Page 33 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

“Not Marchetti, though.”

“I would be disappointed to learn that was the case, but I suppose the only one who can truly answer that question is Marchetti himself.”

“A young girl was bartered. One of Marchetti’s men bought her. I killed him.” I shift in my seat when his eye twitches again, telling me he wasn’t aware. “There’s business going on behind his back.”

“And Bertrand’s, I presume.”

I nod with the understanding that I’m treading on dangerous ground, divulging my motives with someone outside of the Agency. Someone so close to Marchetti as Alasdair, but my guess is, he wouldn’t say a damn thing anyway.

“Partnerships are made to facilitate a common purpose. One I fear does no’ bode well for either camp.”

“I was hired to find whoever’s partnering with Marchetti, trading the girls, and kill him as well.”

“And I’m just the appetizer.” He polishes off the last of his drink and pours another.

“Why didn’t you shoot first?” I swirl the last few sips left in my glass, before tipping it back.

“Thought ye were the maid. Be a damn shame to kill that one.”

His comment tugs a laugh, but I know the truth. He may be old, but he’s still got his instincts, ones that pulled him out of a drunken stupor at the mere click of a doorknob.

A half hour passes, and both of us make small talk, chatting about things I don’t care about—government and politics, the weather. All things designed to get him drunker. Or to get me more numb.

He slams the empty glass of his third drink down on the table, the blush of his cheeks telling me the warmth of the liquor has settled beneath his skin. “So I suppose we should get on with this.”

Ten years ago, I’d have been pissing in my pants at those words, anticipating that I’d be dead by the time I pulled my piece.

I hope he draws first. At least I’d feel like less of an asshole.

I lower my gaze to his knuckles again, where I’m certain he punched the wall. Wonder if he gets the cold sweats, the shakes, the sleepless nights when all you can think about is the shit that’ll never be. It’s not the killing itself, but the weight of the consequences. The symptoms of murder that’ll ensure you’re never a normal, functioning member of society. I shake my head. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“Why’s that?”

I glance down at his hand where a gold band sits on his ring finger. “You’ve got a wife.”

“Wife?” As if by instinct, he thumbs the gold band and shakes his head, nabbing the gun from the table. “I do no’ have a wife. No’ anymore. She died twenty years ago.” Gun resting in his lap, he rubs his thumb along the barrel of it, while I sit with my hand at the ready. “No’ from age. Or cancer. Or a bad heart. Two men broke into my home and put ten bullets in her body. They wanted to hurt me, and they did. Killed me right there on the bedroom floor where she lay in my arms.” His brows dip with a frown as he stares down at the gun in his lap. “Ne’er laid a hand on me.” When he finally looks up at me, the shadows behind his eyes tell me he’s just confessed the most haunting moment of his life. “Got a family?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t start. Pain is pain. But losin’ someone ye love? There is no greater sufferin’ in the world.” His gaze trails back down toward the gun. “I’ve stared down the barrel of this gun so many times. Always too damn weak to pull the trigger. And there’s the rub, yeah? We deserve this hell. This pain. It’s no’ for us to decide when it’s over.”

He’s right. Perhaps it’s those same thoughts that have kept me from pulling the trigger on myself. This hell is mine. However long it lasts, it’s what I deserve.

“You’ll be paid well to kill me, then?” Alasdair’s voice breaks me from my musings, and I give a nod in response. “Aye. Braggin’ rights for killin’ The Dirty Scot.” He chuckles and rubs his chin. “Few years back, I had my gun pointed at a very important man’s skull. Know what he said to me?” At the shake of my head, he continues, “He said, at the end of the game, all the pieces go back into the box. Damn Italians and their proverbs.” Gripping the barrel of the gun, he hands it to me.

“I’ve no interest in killing you.”

“If ye don’t, someone else will. And if they don’t, I’ll eventually do it myself. That’s just the nature of how we live and die in this game. If we’re lucky, we die early on. If we’re no’? Well …” He lifts the bottle of Laphroaig and waves it around the room, before kicking back a guzzle straight from the fifth. The lines in his face deepen when he screws up his mouth, setting the bottle back on the table. “My advice? Get out if ye can. By any means necessary.” He leans forward and his hand grips the back of my gloved palm as he sets his gun in my hand. “Put me back in the box. I’m ready.”

* * *

A heavy, somber weight presses down on me as I bleach down the last of Alasdair’s blood from my leather seats. I’d gotten a small bit on my coat and shirt as I laid him across his bed. I wiped down all the surfaces I’d touched without gloves then washed my hands in bleach, as well. Even smashed the glass I’d used to drink from behind the motel dumpster. Made to look like a suicide, which won’t please Dorian, but I couldn’t give two fucks about that.

When I finally finish, I light the rag and toss it into the burn barrel at the back of my house, along with my button-down shirt and gloves.

As I stare at the rising flames, my thoughts drift back to Alasdair’s words. Not a chance I’ll ever get out, but if I did, I’d want to do it the same way—a swift bullet to the brain. Most merciful kill I’ve ever performed.

Still, it’s been a long time since I felt remorse for taking a man’s life. Feels like shit. Peaceful or not, I’m the asshole who delivered that bullet.