Page 24 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

“And every other bastard who’s made your acquaintance.” A deep hearty laugh ends on a cough and Dorian clears his throat. “I don’t want there to be mercy. When it’s time, I want Marchetti to be your worst yet. The things they did to that poor boy.” His lip curves into a tight line of disgust. “Unforgiveable.” His comment is almost hypocritical, coming from a man who’s no stranger to morbid and gory deaths, who’s even murdered a few kids himself. “My brother remains in a coma. I want the head of his son’s murderer before he wakes.”

“I’ll send your brother what remains of him when I’m finished.”

“You are a good man, Rip. Loyal and good at what you do.”

I am loyal and good at what I do. He’s wrong about one thing, though. I’m not a good man.

9

Ripley

I stroll up to a church that looks like something out of the Inquisition Era, even though it was built in the late 1800’s, with its gothic steeples and intricately carved stone. Dipping my fingers into the holy water, I give the sign of the cross and keep on. The smell of candles and old books as I enter the nave lined with pews, reminds me of being a kid, going to Sunday mass, admiring Tanya Sanchez’s honey-toned legs that stuck out from the skirt she wore every week.

Church doesn’t see much action these days, so aside from one older woman, with graying hair, on her knees in prayer, it’s mostly empty during the week. Still, even here I remain on alert, my eyes instinctively scanning for a threat.

The confessional booth is a boxy structure of solid wood that’s always made me claustrophobic, even as a kid, when my sins were nothing more than swiping a few comic books and jacking off to Hustler magazines. A curtain of aging wood and sinner’s sweat hits me, as I take a seat on the narrow bench, turning toward the partition that separates me from the man on the other side.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” I say in a low voice.

Nothing but a shadow of a man sits on the other side. “It’s done then.”

“Yes. Frank Caruso is dead.”

“Good. Any problems?” His dark form sits as still as a statue behind the elaborately carved lattice between us.

I don’t tell him about the girl. “He wants me to go after Alasdair next.”

“As I expected.” His voice carries the slightest accent of his French Canadian heritage. “It’s just as well, I suppose.”

“I’ve not yet found him.” I shake my head, rubbing my thumb along a rough patch of wood on the bench. “Doesn’t make sense that they’d have business with Marchetti. I smell a betrayal.”

“Perhaps there’s more below the surface. Keep your eyes open.”

“No way those men got into Spades packing heat. Bertrands have men at both entrances. Marchetti is an enemy. Someone wanted Lucien dead. I find who supplied the guns, I find the man who sold the girl to Marchetti’s men.”

The Bertrands may dabble in many things, but trafficking young girls has never been one of them—something the eldest brother, Lucien, enforced after having lost his young daughter and wife in a car accident. Whoever took it upon himself to sell the girl, did it behind Lucien’s back.

“I’ll hold off my meeting with her father. For now.”

“Marchetti’s in his sights. They think he killed Adrian Bertrand and ordered the hit on Lucien.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. “This is bigger than we originally thought. More players.”

“And if he should have you pursue Marchetti, how much time would you need?”

“Two months.” I clear my throat and entwine my fingers. More than enough time if Dorian decides to have me go after Marchetti, but I don’t care to get shipped off to the next mission just yet. “I want to be clear. No extractions on this one.”

“Too much risk.” His response translates into kill any witnesses and save no one. “You’ll know by week’s end whether or not to pull out.”

I give a sharp nod. “I’ll wait for your orders.”

“Ten Lord’s prayers and ten Hail Mary’s. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

“Thank you, Father.” Giving the sign of the cross, I rise up from the bench, and exit the confessional booth.

With that out of the way, I need to find a stiff drink and a prostitute.

* * *

That girl. Dylan. Her name is a barbed wrecking ball against a wall of smooth ivory. I want to take my sharpest blade and slice her right out of my skull, forget I ever saw her.