Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 144832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 724(@200wpm)___ 579(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 724(@200wpm)___ 579(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
It wasn’t difficult to see or hear what was going on inside the warehouse. Half a wall had crumbled away on one side, leaving steel rebar hanging and the two-by-four framework exposed, along with drywall and brick. There was no glass in any of the windows. Mold and weeds grew on the remaining walls. Water dripped steadily from somewhere inside and a greenish-brown sludge oozed from inside the torn wall to form an ugly puddle, mixing with the dirt just outside the crumbled walls.
The Demons didn’t have much of a foothold yet in Chicago. The territory they tried to claim was already taken by a much larger, well-established street gang, which didn’t want to give up a single block. That left the few men Benito had sent out, demanding they fight for a piece of Chicago, in a very bad position.
They’d started out with thirty men, and in two weeks had gone down to twenty-two. Three weeks later, they had retreated to the warehouse with nothing left, not even the vehicles they’d arrived in, and they had fourteen men left. Three of the fourteen were wounded. One of those was dying. Bario, the head of the Demons, had stopped checking on the wounded man because he smelled so bad it made him want to puke every time he got near him.
Bario paced back and forth, feeling like a rat in a cage. He swore they were being watched every second. He would have gotten out of there if he could, but stepping one foot out of the warehouse meant certain death. If they didn’t leave, they were going to starve or die of thirst or Benito fucking Valdez was going to kill them all for not obeying orders. His cell phone rang continually, and when it wasn’t ringing, it buzzed with persistent text messages from Benito, threatening to cut off his balls if he didn’t respond. If he was dead, he couldn’t very well respond, now, could he?
“Who do we have on the roof, Alan?”
“Hector and Angel. They’re watching in case those bastards try to come back. We’re going to have to find a ride out of here.”
“I know,” Bario snapped. He made an effort to calm his voice, glanced toward the three wounded lying in the corner along the wall. “I know. We can call for a van, shoot the driver and take it over. That’s the best idea I’ve got. We might be able to take them with us, but not all of them. We won’t have the room.”
Alan looked at him and then pulled a gun out of his waistband and stalked over to the wounded. He lifted the barrel, aimed and squeezed the trigger without hesitation three times. He stalked back. “Problem solved.”
Bario laughed. “You’re such a fuckin’ bastard.”
“Someone’s got to be. Call for a van.”
Taviano indicated for Nicoletta to slip into the mouth of the shadow, and he slid into one that would take him up to the rooftop. This was the most difficult part of having Nicoletta with him, and he knew he would have to get used to it if she was going to partner with him. He would have to reach a point where he knew she could take care of herself, the way Ricco knew Mariko could. His attention couldn’t be divided. He had to be solely focused on his prey.
“Angel, did you hear shots?” the man who had to be Hector whispered, overly loud.
Angel was lying on the roof, facing the street. He was more difficult to spot than Hector, who faced toward the cross street, one much busier than the other side, which appeared more residential than business.
“Yeah, I heard them. They didn’t come from the street, so just do your job.” Angel didn’t turn around.
Taviano was okay with that. He simply walked from the shadow right up behind Hector, bent down, caught his head in his hands and wrenched. “Justice is served,” he murmured and stepped into the nearest shadow.
Angel turned slightly to glance back toward Hector. All he could see was Hector lying prone, staring out toward the street, just like he was supposed to do. He nodded his head, but it was clear he was uneasy. That was the way sometimes. Some people seemed to have a sixth sense about them. Taviano knew psychic gifts were real. His family certainly had them in abundance. That meant others could have various gifts as well.
He waited until Angel turned back toward the street and then he moved into place behind him. He used stealth, the freeze-frame stalk taught in childhood games, of large animals hunting prey. This was the leopard stalking the unsuspecting antelope. He was already playing the game with Crispino, who always wanted to make animal noises that had Taviano collapsing into laughter when his nephew leapt on him, baby hands curved into claws, dark blue eyes dancing with mirth, and growls emerging from his little throat.