be clearing the table as I walked in. Had reservations at a hotel? Already checked out.
So close, yet somehow slipping through my fingers. A large part of that was due to the obvious need for subtlety. I wasn’t about to kill anyone out in the open, not if I didn’t think I could get a clear shot and walk away. And I wasn’t going to have a high speed chase with a drunk kid who didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. Too many bystanders, and bystanders meant police, and police meant attention—for me and for Vinny. I was hired to be discreet, and that was exactly what I would be.
The second reason I was being maybe a little more cautious with taking a shot with him was wholly different: I needed to know where the money was.
There was a good chance he had it on him, or at the very least in the car or hotel with him, because that would be the stupid thing to do.
Hiding the money did two things: it meant that if he were caught by anyone—the mob or the police—he could have plausible deniability, no money, clearly they couldn’t be the culprits. It also meant that if there was a price out on his head, which clearly there was, whoever was out to kill him, namely me, would have to interrogate him instead of just killing him outright. It bought him time, even if it might involve a lot of bad pain.
Since those two things qualified as smart things to do, I was inclined to think that Christopher hadn’t considered either of them. Maybe it was the fact that he’d stolen from the mob, or maybe it was that he’d killed a man in the process, but Christopher didn’t really strike me as the intelligent type.
“Of course, for a stupid man, he’s awfully good at running,” I muttered to myself as I checked the clip in my gun before getting out of the car. Probably, I was once again too late. I sincerely doubted he was still here, but I wasn’t going in there unprotected.
I got out of the car, tucking my gun into the waistband of my jeans. The place looked like a real piece of shit from the outside and I had the sneaking suspicion that inside wouldn’t be much better. The sign out front was blinking; in bright red neon it alternated between Vacancy and No Vacancy and I was pretty sure that wasn’t intentional. I headed inside, pushing through the glass door with the little bell overhead that chimed obnoxiously.
Inside, I was correct. Not particularly classy, but definitely cheap. The lobby was small with a little fat TV, which didn’t appear to be working, set up in the upper right corner attached to the wall, and a front desk that was just big enough for a guestbook, a light, and an old computer that looked like it probably still had a black screen with green lettering. Sitting behind this desk was a woman who was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She had so much makeup on that it was impossible to tell. It looked like she bought out a cosmetics store, then tried to use all of it at once. Her eyes, which were meant to be smoky, looked like a bandit mask and her lips were bright red, but smeared across her jaw on one side, and when she looked up at me and smiled, I saw it was smeared on her teeth, too.
There was every possibility that she was beautiful beneath the makeup, but I would probably never know.
She batted her eyelashes—fake, too, I was pretty sure—at me, telling me instantly what I needed to know: she was a flirt, she already liked me, and she would probably tell me whatever I wanted without much of a fuss.
I smiled at her with my best, sexiest smile. The one I used at the bars to seduce attractive young women. Instantly, I could almost see her melt beneath my gaze.
“Hello,” I greeted, letting my accent slip through a little thicker, because she looked like the kind of woman who would get turned on by it.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her breasts, which were all but pouring from her low-cut tank top, heaving. She stuck a pen in
So close, yet somehow slipping through my fingers. A large part of that was due to the obvious need for subtlety. I wasn’t about to kill anyone out in the open, not if I didn’t think I could get a clear shot and walk away. And I wasn’t going to have a high speed chase with a drunk kid who didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. Too many bystanders, and bystanders meant police, and police meant attention—for me and for Vinny. I was hired to be discreet, and that was exactly what I would be.
The second reason I was being maybe a little more cautious with taking a shot with him was wholly different: I needed to know where the money was.
There was a good chance he had it on him, or at the very least in the car or hotel with him, because that would be the stupid thing to do.
Hiding the money did two things: it meant that if he were caught by anyone—the mob or the police—he could have plausible deniability, no money, clearly they couldn’t be the culprits. It also meant that if there was a price out on his head, which clearly there was, whoever was out to kill him, namely me, would have to interrogate him instead of just killing him outright. It bought him time, even if it might involve a lot of bad pain.
Since those two things qualified as smart things to do, I was inclined to think that Christopher hadn’t considered either of them. Maybe it was the fact that he’d stolen from the mob, or maybe it was that he’d killed a man in the process, but Christopher didn’t really strike me as the intelligent type.
“Of course, for a stupid man, he’s awfully good at running,” I muttered to myself as I checked the clip in my gun before getting out of the car. Probably, I was once again too late. I sincerely doubted he was still here, but I wasn’t going in there unprotected.
I got out of the car, tucking my gun into the waistband of my jeans. The place looked like a real piece of shit from the outside and I had the sneaking suspicion that inside wouldn’t be much better. The sign out front was blinking; in bright red neon it alternated between Vacancy and No Vacancy and I was pretty sure that wasn’t intentional. I headed inside, pushing through the glass door with the little bell overhead that chimed obnoxiously.
Inside, I was correct. Not particularly classy, but definitely cheap. The lobby was small with a little fat TV, which didn’t appear to be working, set up in the upper right corner attached to the wall, and a front desk that was just big enough for a guestbook, a light, and an old computer that looked like it probably still had a black screen with green lettering. Sitting behind this desk was a woman who was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She had so much makeup on that it was impossible to tell. It looked like she bought out a cosmetics store, then tried to use all of it at once. Her eyes, which were meant to be smoky, looked like a bandit mask and her lips were bright red, but smeared across her jaw on one side, and when she looked up at me and smiled, I saw it was smeared on her teeth, too.
There was every possibility that she was beautiful beneath the makeup, but I would probably never know.
She batted her eyelashes—fake, too, I was pretty sure—at me, telling me instantly what I needed to know: she was a flirt, she already liked me, and she would probably tell me whatever I wanted without much of a fuss.
I smiled at her with my best, sexiest smile. The one I used at the bars to seduce attractive young women. Instantly, I could almost see her melt beneath my gaze.
“Hello,” I greeted, letting my accent slip through a little thicker, because she looked like the kind of woman who would get turned on by it.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her breasts, which were all but pouring from her low-cut tank top, heaving. She stuck a pen in
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