter. You understand me? While we do this, you belong tome.”
I was standing too close to him. Much too close.
I let go of his shoulders and stood back, hands on my hips, and he glared at me. His face was pale in the night, lit only by lights along the path above.
“So youownme, and I’m not even supposed to think for myself?”
“You can think, I just don’t want you toactwithout my express approval. Are we clear?” He did not reply. “Are we clear, Flynn? Or should I drop you by the local precinct right now to turn yourself in, and we forget about all this, call it quits?”
“Or shoot me here, dump my body in the East River?”
“If you think I go around shooting federal agents for no good reason, you have a lot to learn.”
“Fine,” he said, pushing off the car. “I’ll do what you say. Can we go now?”
“Apologize first.” He tried to turn away, and I pushed my hand into the middle of his chest, forcing him back against the car again. “No. You need to understand the hierarchy here.”
He looked at my hand where it pressed into him, and then up at my face again. “Obviously, you’re in control, Angelo.” I wasn’t sure I liked the way he said it. He added, “I’m sorry.”
