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They always beg.
“Please, amico.” Spittle flies from his lips as he cries out. “I didn’t do this thing. You must believe me.”
I hunch over a pool of blood, cleaning off a pair of pliers with a dirty rag.
The truth is, it doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m not here to be convinced.
I’m here to do a job.
We’re in an empty boat basin on the river. I can hear seagulls cawing outside. The low horn of a freighter blares.
We’re alone. The area has been cleared out. It’s just me, my partner Jacobi, and this unlucky bastard. He’s tied to a chair, arms and legs wound up with rope.
We’ve been at this for hours, and now, his time is up.
Yet still, he keeps at it.
“I have people to take care of, you understand?” he pleads. “Don’t you have a family? Friends? Someone you love? Please.”
Jacobi pats my shoulder. Twice. It’s my signal. “Let’s finish this,” he says.
I set the pliers aside. Now, I pull my sidearm from the holster under my gunmetal-gray blazer.
I unlock the safety and look him in the eyes. He deserves that, at least.
“Stop begging,” I tell him. “You don’t want to go out begging.”
His eyes go wide as the realization hits. “Padre Nostro,” he murmurs, his voice shaking, “che sei nei cieli.”
Then I put my finger on the trigger.
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“I’m getting out,” I announce.
Jacobi’s cue clicks against the white ball, and number seven kisses the pocket but doesn’t go in. The edge of his mouth twitches.
“You say that every week,” he grunts.
“I mean it this week.” I bend over the pool table and line up my shot. “I’m done.”
Aim, click. I get two stripes in the pocket.
The Rusty Nail is a dive bar in Astoria, Queens. It’s always a ruckus; heavy rock music pumps through the crappy speakers while tattooed and leather-adorned men and women curse each other out across the bar. But when Jacobi and I are in the zone, man-to-man with a game of pool, all the other noises die out.
That’s just the way two former army guys work. We’re used to finding calm in the middle of the storm.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Jacobi says. “You know that?”
“Yeah, well. This idiot is kicking your ass, old man.”
But I’ve spoken too soon, and my next play lands a solid in the pocket.
Jacobi’s shoulder knocks mine as he takes my spot. “Age before beauty, princess.”
We’ve known each other long enough that this is how we show affection—healthy, combative ribbing. I first met Jacobi nearly a decade ago—but back then, he was General Jacobi to me. I was on my second tour in Iraq, and we’d bonded in a way that men bond when they’ve both seen shit they should’ve never had to see.
The two of us were recruited into a private black ops-team, code-named Wolfpack. Since then, we’ve been brothers for life.
Jacobi is forty-three, with leathery, tanned skin and a completely shaved head. But he’s worn many hats with me. Mentor. Boss. Friend. And now, coworker. He’s been Catherine Rossi’s soldier and bodyguard for years. And when a spot opened up on the payroll, he thought of me.
It pays to know people in dangerous places.
So, really, I have only him to blame for my situation.
“Alright,” he humors me, “Where are you going this time?”
“Somewhere warm,” I tell him. “With a beach.”
“We have a beach. Rockaway.”
“Try someplace where I don’t have to move aside used needles and condoms to lay down a towel. I’m talking clean water. Coral reefs and rainbow fish and mai tais.”
Jacobi sinks one ball. Then another. Then he gets in a rhythm, and I feel my victory slip further and further from my fingers.
“Send me a postcard, will you?” he says.
“Yeah.” But the thought has dried up like autumn leaves. Or maybe I’m just a sore loser. I give my whiskey sour a stir and a sip and feel my vision disconnect.
Jacobi must sense the change in temperature, because he rises then, putting his pool cue to the side. “In all seriousness,” he says, and his voice is low now, intense, so I make a point to listen, “you don’t want to die here. You’ve served the family well. Eight years. I’d put in a good word with Madam if you want to retire. Just say the word.”
“I know you would.” I drain my glass until it’s empty and suck the cherries from their stems. Dinner of champions. Then I recite the Wolfpack credo: “A lone wolf has bite—”
