Page 8 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

Anthony rubs a hand across his chin. “Might be a few days with this shit equipment. Enzo asked to review them a few nights ago.”

“He say when he’s planning to return them?”

“Nah. I’ll give you a call. Anything in particular you’re looking for? We’ve reviewed the shooting at least a dozen times.” Anthony shakes his head and glances back at the monitors. “Seemed to be just the two of them working together.”

I nod my head toward the monitor in the top corner where the muscle head that everyone calls Meat pats a curvy blonde. He’s on my shitlist too, but the guy’s already gone through my interrogations. Even with a blade at his nutsack, he swore he had nothing to do with the guns getting into the club. “I want you to review when they entered.”

“Already covered that. Meat got into it with one of them that night. He tell you that?”

“Yeah. He did. Which is the only reason he’s still alive.” According to the bouncer, Matteo was pissed that he took his blade at the door. Still doesn’t rule him out, as far as I’m concerned. “Go back a couple days.”

“That might take a little time, but okay. Will do, boss.”

Should’ve been a cop with as many hunches as I get. It’s not even relevant as far as they’re concerned. I finished the job. Killed the bastards who shot Lucien, got what Dorian was looking for, and was paid in full at the end of it. They have no idea this is bigger than simply finding out who let the guns inside. That an entire agency, made up of skilled assassins, has an interest in finding out who betrayed the Bertrands.

One of the screens captures my attention where Enzo has a redhead dancer cornered at the back entrance.

“I’ll wait to hear back from you,” I say, exiting the small room.

Back down the hall, I approach where Enzo stands leaning into the wall, his lower half rocking against the chick he’s cornered—young dancer named London. Her muffled cries tell me he has a palm over her mouth and her hands bat at his while they roam her body.

“Enzo,” I say, walking up on them. “If you’re looking for some pussy, there’s a mirror round the corner. Men’s bathroom.”

When he stops moving, I can’t help but smile. I welcome a challenge.

He turns around, and the second he lets go of the girl, she flees the scene, scrambling back down the hallway.

“I think you got more important shit to do, Rip.” He steps closer, dangerously close to invading my personal space. “Like tracking down Alasdair and putting a bullet in his ass. Or better yet, finding out who Marceaux is.”

I square my shoulders with his, never taking my eyes off him. “You’ve no idea how badly I want to boot-fuck your face right now. So if you happen to get in my way, know that I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your ass, Enzo.”

Narrowing his eyes, he tips his head. “That a threat, asshole?”

I smile down at him. “I don’t make threats. I might’ve just saved your life.”

3

Dylan

Seven years ago …

Charlie nibbles at the chain of my pocket watch while I sit on the floor in my bedroom. I stroke the top of her little head, but she refuses to let go of it. Her cuteness brings a smile to my face, and I roll her pudgy little body onto her back and tickle her belly, with the thin chain still caught in her mouth. “You stubborn pup. Why you gotta be so cute?”

I flip the watch open to the face of it inside. It was my dad who taught me how to first read Roman numerals, a memory I hardly recall anymore. For years, he worked as a math teacher, perhaps a bit on the nutty side, which probably attracted him to my mother. They met at a sports bar, one where she waited tables. The story went that my dad was somewhat obsessed with her. She basically told him to get lost and he followed her home. The rest was history. I never understood how two opposites could fall in love, but I guess that’s how love works sometimes.

Laughter pounds through the walls next door where my mom is entertaining some asshole she picked up off the streets, and my smile fades to disgust. Guy didn’t even look like he could afford to pay her anything with his ripped up pants and worn down shoes, but when I told her that, all I got was a snippy “shut up.”

Whatever.

My mom sucks at the whole street smarts thing. I’m almost twelve and I could turn a buck quicker than she could. I sure as hell wouldn’t be wasting my time with no strung out druggie who probably needs the money more than she does. I’ll know for sure once he crashes. That’s when I usually go through their stuff. Sometimes they don’t stay long enough, but the ones who do get treated to the five-finger special—when I nab most of the cash in their wallets.

That’s how I paid for Charlie’s food a couple months ago. Scored fifty bucks from some guy in a suit. I also stole a wallet-sized picture of him and a woman standing in front of a fake fireplace with two boys—one who looked like he was older than me and the other looked about my age. I’ve lied and told at least two of my friends that the boys were my biological family. Sometimes I just like to live someone else’s life.

The laughter in the next room morphs into “ah, ah, ahs” that coincide with the thumping of my mom’s headboard against the wall. I hate this part. My mom always says she hates banging people for money, but she sure sounds like she’s enjoying it.

She’s pretty loud tonight.

I don’t even want to think about what she’s doing in there.