The European — Fernando Garcia.
Ruby’s ex-boyfriend.
Assassin… Asshole… Dead man.
I move to meet him, anxious to close the gap before he has time to produce the gun I can only assume he’s reaching for.
Yup… he’s pulling out a handgun as I get within arm’s length of him.
Without a word I grab his right wrist with my left hand, controlling his weapon. Holding on, I step into him and shove him backward with my shoulder, which sends him arcing counterclockwise, swinging away from me.
As he does, I follow up with a strong right hook, aiming for his throat. He sees it coming and uses his own momentum to move back and avoid it, dropping his gun in the process. I overbalance and stumble forward, momentarily losing my footing and, consequently, my grip on his wrist.
Uh!
I didn’t see that kick coming — it just caught me in the gut… knocked the wind out of me for a second…
I’m keeling over but look up as I go down, expecting a follow-up shot.
I see his right hand swinging down. I try to lift my arm to block it, but it has little effect. The blow goes through my guard and hits me on the side of the head. I land hard on the ground, lying on my side, feeling groggy.
I close my eyes for a split-second, allowing my instincts to take over. I’m on the back foot and can’t consciously think fast enough to regain the upper hand. I need help…
I need my Inner Satan.
I open my eyes again. On cue, all traces of humanity are gone, replaced by the urges of a primal, long-buried killer who’s eager for a taste of the old days.
I spring to my feet, immediately stepping in close. He seems unfazed, moving like the calculated professional I know him to be, planning his next moves. In the back of his mind, he’ll be thinking of a way to get his gun back.
Fighting is like chess, remember?
Without breaking stride, he steps through and throws another kick with his right leg. I catch it, hooking his ankle in my left arm. Not wanting to let up for even a second, I launch a straight kick with my right leg, catching him squarely in the gut. I let go of his ankle and let his momentum take over, carrying him back a few feet.
He lands awkwardly, but recovers straightaway. He uses the momentum to roll backward, feet over head, finishing in a crouch with a hand on the ground for balance. His sunglasses have fallen off. His gray eyes stare at me, full of hatred.
His gaze flicks to his left, seeing his gun. I know it’s there, but I don’t want it. And I don’t want him to get it, either. Too many things can go wrong when you’re armed in public.
I sense he’s going to lunge for the weapon. I see his muscles tense beneath his tight-fitting suit. My resurgence will have taken him by surprise, prompting panic. That will lead to desperation and, ultimately, a mistake. Which is exactly what I’m hoping for.
I dash forward, heading to my two o’clock to cut him off. We collide, and he throws a right hand. I block and counter with a right elbow of my own. He deflects it, bending his left arm up beside his head. Unleashing a body shot with his right hand, he connects with my side.
Thankfully, it just misses my kidney. I stagger back, unable to absorb the power behind the blow completely. I clutch at my waist, wincing as I gasp for breath. The European smiles at me with evil intent in his eyes.
He’s a lot closer to his gun than I am. If he gets to it, I’m dead.
Sirens sound out loudly, interrupting our standoff. We both straighten up and turn to see three patrol cars slide into view.
We lock eyes. “We will finish this dance another time, Adrian,” says The European, smiling.
“Bet your ass we will,” I reply, forcing myself not to blink as I stare him down.
He scoops up his gun and sets off running away to my left. I watch him go, knowing I’m too late to make my own escape now the cops are here.
I sigh. “Sonofabitch…”
I look over at Ruby, who seems to be struggling with her wound. She catches my eye and holds my gaze, a look of regret and apology on her face.
I simply smile and shrug. I always knew my luck would run out eventually. I glance over my shoulder as the cops exit their vehicles, draw their weapons, and move in a practiced formation, approaching me from all sides.
I turn clockwise to face them, slowly raising my arms out to the sides.
“The guy you want went that way,” I say loudly, gesturing quickly with my head in the direction The European ran.
They don’t care. They ignore what I say and form a semicircle in front of me.
“On your knees!” shouts one.
“Hands where we can see ’em!” says another.
I have no choice but to comply.
Shit.
It was all going so well…
16
They didn’t mess around with the arrest. There were six officers in total — five of them cuffed me and loaded me into the back of a squad car while the other read me my rights. They rushed me back to the PD in a neat formation. One car in front, one behind, me in the middle — sirens blaring.
The Atlantic City Police Department is on the aptly named Atlantic Avenue, only a few blocks from where I was picked up. Within minutes, I was escorted through the doors straight into an interrogation room. They never took their eyes, or their guns, off me.
The real kick in the balls came when they took the flash drive from around my neck. It was a strange sensation because I felt genuinely lighter — as if it had been this enormous weight literally around my neck. But I also felt deflated and beaten. That evidence is the key to ending this, and it was entrusted to me. Without it in my possession, I’m letting everyone down. Tori, Josh — everyone.
They secured me to the table in a sparsely furnished room and left me alone. I’ve been here maybe ten minutes, staring around the room, bored. It’s a standard layout — square, gray walls, security camera, no clock — it could be any interrogation room in any precinct. There’s an empty chair opposite me. The table’s fixed to the floor. I’m sitting with my back to the door, and the two-way mirrored wall is on my right.
I feel calm. I know how this works, and having taken time to consider my options here, I’ve come to the unfortunate conclusion that I don’t actually have any. There’s nothing to think about, nothing to plan, no next steps… I am completely, unequivocally fucked. The police have me in custody, and I have no doubt that every government agency in the country will be aware of it. Usually, they would be fighting one another to see who can get here first and claim the prize. But not this time. This time, everyone’s drinking the same Kool-Aid. Everyone’s united under one badge, and President Cunningham’s made sure I’m going down as the most wanted man in history.
Fucking prick.
I feel my heart rate increase as I think about him and my jaw muscles clench as the frustration and anger build inside me.
I can’t wait to shoot him.
The door bursts open, distracting me. I casually look to my left and wait for whoever’s just walked in to stride into view. Probably some fat desk sergeant here to tell me the CIA are on their way to question me…
Question me, my ass.
I’m seething with rage, struggling to control it as it erupts inside.
I swear I’ll burn this entire fucking building to the ground before I let them take me anywhere! Goddamn—