Enforcer by Travis Hill Page B

something else, but the only one still talking was Kenny Malone, this time bitching about the Miami Heat. He wished the sports channels in America gave a damn about hockey. He could listen to the same bitching and moaning for hours when it was about hockey. The only time it seemed hockey got any air time in cities other than those with NHL teams was during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Other than that six week span, even soccer was more popular.
    As the Lincoln moved along Fairview, he tried to steel himself for what was coming. He’d never seen a dead body before, other than at a funeral. Hockey was a violent sport, and he had plenty of experience with even the ugliest sides, his lifeblood forming a lake around his body was a testament to that. But once the final horn blew, the game was over and everyone went home, more than a little sore, but alive, and pumped up to play again the next day.
    This job was going to have an end of the game moment, but Travis Benkula wasn’t going to go home bruised and exhausted, ready to jump back up the next day and get back to his life. The thought was frightening, and he had to will himself to not start shaking like a leaf as the adrenaline surged through him, his fear giving the hormone the taint of flight instead of fight.
    Connor tried to imagine how Dracul would kill the man. The gun was the obvious choice, but pistols made extremely loud noises, left forensic evidence, and generally a hell of a lot of blood. Not to mention the fact that Dracul was almost six and a half feet tall and built like a lumberjack. He stood out in any crowd, his bald head and slick three-piece suit not helping him blend in at all.
    Maybe they’d take the man out to the desert, make him dig his own grave, then Dracul would flash a straight razor and draw it across Travis’ throat. That scenario almost made him gag, and it took all of his willpower to stop himself from unlatching his seat belt and escaping from the Lincoln even as it moved through traffic. Connor felt trapped, unable to think of a way out as the panic in him grew.
    Dracul looked over at him, watching Connor fidget as the scenarios played through his head. When he noticed, Dracul gave him a wide smile before turning his attention back to the road. The bastard enjoys this , Connor thought. He focused his attention on the radio, the announcer going through the scores of the day. Pittsburgh 27, NY Giants 20. Redskins 14, Panthers 10. Orlando Magic 108, Knicks 101.
    The Lincoln turned right on Eagle Road, and Connor kept his attention on the radio as they drove north. Ten minutes later, they turned into the Eagle Highlands Shopping Center. Dracul drove around for a few minutes as if looking for a parking spot. He settled on a parking spot far away from the Winkler’s Market, away from any of the parking lot light towers. He shifted into Park and left the engine idling so they could have heat.
    Ten minutes passed in silence, until finally a white Acura pulled up next to them. Dracul’s left hand held the button for the window while his right wrapped around the butt of his pistol. Connor tried not to tense up, wanting to raise his fingers to his ears so he wouldn’t go deaf from the explosion as the bullet left the barrel and made a hole in Travis Benkula’s face.
    “What’s this about?” the man in the Acura said.
    “Mr. Ojacarcu would like you to be aware that you are behind,” Dracul said to the man.
    “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Tell Mr. Ojacarcu that I will make good on it by Friday. I swear. He knows I’m good for it,” the man said, the fear in his voice evident.
    “See that you do,” Dracul said, pulling his hand from his pistol.
    For a moment, Connor was sure the Romanian had drawn the pistol and was about to shoot the man in his face. Instead, Dracul rolled up his window and looked at Connor.
    “Paper,” he said.
    Connor blinked, not understanding. Dracul held out his hand and curled his fingers toward himself twice in a