Page 32 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

Standing just outside of Alasdair’s room, I listen for any movement or moans that might suggest he’d shacked up with one of the dancers. A twist of the handle and the door easily slides open just a crack. I pause, glance around to make sure no one’s watching, and pull my Glock. Letting the barrel lead the way, I widen the crack and step into the darkness of the room.

At the rack of a chamber, I twist around, blindly aiming in the direction from where I think it came. A lamp flicks on, and I squint against the blinding brightness to find Alasdair slumped over in the armchair butted up to the window, across from the bed. An empty bottle of Jack lays tipped on the adjacent table where his cigar has all but burned away next to his snifter. In nothing but a tank and slacks, the man puts most guys my age to shame with his bulky frame and tattoos on his biceps.

“If you don’t have fresh towels, then the Reapers hand awaits ye,” he says in only a hint of a Scottish accent, beneath a smokers rasp. Living in Chicago has swallowed most of his dialect, leaving only a few words that give any indication he might’ve been born outside of the US.

“Thought you could use a drink.” I lift the fifth of Laphroaig in my left hand, slide my gun back inside its holster, and raise my now-free hand up in surrender.

He eyes the fifth, still aiming his gun at me, surprisingly level for a man whose cheek twitches as he studies me. “Come all this way to buy me a drink, have ye?”

“Was in the neighborhood.”

With a snort, he uncocks the hammer of his pistol, setting it on the table beside the empty bottle and his gaze falls to the liquor once more. Alcoholics are interesting folk. Had I offered a Coke instead, he’d have probably put a bullet in my skull right there.

I catch his eyes tracking me as I set the fifth on the table and toss the empty into the trash below.

Pointing past me, he gives a jerk of his head toward the coffee pot, where a water glass sits upside down. “Grab a drink yerself.”

In spite of the whiskey, it’s surprising that he’s suddenly relaxed. A quick glance around the motel room shows a few bottles of liquor, clothes slung across the floor and bed, and what looks like smeared blood on the concrete wall. Not the meticulous habits of a seasoned hitman.

I track my gaze back to his lap where I notice a white bandage wrapped around his hand, set in his lap. Blood seeps through the gauze at his knuckles, and I have to believe he tried to punch the concrete.

He cracks open the bottle like a kid tearing into an early Christmas present and pours both of us a drink. Raising the glass, he sniffs the liquor, tips back a sip, and licks his lips. “Laphroaig. Like a well-tarred fishin’ line.” With a hearty chuckle, he takes another sip. “You got good taste in drink.”

“Sláinte,” I say before tipping back the glass, and sit at the edge of the bed. The burn of the liquor, tamped down by a smoky flavor, slides down my throat, and Alasdair’s disfigured eye tics as he watches me.

Down his cheek, a long white scar marks the path of a blade and the irregular shape of his ear confesses where the tip was torn away. The skin at his jaw is puffy and patched where ridges and a glossy shine tell me he’s been burned.

I have my scars too. Ones I’m certain are giving me away as I sit across from him.

“Who are ye?” he asks.

“I’m the man who was hired to kill you.”

With a heavy-lidded blink, he breaks into a laugh and raises his glass once more. “Well, at least ye bought me a drink first.”

I pull my gaze away from him, staring down into my whiskey. He’s a sad and sorry glimpse of my future. A man who once had the world by the balls, reduced to a whore-chasing drunk, alone in a hotel room, sharing a bottle of whiskey with his executioner. I’ve killed a number of men far more worthy of my sympathy, but that’s the thing about men like us. We sell our souls to do our jobs and while that might not be worthy of redemption, we have no choice. This feels dishonorable and wrong—two words that rarely make their way into my thoughts when it comes to killing.

I knew the moment I stepped inside the room and he didn’t bother to execute me before flipping the lights—he has no intentions of fighting me.

“I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest. Did Marchetti kill Adrian Bertrand?” I don’t need to ask the question, but it’s shitty that a kid had to bite a bullet that young.

He sniffs and rubs a hand down his face. “Bertrand hired ye, did he?”

“I’m not asking for him. Kid was thirteen.”

Raising his glass again, he gives a nod. “Ode to the ones who finally know peace. Piss on those of us who quickly forget ‘em.”

“Did he kill him?”

“You’re askin’ me to divulge the affairs of my employer to the man who plans to kill me?”

“Yes.”

His eyebrows wing up. “I like your spirit at least,” he says before taking another swig of whiskey. “No’ to my knowledge. Marchetti has no love for his French rival, but he’s no’ done anythin’ foolish under my advisement.”

“Who did?” I kick back another swill, knowing he probably wouldn’t tell me if he knew.

“The young Bertrand was the only heir to his grandfather’s empire. My guess is a pawn workin’ on behalf of a rook.”