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Earlier, I let Leo lash out at me. I let him vent. I even let him push me around. But if he thought I was going to let him walk all over me, that I was going to ask him to shoot me like I did before, he’s wrong. He’s not a child anymore, and I’m just as angry as he is about Monica’s death. Maybe more so because I didn’t get to say goodbye to my mother whereas he was able to hold her in his arms while she died. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry.
“Enough!” Andrea stands between us once more.
I purse my lips and let Leo’s hands go. He rubs his wrist and throws me a final glare before walking away.
Andrea puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Unlike Leo, I can turn my temper off, and I’m doing that now.
Focus. Push aside the anger. Control it. You can use it later, but for now, it won’t do you any good so set it aside. Focus.
I draw a deep breath. Andrea lets out a deep sigh.
“I don’t suppose Orso called you here to ask you to get along with Leo?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
Andrea shrugs. “I guess not.” He pats my shoulder. “But you know, you and Leo are family, and when Orso’s gone, you’ll only have each other.”
True. Still, I don’t see Leo and me getting along. Not now. Maybe before, with Antonio and Monica around, there was a chance that could happen, but not anymore. Not after everything that’s happened.
“Leo isn’t a bad person, you know,” Andrea goes on. “He just…”
“Hates me?” I finish the sentence for him. “Wants to kill me?”
“Maybe, but he’ll never do it.” Andrea shakes his head. “He can’t.”
I know. Leo’s not like Andrea or me. As much as he’s a fighter, he’s not a killer. That doesn’t make him any less annoying, though.
“He’s actually matured, you know,” Andrea adds.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Really?”
I have yet to be convinced of that.
“Anyway, if Orso didn’t ask you to get along with Leo, what did Orso ask you?” Andrea asks me. “He wouldn’t have told me to drag you all the way here if he didn’t want anything from you.”
“Just a job,” I answer.
Andrea grins. “So you’re back in business, hmm?”
“No.”
I’m not back. I’m just doing this for Orso and that’s it. No more jobs. No more favors. Whoever replaces Orso, he can forget about counting on me. I’ve had enough of this family.
And enough of killing.
“This is going to be my last,” I tell Andrea.
As soon as I’m done, I’m going back to my cabin and no one is ever going to drag me away from it again. This time, I’ll really be done.
Time to finish this.
~
The very next day, I go to the address on the piece of paper Orso gave me and find myself in a charming suburban neighborhood with trees and hedges along the sidewalk and relatively new houses in shades of beige, blue and grey. One of those houses belongs to Al Chandler. His is situated between two bigger houses, the one on the left belonging to an elderly couple and the one on the right to a young family of three. I doubt they’ll be any trouble. And the house across the street? Empty.
Al’s house itself doesn’t look like it will cause me any trouble, either. Two stories. Probably three bedrooms. No dogs. No security cameras. And I can tell from the fact that there’s only one car in the garage and plenty of takeout boxes in the trash that he’s living alone.
Is this the man Orso was so afraid would bring his family down? I find that hard to believe, especially after seeing the mess in the living room and the bobbleheads on the mantel. I can’t even believe this man is related to the Chandlers.
Still, it’s not my place or my job to judge the target. My job is to eliminate the target, which I told Orso I would. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I wait until past midnight, until most of the lights on the street are off, including the one in Al Chandler’s bedroom. I enter his house through the back door, which I get open in less than a minute. Then I proceed quietly upstairs. I pause outside his bedroom door to listen for any signs that he’s still awake. When I hear none, I draw my gun and step inside.
Slowly, without making the slightest sound, I approach the bed. I see Al on it, his back turned to me. I point my gun at his head.
Suddenly, he stirs. He tosses the blanket and turns towards me. I freeze.
The person on the bed isn’t a he.
It’s a woman. Sure, she may have short hair, as short as most men, and a strong facial bone structure that some might consider masculine, but she also has curves – breasts beneath her grey tank top, nipples pressing against the cotton.
