“Sometimes I make up stories about them,” Foster says as we navigate the crowded sidewalks.
“Yeah? Like what?”
He shrugs. “Whatever vibe I get.” Foster taps my arm. “This guy, he used to be a solid employee. His boss could count on him, but then he got a drug habit and a mistress. He got sloppy. When the money turned up missing, his boss knew it was time. Too much bad press if the public found out, so…” He shrugs. “He’s gotta go.”
“I like it.”
Foster flashes a big, toothy grin. I heard he’s close to the same age as me, but he wears it differently. He seems young, whereas I sometimes feel like I was born in the wrong decade. Hell. The wrong century. I like Foster. He’s pretty cool.
“Got any plans after this?” he asks.
The question pings around my brain, urging me to say yes, to drive to Segreto for just a little peek of him. Maybe I will. I could watch him from a safe distance, follow him home, and make sure he’s safe. I blow out a breath. But if I want a chance with him, I have to stick to my word, as hard as that is.
“No.”
“I get to see Joss tonight. I’m gonna pick him up after this.”
“How does that work? Isn’t he a senator’s son?”
Foster nods. “He is. He’s also a grown man who makes his own decisions. Lucky me. He’s amazing.”
“You’ll have to tell me the story of how you met sometime.”
“Yeah, for sure.” He lightly smacks my arm again. “Look. Is this guy a total idiot or what?”
The target just darted into an alley, so either he is an idiot or he’s on to us. “Be cautious just the same.”
“Always.”
We follow the man, darting around people until we make it to the alleyway. Foster peeks around the corner first and sees the target talking to another man.
“Drug deal,” Foster whispers to me, and I nod.
“Good. He’ll have drugs on him. It’ll look like a deal gone bad.”
Foster grins. “Love it when a plan comes together.”
It quickly becomes apparent that this is not a friendly or even neutral interaction when the two men’s voices rise over the urban din. I peer around the corner in time to see the drug dealer slam the target against a building. The target has his hands raised, and he’s speaking too rapidly for me to make any of it out from where I’m standing, but he sounds panicked.
Then the dealer hauls off and punches the target in the stomach, then the face, then as he slumps to the ground, he kicks him several times in the ribs.
“You better get my fucking money,” the dealer says before spitting on the target. “You won’t get another chance.”
“Oof,” Foster says. “Dude’s not gonna get his money.”
“Nope.”
Once the dealer is gone, me and Foster swoop in. The target is still lying on the dirty ground, holding his ribs.
He looks up and grunts. “I need help. Can you call an ambulance?”
“We can make the pain go away completely,” Foster says, pulling his Ruger Mark IV from its holster. “Marc David Johansson?”
“Yeah. Who the fuck are you?”
“Delivery guy. I have a message for you from John Stadley.”
“Fuck.” Marc flinches and tries to crawl away, but Foster is right over him, delivering several shots to the back of the head and neck, the sound barely noticeable with his silencer and the noisy surroundings.
