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Mick furrowed his brow. “Are you insane? Jack hasn’t so much as glanced at another woman since you walked into his gym.”
I rolled my eyes, leaving the room. He followed me, his footsteps much heavier than my own. I jogged ahead, reaching the kitchen well before him.
“He did a lot more than glance, Mick!” I yelled into the hallway, yanking open the drawer next to the stove. “And you’re a bastard for not telling me.”
“There’s nothing to tell, lass!” Mick argued, coming into view seconds after I’d stuffed Jack’s revolver into my jeans. I stomped toward the elevator, but the persistent bastard still followed. “Where are you going now?”
“I may hate his guts for what he did to me, but I’m not going to let Jack get himself killed searching for the Babau. Either we find Jack, or we find that fucking assassin and deal with him ourselves.”
“Do you even know how to use that thing?” he huffed, pointing to my torso.
My anger dissipated when I realized Mick knew exactly what was tucked into the waistband of my jeans. I pulled the gun from behind my back, studying it like one would study an ancient artifact—with the utmost care and sensitivity. It was heavier than it looked. I’d never held a gun before. My dad kept a shotgun in a lockbox underneath my parents’ bed, but I’d never seen it.
“I’ll YouTube a tutorial,” I muttered, trying not to let my nerves show.
He sighed in resignation, holding his hand out for the gun. “I’ll break it down for you.”
Setting the metal contraption in Mick’s calloused palm, I watched with narrowed eyes. If he took it from me, there was an entire panic room full of weapons I could peruse.
“It’s loaded,” he began, his tone instructional. “You can tell by the weight. Now, never put your finger on the trigger unless you know you’re going to shoot.”
I nodded so he knew I was listening.
“Watch. You click the hammer back once”—he clicked it as he spoke—“and you can open the cylinder.”
He opened the little rotating thing, sliding a bullet about half the size of my pinky from the chamber and into my hand. I rolled it in my palm, then slid it back in, waiting for him to continue.
“Then snap it like this.” He snapped the cylinder closed and I watched, intent on committing his movements to memory. “You click twice and it’s ready to fire. Always put the hammer back in place or you’ll kill yourself, Emma, you got that?”
“I got it,” I confirmed, meeting his sparkling blue eyes.
As he secured the weapon, Mick’s expression turned curious. “Jack really never taught you how to shoot a gun?”
I shook my head, taking the revolver from his outstretched hand. I slid it underneath the back of my jacket. “I don’t think he ever wanted me to be in a situation where I needed to use one.”
“That’s wishful thinking.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I agreed.
Mick’s smile was sorrowful. Despite the dire situation, the corners of my lips twitched in response. I was formulating my plan. There was a fifty-fifty chance I would die, but that was better than my odds from this morning.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jack
Heat rose from the asphalt in blurry waves. Sweat had plastered my black thermal to my chest. Discomfort aside, I kept still, eyes trained on the back door of the card club. It was midnight, and I’d been watching it for hours. My presence in Little Italy was risky, but I was discreet. Few knew what the devil looked like, so I could walk the streets of New York without anyone noticing.
Five men had entered the unkempt building two hours ago. One of them would be stepping into the alley to take a piss any second. I stretched my gloved fist, then cracked my neck. My vision had long since adjusted to the darkness and the glare of city lights off passing cabs.
The door swung open. I narrowed my eyes as one of the Italians stumbled into the alleyway. Good, he’s drunk. The man faced the building on the opposite side, hidden from the street by a dumpster. He pulled his dick out and started to piss.
I gripped my set of brass knuckles, waiting for the oily bastard to tuck it into his jeans. Enemy or not, I wasn’t going to attack a man with his pants down.
He turned, stopping when he spotted me standing behind him. He opened his mouth to call for his crew, but I was fast. I shoved the brass knuckles into his face, hearing teeth pull away at their roots. My fist came back in a flash and I hit him once more in the nose with an uppercut. There was an audible crack as the cartilage shot into his brain, dropping him to the ground. Four left.
I located a key inside his pocket, then fitted it into the lock. I entered the building, shutting the door behind me without a sound. Smoke and light filtered through a hallway to my left. I could hear voices, but I had to clear the rest of the floor before I went after them.
No one noticed as I slinked past the card room. I kept to the shadows, gliding down the hall. The storefront was a deli, but it was well after closing time. None of the clerks or butchers were there, for which I was grateful. I didn’t kill innocents. If any were here, I would have to return later and try again.
