Page 129 of Intent to Kill
T.B. nodded at the two men, while Dorian squinted. They seemed to buck at the movement—from fear or excitement? Perhaps both? Either way, the reaction was appropriate.
“Play the tape,” T.B. said.
Dorian stalked ahead, moving to get a better view of the screen, his arms folded.
Footage began rolling on a single monitor, an image of his shooting range.
The room was crowded as all hell, patrons lined up at bays, workers doing their rounds. But T.B. impatiently twisted a knob on the desk until the footage zoomed in to the far corner.
“What exactly am I looking at?” Dorian said.
“Just wait,” T.B. said.
Dorian watched as the footage zoomed closer, revealing Paul standing hunched in the shadows, his hand over his face like he had something to hide. He was talking to someone...
Holy fuck. Could this be the fifth guy they'd been searching for?
Paul and the man talked in close proximity, the figure’s back to the camera so his face couldn’t be made out.
“T.B., tell me we’ve got some–”
“Just. Wait.”
While Paul, the traitorous, lying little cocksucker, was tense and afraid, the man was his polar opposite. Relaxed. Cocky. Confident. Familiar...
Mere moments later, the figure turned over his shoulder with a cocky smirk. Aiming his face directly at the hidden camera.
“There, pause it,” T.B. said.
Dorian leaned in closer to check the footage, bracing his hands on the desk, his spine icing over. What. The.Fuck.
“When is this footage from?”
“Three months ago.”
“Fuck!!!!” Dorian launched the keyboards from the desk where they crashed against the wall before dropping in tiny pieces.
His rage was far too big for that tiny room. Dorian slammed his fist into the wall, and it raked clean through. He kicked at the baseboards. He tore TV monitors from the wall with his bare hands. He was unleashed and unchained, and damn near ripped that room to shreds.
When there was nothing left to bash or destroy, Dorian composed himself. He wiped the dust from his hands on his pants and straightened his tie.
“Adam Vandemilio is alive.”
22
WORTH THE WAIT
MAY 1991
Dan, Carlos, and Paul were already there when Adam stepped inside his room, running a hand down his face to wipe away the blood spatter. Not his own, fortunately.
“That’s nine,” Adam said. He threw the blood-stained Polaroids on the table.
Lazy assholes from City Hall were out for a lot of blood considering they weren’t willing to lift a finger of their own. Blood coating Adam’s hands was preferable, apparently.
“Jesus, bit graphic,” Dan said as he flicked through the Polaroids.
“You said to kill them. You didn’t say make it neat,” Adam said. He walked past them to the kitchen sink and rinsed the blood that had dried on his hands. “Will it do?”
