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The apartment is full of nice furniture, some paintings, and a gaudy coffee table that screams new money.
“H-how did you get in?” In response, I toss the key at his feet and raise a brow. He reaches for it while his body turns toward the door; the click of the gun safety being removed makes him pause, a pathetic whimper slipping past his lips.
“Get up and go to the rooftop terrace, Henry.”
“Why the terrace?” Entire body trembling, his hands slip on the wall as he can’t find purchase, yet I’d venture to say he’s a lot more awake now than when he walked in. Eyes alert, he manages to right himself but doesn’t move from what I assume he thinks is a safe distance.
He more than likely thought I wouldn’t shoot inside of a building filled with innocent people on every floor.
Thing is—I would, and I will. Everything comes down to precision and choosing the right spot.
Say, forcing my gun into his mouth will end him, but not go through to the next floor. Not with the concrete noise barrier. That alone will help slow if not stop the bullet.
I’m not going to, but I could.
I believe in gun safety and firing responsibly.
“Because I said so.”
“De Leon, this is unnecessary. I’m not the enemy.”
“I like your fear.” Standing to my full height, I take the steps between us and bend my head a little so we’re eye to eye. “You have two choices. Are you listening?” His shaky nod is a good enough answer. “Follow directions, or take a trip with me downtown. Your call.”
And because I’m a saint, I give him some space to consider his options. Not that he’s the brightest crayon in the box, because the moment he thinks there’s room to escape, the asshole goes for the door and yanks it open, rushing toward the apartment to the right of his door.
He bangs on it.
Screams out the names of who I assume is the neighbor on vacation.
Leaning against the doorway, I bring the muzzle of my gun to my chin and rub it there. “You’d think being a criminal would make one more aware of their surroundings. Check the whereabouts of those who live next door.”
“Did you kill them?”
“The couple that moved out, or your friend?” My smirk irks him, yet I don’t make a single move to grab the cornered animal.
“Whatever I did can be fixed.”
“Seems you’ve sobered up well, since we’re making deals now.”
“Please.”
“No.” One word. Two letters.
So simple, yet incites so much fear, and his need to escape overrides common sense. My position places me within seconds from the open hallway and when the idiot makes a desperate last-second sprint, I clock him.
A single punch, bare knuckles, and the fucker goes down. The loss of consciousness is immediate. His body stiffens and drops, skull bouncing hard off the ground. He also lands a bit awkwardly on his shoulder and arm, the latter appearing off.
“This could’ve been handled with dignity, asshole.” Grabbing a foot in each hand, I drag him back inside and close the door, locking it before maneuvering his limp body up and over my shoulder.
The top units in this building have access to a private rooftop terrace they share, mainly used for sitting out in the evenings on the large, shared patio set. That, or taking care of plants inside of a small greenhouse that’s sealed, cooled, and irrigated in a very specific way.
But more importantly, it’s private. Every noise is blocked by the small bit of traffic down below and the occasional plane above as we aren’t too far from the airport.
No one to hear me empty my clip in his head.
10
AN HOUR LATER the idiot rouses, groaning from his place on the floor a few feet from me. He’s unaware, soaking wet from the hoses I pulled from his greenhouse after Israel confiscated every full-grown plant and the equipment.
