Page 26 of Dark Alliance
Surprise, Riccis.
While I don’t know Padovesi personally, I know his type. He’s the go-between, the guy who handles the dirty moneyso the boss can deny any involvement if the police get a little too curious. Padovesi’s older, maybe in his fifties, and plump, even after a year locked in a cell eating crackers and soup. I don’t have him zip-tied, but he’s not going anywhere. This guy couldn’t outrun a leaky faucet.
Sal and I popped out of an Uber two minutes ago so I could scout the location. I’m in a Giants bomber jacket, while he’s stuffed like a sausage into a fleece-lined zip-up hoodie. We’re both donning classic fit baseball caps.
No one believes we’re mob. Hell, I don’t think my own brother Brody would look twice if he passed me on the street.
I spy a sniper on top of the drugstore opposite the laundromat. Two goons veer down the alley next to the facility, take another left, and then head inside the back way.
You don’t have to be a genius to work for the mob. They don’t even check your eyes or bother to confirm you’re road-ready like the DMV does for a driver’s license. I’ve taken advantage of this little quirk since I was old enough to hold a gun.
I can handle a couple cronies.
“Let’s go.” I hook my hand around Padovesi’s elbow, crossing the street when the little white man tells us it’s safe to do so.
“We’re early, Gallagher.” Padovesi’s voice is high and accented, marking him as a first-generation Italian American. “Why don’t you buy me a cup of coffee while we wait? Maybe a cannoli?”
This guy’s awfully ballsy. “This is an exchange, not a coffee klatch.” And he’s a fool. If this is an ambush for the Gallaghers, he won’t survive. He just hasn’t realized yet that the Riccis consider him expendable.
On the other side of the road, we walk a block and cut into the alley. We’ll enter through the back, the same way the twoRicci enforcers did. I’m guessing another three or four wait inside.
I’ve got my Glock 26 in a holster, my 9mm Luger in the pocket of the bomber jacket, and if all else fails, my dagger strapped to my ankle inside my boot.
I grab the Glock. Sal eyes me, so I spell out the truth for him. “They set a trap. Did you see the sniper? Or the two other enforcers that went through this door?”
He scoffs. “The Riccis wouldn’t do that. I’ve kept my lips zipped for a year.”
“That right?” I wave at the laundromat’s back door. “Then be my guest.”
Like a dutiful jackass, he waltzes straight in. “Yo, Franco!”
They open fire as soon as the door closes, and a body hits the wall with a heavywhump.
Their own guy.
I’m taking every one of you fuckers down.
The mantra pumps me up as I kick the door open.
The two goons who entered last swivel the barrel of their guns my way.
Too slow, though.
They get one bullet each, dead center, and drop.
I find Sal in the corner, bleeding but alive. One shot in his shoulder—a flesh wound—and one low in the thigh. They missed his femoral artery, but I still don’t predict any walking in his near future.
Lucky for him, he’ll survive.
I shake my head and prowl through the hallway, past an open bathroom door—smells worse than it appears—and into the main laundromat. An abandoned table covered with cards sits in the middle of the floor as four men scatter, ducking behind counters and washing machines.
I’ve got this.
“Texas Hold’em?” I stalk toward the table, pulling my Luger from the pocket of the bomber jacket with my left hand. “Deal me in.”
I kick the table over and aim point-black at the man who was crouching behind it. A red circle materializes between his eyes, and with a press of my finger, he collapses with barely a sound.
A bullet whizzes past my head, the air cool against my ear.
