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I tell them about the docks in terse, mincing terms.
“A bald man.” Antoni scoffs. “There’s nothing remarkable about a bald man.”
“There is when we don’t have one on payroll,” I snap.
He steps closer, looming in my face despite the inches of height separating us. “You know everyone on payroll now, Blackwell? Got a thing for faces?” He grunts when I say nothing. “Stick to what you’re good at.”
Horn-Rimmed says nothing, simply standing close to the exit with his left hand clenched around the handle of a briefcase.
“Do whatever it takes to get this cleared, Gabriel. I want it handled covertly. You understand?” Broderick’s tone holds no inflection. I might as well be telling him about a kid’s birthday party in a park somewhere for all he cares. “I don’t want to have to bring in any extra bodies. Whoever this man is, find him. And let him know that fucking with the Syndicate has consequences.”
Horn-Rimmed harrumphs in agreement.
“I’ll track down the bald man’s operation,” I assure them.
“You’d better,” Antoni adds.
“This is slower than your normal progress, Blackwell,” Horn-Rimmed says. “We expected more from you. We’ve heard nothing but good things and yet reality does not always equal one’s reputation. Does it?”
I glance up sharply at him, wanting to ask who the hell is he to insult me this way.
“I’m a contract killer.” There’s no clearer way to describe my position. “I’m not a fucking cop. Maybe if you want leads tracked down you should pull on other strings.”
“Yet you’re the one we hired.” Horn-Rimmed heads for the door and pauses only to call over his shoulder, “I hope next time you waste my time, it’s for a better reason.”
I wait until he’s out of the office before addressing the boss on the phone. “This isn’t a cut and dried thing. It takes time.” I’ve got a certain skill set I’ve taken pains to hone, a wheelhouse where I feel most comfortable.
I deliver death.
As fucked up as it sounds, I found a niche, and I’ve done well enough.
Why does Broderick and his new glasses-wearing buddy want me on this instead of someone else?
“No excuses.” My boss is terrifying when he wants to be.
There are no excuses to give and even the hard truth won’t be acceptable to him.
His voice is carefully cultivated to curdle the blood when he tells me, “Make this go away.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“Your best isn’t good enough. I don’t like having to divert my attention away from expansion. It’s not what I want.” The last statement is a lash of reproach and I practically feel the wounds across my back, my face. “If this continues, then you and I have a problem. Understand?”
It’s an empty threat. I’ve lasted three times longer than any other reaper he’s employed because I’m damn good and my boss knows it, which is why I get paid the amount I do. It’s why I have the freedom I do.
A freedom which may not last much longer, a small voice in my head warns.
Things feel sticky now. The longer this takes, the more the foundation beneath me becomes compromised. I take risks only when I understand the cost.
These costs are unknown.
Broderick hangs up, the call ending with a decisive click.
I never gave much thought to the future before, taking things one kill at a time. When my time comes to an end, then it will more than likely be at the end of a bullet shot by someone I’ve pissed off. Or someone the Black Market Syndicate has run over on our rise to the top of this city.
Layla would call me a pessimistic bastard if she ever heard me voice those thoughts.
She’d tell me to pull my head out of my ass and start thinking about what I want. At least, I think she would.
