Boyle cocked the gun’s pin and started squeezing the trigger.
O’Shea erupted with another haunting laugh. “Do it,” he demanded, his voice breathless and raw as he lay there, sprawled on his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his body twisted on the floor. Between the bullet wounds from the dog run and his current impact, the pain was overwhelming. “With these metal walls… go ahead… I–I’d love to see you risk the ricochet.”
Boyle glanced around at the walls of the van. “It won’t ricochet,” he insisted.
“You sure about that?” O’Shea gasped, fighting for air and kicking his heel against the metal floor. There was a loud deep thud. “Sounds… sounds pretty damn solid to me.”
Boyle didn’t respond. His hand twitched slightly as he tightened his grip on the trigger.
“That’s… it’s a frightening thought, isn’t it?” O’Shea asked. “Here you are all ready to wreck the few remaining shards of your life by becoming a killer, and… and now you have to worry if you’ll shoot yourself in the process.”
Boyle knew he was lying. He had to be.
“C’mon, Boyle — here’s your chance to blow my head off. Take your shot!” Defiantly, O’Shea leaned forward, pressing his forehead even harder against the gun.
Boyle’s finger rattled against the trigger as a dribble of blood ran from his nose to his top lip. This was it. The moment he’d begged for… prayed for… the revenge that had fueled him all these years. The problem was, O’Shea was still right about one thing: Whatever else they’d taken from him, whatever cold shell of himself they turned him into, he’d never be a killer. Though that didn’t mean he couldn’t have his vengeance.
Shifting his arm to the right, Boyle pointed the barrel at O’Shea’s still-seeping shoulder wound and pulled the trigger. A single bullet tore through O’Shea’s shoulder, taking another chunk of meat with it. To maximize the pain, Boyle kept the gun at an angle, hoping to hit some bone as well. From O’Shea’s scream — which faded into a silent breathless gasp as his eyes rolled back and he finally lost consciousness — it was more than enough to do the trick.
Kicking O’Shea onto his side, Boyle knelt down to the splatter of blood on the floor. Underneath the mess, through the metal floor of the van, was a small jagged bullet hole. Sticking a finger in and feeling the musty air outside, Boyle shook his head. Of course, it wouldn’t ricochet. Only the President’s limo is bulletproof.
Wasting no time, Boyle ducked into the front of the van and wriggled into the driver’s seat. Far to his left, another swarm of cars buzzed by on the highway. As he looked down, the digital clock on the dashboard said it was 6:57 p.m. Perfect, he thought as he punched the gas, spun the wheels, and sent bits of gravel chainsawing through the air. One more stop and it’d all be done.
98
Haven’t these people ever heard of a parking lot?” Rogo asked as he drove past the landscaping by the frosted-glass entrance and veered around to the back of the white office building.
“There,” Dreidel pointed out as they turned the corner. Around back, a wide lot was dotted with eight or ten cars.
“That’s a good sign, right? People still working?”
“Unless it’s just janitorial staff,” Dreidel said, eyeing the building through the passenger window.
“How many janitors you know drive brand-new Mustangs?” Rogo asked, parking next to a shiny black convertible Ford Mustang. “The only thing I can’t figure out is why they have all that space in the front of the building and instead put the parking lot around back?”
“Maybe it’s a zoning issue.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Rogo said.
“What, you still think it’s some kinda mob doctor?”
“All I know is, they’re about a block away from the Bada-Bing and the porn shop, there’s a funeral home next door, and that Mustang has a personalized license plate that says Fredo.”
Dreidel glanced down at the license plate, which read MY STANG. “Will you please stop? It’s a doctor’s office, Rogo. You can tell it from here.”
“Well, color me a stickler, but I’d still prefer to see it for myself,” Rogo added, flicking the car door open, hopping out into the drizzling rain, and running for the back door of the building. Halfway there, he looked straight up as a soft high-pitched whistle exploded into a deafening, rumbling earthquake. Another 747 coming in for a landing. Behind him, he noticed that Dreidel was at least ten steps behind.
Rogo finally reached two sliding frosted-glass doors that were almost identical to the entrance in front. Stepping onto the pressure mat, he waited for the doors to slide open. They didn’t move.
“Anybody home?” Rogo announced, knocking on the frosted glass, then pressing his face against it, trying to peer inside. Diagonally up on his right, a pinprick of red light revealed a shiny black security camera that was as thin as a calculator with a tiny round lens no bigger than a dime. Rogo turned away, too smart to stare. No way was a doctor’s office spending money on high-end tech like that.
“Don’t look up,” Rogo whispered as Dreidel stepped next to him.
“You sure no one’s—?”
Rogo raised a knuckle to knock again, but before he could tap the glass, the doors slid open, revealing an annoyed security guard with stringy brown hair and a close-cropped mustache.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking at Dreidel, then Rogo, then back at Dreidel.
“Yeah, we’re looking for Dr. Eng,” Rogo said, trying to step inside. The guard stepped in front of him, cutting him off, but Rogo kept going, his short meatball build ducking quickly under the guard’s arm and into the salmon-colored marble lobby.
“Sorry… it’s just… it’s raining,” Rogo said, pointing outside and flicking excess water from his hands.
The guard didn’t say a word, still staring at Dreidel. Rogo noticed that the guard was armed with a 9mm pistol in his belt.
“Anyway,” Dreidel interrupted, “we’re here to see Dr. Eng.”
“Sorry, he left already,” the guard shot back.
“That’s fine — if we could just see his office assistant.”
“Dr. Eng is gone. His office is closed for the day.”
Up the hallway, Rogo spotted a tenant directory on the wall next to the elevators. “Listen, if we came at a bad time, I apologize, but can I just ask one favor?” Rogo pleaded. “I’ve been driving for over an hour in tear-your-hair-out traffic. We’ll get out of your way — we’ll call Dr. Eng tomorrow — but first, can I please just use your bathroom? We’re talking real emergency here.”
The guard stared at him, unmoving.
“Please,” Rogo pleaded, doing an anxious shuffle with his feet. “If I wait any longer—”
“Men’s room is past the elevators on the left-hand side,” the guard said, pointing up the hall.
“My bladder thanks you,” Rogo said, taking off.
Dreidel took a step to follow behind him. The guard shot him a look, and Dreidel stopped.
“We’ll… I’ll just wait here,” Dreidel decided.
“Great idea,” the guard said.
Without looking back, Rogo cruised up the hallway, which, like the outside of the building, was worn and weary: cracked marble along the floor, cheap art deco light fixtures overhead, and eighties-era aqua and sea-foam modern art paintings on the wall. Brushing past it all, Rogo focused on the office directory next to the elevators.
“Did I pass it yet?” he called back to the guard as he stopped in front of the directory’s gold metal frame. Skimming the alphabetical list, he saw: