“Was it the Rising Sun Gang?” My whisper was the crack of a whip.
Darrel turned and ran.
A shadow popped into the doorway.
“Boo.” Connor crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the entrance to the back storage-office area.
Darrel’s yelp of dismay would have been comical if it didn’t turn into outright blubbering. 4thStreet Pawn wasn’t one of our shops. Darrel paid for protection, and if he’d just followed the rules, I might have overlooked the missed payment. Or made other arrangements. That was easier than cutting him down.
“You just had to go making deals with some low-life scum,” I snarled, vaulting over the case.
The glass groaned in protest, but I managed to clear it without breaking it. With a kick to the back of the knee, I sent the pawnbroker to the ground.
“Please, please!” Darrel whimpered. “I’ll pay you back. I’ll stop working with them. Done. I’m done!”
I stared down at him. Cold seeped into my veins. This situation was easier than most. But it was still nice to feel the numbness that went along with an execution.
Maybe it was the list of plans I had to make my beautiful wife smile, or maybe it was the memory of her throaty screams as she bucked and writhed under me, but I felt more like my old self than I had in…weeks.
That had to be the explanation for my choice of words.
“I’m feeling stabby,” I said to Connor.
My second winked and went to the wall for a blade. The report between us felt natural. Like the good times we’d shared.
Maybe I’m not so broke after all.
Broken people didn’t make jokes with their friends.
Meanwhile, Darrel pissed himself. The pool of urine barely stank, which proved how vile this dump of a shop really was. The front door chimed, but I didn’t spare the men shuffling inside a glance.
They were mine. Thanks to them, the recording software was deactivated. And when I was done, there wouldn’t be a trace of the pawnbroker’s death. The police would put in an official report stating the shop had been robbed and ransacked. The building would go up for sale, and I would help a company buy it and put a methadone clinic in its place. A much more necessary establishment given the state of this part of town.
“I feel like sending a message,” I mused, kicking the lump.
“And what’s the message to be?” Connor snickered.
I tipped my head, considering the whimpering mess. “That the gangs can’t sell on our turf.”
“His head, then.” Connor handed me a machete.
Da always said that a leader needed to be capable of violence. It wasn’t something we used. Walk softly and carry a big stick. If I didn’t send the message myself, it would show that I was weak. That I wasn’t capable of doing the dirty work. None of my crew doubted me. Not when they’d seen me do it before. Too many times to count.
But I couldn’t stop now.
Not when Da started his chemo this morning.I have to be twice as strong.
I squatted before the doomed soul. “It’s one thing to do business. That would have earned you a bullet. But…you sold drugs to kids, Darrel.” I ran the tip of my blade down his cheek. Blood melded with sweat, making a messy trickle. “Hudson Baker. Age twelve. Overdose.”
I swiped the machete over his ear. The hairy, waxy piece of flesh fell to the floor.
Darrel howled.
I pulled out his hand. He struggled. I had to fight the urge to puke. The BO coming off him was ripe.
I’m burning the glove.Anything that touched this piss yellow excuse for a human was going to be destroyed. “Jessica Soros. Age nineteen. Raped. Suicide.”
I dislocated the thumb with a vicious whack from the butt of the blade.
