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"What?"
"Cyanide pill. Gun. You pick."
"Gun?" Cillian's gaze followed Jack's arm and registered the gun was under the table, pointed between his legs. He shoved back his chair.
"You move," Jack said, "I fire. Pull that chair in."
Cillian did, sweat breaking out on his upper lip as he said, with a hint of a whine, "What the fuck, Jack? This better be some kinda dementia--you getting paranoid in your old age. Because threatening me--"
Jack tossed the thug's burner phone on the table. "He's not taking a piss."
Cillian went still. That beading sweat formed droplets, sliding down the side of his ruddy face. He reached for his coffee, and then stopped as he noticed his hand trembling.
Fuck. You haven't just gotten old, Cillian. You've gotten soft. Lost your nerve. No excuse for that. There just isn't.
"Third option," Jack said. "You talk. Tell me what's going on. Might still shoot you. Might make you take the pill. Not going to let you walk away. But . . ." He shrugged. "Options. I'm flexible. Convince me not to shoot."
"It isn't what it seems, Jack. I'd never--"
"Skip the bullshit."
"But you gotta understand. It isn't--"
"Don't care. You wanna make me happy? Talk. Fast."
"I got into some trouble, Jack. Things have changed. It's not just about knowing the other guys in town. Everyone's global these days, and I'm just an old boss trying to run--"
"Give me facts. Not excuses. You owe money. Favor. Yes?"
Cillian swallowed and nodded.
"They found out you know me," Jack said. "Can call in a favor. You've bragged. Fucking disrespectful. But you did it. No changing that now."
"I needed credibility, Jack. It's all about who you know, and you're somebody. Being able to say I helped you get your start? That's gold."
"Someone told you to get me here. Why?" He peered up at the surrounding buildings. "There a rifle pointed at my head?"
"No, nothing like that. You're no use to anyone if you're dead."
Which Jack knew. People wanted him for his skills.
If you want revenge for a hit, you go after the son of a bitch who called it. Jack was just the faceless guy behind the gun. Still, there was always a chance. He'd known that when he walked over. Also known that the sun's position would make it a tough shot. Not impossible--Nadia could do it--and maybe knowing that, he should have walked away. But if someone wants you dead, you'll be dead. He knew that better than anyone. You want to stay alive? Tackle the problem that's going to get you killed.
"Talk," Jack said.
"They want to hire you." Cillian rambled after that, appealing to Jack's ego, as if that might nudge aside the bullet currently aimed at a place he didn't really want to get shot. He said Jack was the best. The absolute best goddamned hitman alive. Which was bullshit. Jack figured he rated about third. That's what Evelyn told him, which was supposed to incite him to do better. First, third, tenth, what did it matter? Who the hell figured out the rankings anyway? Market research survey? On a scale of one to ten, how do you rate your satisfaction with the services of the following hitmen . . .
Cillian kept nattering on. Jack was such a big name, and if someone wanted his services, well, it wasn't easy to do, was it? Cillian himself had to jump through hoops, and he w
as an old friend. But he understood. Yes, he did. A man like Jack had to protect himself. But Jack also had to understand how that could lead people to take desperate measures to get his attention.
"Stop talking."
Cillian's mouth shut with a click of his teeth. He was sweating enough now that Jack could smell it. Letting him ramble hadn't been a kindness. Jack had been allowing the older man to dig himself deeper, getting increasingly anxious as he struggled to explain and Jack's expression didn't change. Now Cillian sat there, breathing out of his mouth, panting slightly as he waited for Jack's next command.
What the fuck happened to you, Cillian? I was scared of you back in the day. Scared shitless. Wanted to be like you. The tough bastard nobody screws with.
"They want to hire me," Jack said.
