Page 1 of Dressed to Kill
"A man's got tobelieve in something." I loaded a bullet into the revolver, snapped the cylinder shut and gave it a spin. "God, the devil, I don't care. Your bosses? They don't believe in shit except money. Cleared out this morning, took everything, and left you here to clean up their mess. To die if it came to that. That's what you get working for Italians. That's—fuck, that's cold."
I turned around to face the two men behind me. They were kneeling on the cold concrete, hands already bound behind their backs. Neither of them could've been more than twenty. The fucking Italians sent young guys to do a man's work. God, I hated that.
I paced in front of them, the gun hanging loosely at my side while my men finished their search. "Me? I believe in luck. Fate. Something bigger than just us standing here in this shithole warehouse. So here's what we're going to do." I squatted in front of the one on the left, and he let out a small sob as I slid the gununder his chin to lift his face. "One bullet. Six chambers. Two of you. We'll see who God likes better."
He tried to answer. Nothing came out but a whimper.
"No?" I stood up and walked to the other one. He was older than his friend by maybe five years, with a scar cutting through his eyebrow and a look in his eyes like he thought he was hard. "How about you? You got anything to say?"
He spat at me.
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand and laughed. "There it is. You believe you're tough enough to spit at a man holding a gun. I respect that. Stupid as hell, but I respect it."
I pressed the barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He didn't even flinch. Tough bastard. I grinned. "You're braver than I thought."
I moved to his friend, the one who'd been sobbing. "Your turn."
Click.
He pissed himself. The stain spread dark across his jeans and pooled on the concrete.
"Two clicks. Four chambers left. One bullet." I went back to the tough one and crouched down so we were eye to eye. "Your bosses don't even know your names. You're just bodies to them. Disposable. But fate? Fate knows exactly who you are."
Click.
His jaw tightened, but he still didn't look away. I had to give it to him.
I moved back to the sobbing one. He was hyperventilating now. "Please, please, I'm only doing this for my sister; she's got medical bills. I swear I don't know nothing—"
"Shh." I put the gun to his head. "We're having a moment here. Don't ruin it."
Click.
Two chambers left. One bullet. This was the part I liked. Fifty-fifty odds. Pure chance.
I stood up and stretched. My knees were killing me. Forty years old and I was squatting on warehouse floors playing Russian roulette with guys who should've known better than to work for Italians. This was my life.
"Last chance," I said to the tough one. "Where'd your bosses move the operation?"
He stared at me for a long moment. Then his shoulders sagged. "Docks. East container yard. They moved everything maybe six hours ago. Boss got word vory were coming for them."
"Smart man." I stood up and pressed the barrel to his temple. "Wrong answer, though."
I pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked through the warehouse. The sound bounced off concrete and metal, echoing back at me louder than it should've been. His body dropped sideways with a wet thud, blood spreading dark beneath his head. The air smelled like cordite and copper. I stepped over him and looked down at what was left. Half his face was gone. The scar through his eyebrow was still there on the intact side. He'd been tough right up until the moment he wasn't.
I flicked the cylinder open and shook the empty casing into my palm. Still warm. I pocketed it and snapped the cylinder shut. My hands were steady. That was good. Twenty years doing this and my hands still didn't shake.
The warehouse had gone quiet. My men had stopped what they were doing to watch. They knew better than to comment.
I looked down at the sobbing one. He was staring at his friend's body, shaking so hard the zip ties rattled. "You. You didn't talk. You believed in something bigger than saving your own ass." I glanced over at Gregori. He was standing by a pileof counterfeit handbags near the wall, and the whole warehouse smelled like chemicals and fake leather. "Cut him loose."
Gregori raised an eyebrow. "You're serious."
