Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 111768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
He doesn't know I'm watching him.
He doesn't know I've been following him.
Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
He walks leisurely¸ like he's got nowhere to be, like he isn't afraid of anything out on these streets. And maybe he isn't. I'm certainly not. But he should be.
It's nearing midnight on a Wednesday. Karissa is at home, in bed, asleep, oblivious that I'm even out here, picking up old habits, prowling the streets. If I'm lucky, she won't wake up until morning, won't even know I left the comfort of our bed to come out here and do this.
Do something I told her I wasn't doing anymore.
The kind of thing good men don't do to other people.
Stepping out of my car, I quietly shut the door, keeping my head down as I follow Joe down the mostly barren street. He walks this route almost every night at this time… every time I've been out here, anyway. I'm not sure where he's going. I never stick around that long to see. He leaves a shitty little apartment above a small grocer in the Lower Eastside and cuts down a few side streets on his way to a park over by the East River.
Tonight, he's not going to make it there.
He cuts down the first alley, and I'm right on his heels. He doesn't notice me in the shadows, doesn't hear my footsteps until it's too late. He starts to turn around, sensing my presence, words on the tip of his tongue that barely break through from his lips when I hit him.
I punch him.
Son of a bitch, his face hurts my fist.
It stuns him but he doesn't drop. Not fat, like his nickname suggests, but the man is massive. It catches him off guard enough to give me the upper hand. I put him in a chokehold, cutting his airflow, strangling him.
He fights.
He's strong.
I can barely keep my grip on him.
He claws at my clothes, trying to hit me, trying to break free. His eyes bulge, his face turning bright red as he panics. He knows he's in trouble.
A lot of trouble.
"You're lucky I don't feel like killing anyone today," I tell him as he starts to fade.
Once he's out cold, I let him drop.
He hits the alley hard, banging his head on the asphalt. A nagging feeling claws at me, taunting me, urging me to finish it. To kill him. I should. I could. Part of me obviously wants to. And as I stare down at him, I almost do it. Wouldn't be hard.
It's never that hard.
I'm just here to send a message. To let them know I'm not just rolling over and taking it. If I wanted him, I could have him, but this pathetic coward isn't worth getting more blood on my hands.
Less than a minute and I'm turning to stroll away, heading back out of the alley. I make it a few steps, no more than ten, before I hear something behind me, the sound of a running engine.
A car is pulling into the alley at the other end.
I toss a quick look that way. It's all black, small… looks like a BMW. I can't make out much of it in the darkness. The lights are blacked out.
It's trying not to be seen.
I hurry my steps as I turn back around, needing to leave.
I make it barely another five, almost to the end of the alley, when another car whips in right in front of me, so close I have to make a quick retreat, a few steps back, to keep it from ramming me. My heart stalls in my chest, stalls at the identical black car with the blacked out lights and tinted windows facing me.
I'm blocked in.
And I know it instantly then.
And I'm pissed.
I'm fucking pissed.
Because I wasn't the only one sneaking around tonight.
Wasn't the only one watching, stalking, waiting for the perfect moment.
I'm pissed I didn't catch it sooner, that I didn't realize I was being followed, too.
I freeze right where I am, slipping my hands into my pockets as I stare down the car, not letting the fact that I'm alarmed show. Never let them see your fear… it's rule number one. And it's not that I'm afraid. No, I'm not.
I don't fear death.
I've already died too many times before.
I'm a cat with nine lives and I'm already on number twelve. I'm living on borrowed time. When death wants to take me, it'll take me.
But I'm so pissed that I'm off my game, pissed that I might not be able to kill whoever is in that car before they can kill me, and that's just unacceptable.
If I die, you can be goddamn sure I'm taking everyone around me out, too.
Everyone that might ever try to go after her.
Three of the car doors open—both front and the rear passenger. Three men step out, stalling right where they stand, shielded by the doors. I don't recognize any of them, not that I expected to. They look like the typical roughnecks who run in our circles, dressed in all black, a leather jacket thrown in here and there. Dark hair, dark features… Italian, obviously, or close enough to pass as one. I don't see any weapons, but that doesn't mean they're not carrying.
Men like that don't leave home without a gun.
The fourth door opens after a moment, another man appearing. The second I lay my eyes on him, a sense of familiarity hits me.
Son of a bitch.
I know him.
He's older than I remember, but I suppose I'm much older now, too. It's been almost two decades since we crossed paths, an entire lifetime, but I would never forget a face that fucked up.
I get it now, why they call him Scar.
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.
A grotesque jagged scar runs the whole way down the right side of his face, slicing through his eye. It's discolored, a lighter shade of blue than the other. He's blind in it, has been for as long as I've known him, but it has never gotten in his way. His other senses make up for it. He's a stealthy motherfucker.