Page 45 of Married With Lies

My first thought is that this isn’t a real hit. It would have to be the most incompetent gun for hire in history.

My second thought is that there’s an unpleasant reason for the sudden fiery pain in my right side and I sure do wish I’d stopped in Flagstaff instead. I look down and see my own blood staining my shirt.

Now I’m really pissed.

Seriously, this fucking sucks.

Not that I haven’t been shot before. Years ago, back when I was new to Richie’s crew, a deal went wrong in a New Jersey warehouse. Heated words turned into bullets flying everywhere. One of them ended up lodged in my right forearm. I was proud of that scar, even embellished it with a tattoo designed to look like an open eye.

This, however, feels like an insult. Like getting ambushed on the toilet or something.

Staying in a low crouch, I move down the aisle toward the back of the store. Straight ahead there’s a sign pointing to a restroom on the right, toward an open corridor. There’s just no telling what else is waiting in that direction. Maybe an exit. Maybe not.

The rational side of my brain does some quick calculating. The shot was fired through the main door while I stood at the checkout counter. Whoever pulled the trigger will be expecting me to run this way, to the back of the store.

Backtracking in silent stealth, I’ve reached the edge of the aisle when the sound of creaking hinges comes from the direction of the restrooms. The ensuing footsteps are heavy, more of a shuffle. I have to roll my eyes because whoever this dickhead is, he couldn’t be sloppier.

The shuffling stops and a nasally voice hisses out, “Dean?”

Shuffle. Step.

“Dean, do you see him?”

I guess ‘him’ is me. The guy who just wanted to buy a fucking snack and get back on the road but now has a bullet wound and a bad mood.

Shuffle. Step.

I drop to one knee behind a swiveling rack of sunglasses and keep my gun trained down the aisle. The ominous sticky feeling right under my ribs isn’t improving my temper.

Meanwhile, Dean’s Friend realizes Dean isn’t in the room. “Hey you,” he yells. “Whoever, you are, come out with your hands up right now. This is, uh, this is the police!”

Seriously? This shit is turning into a comedy sketch.

The shaking barrel of a pistol appears before he does. He’s wearing a ski mask and his gut rolls over the top of his filthy jeans. His movements are jerky, either from fright or because he’s jacked up on some cheap street garbage.

No matter. His worries are over. Without missing a beat, I fire a shot between the ski mask eye holes and dedicate the kill to the murdered store clerk. The man emits a strangled gurgle and falls with a thud.

Now if Dean himself were the least bit smart he would have been peeling rubber toward the highway by now. Instead, he barrels through the shattered door with a pistol in each hand like he’s goddamn Billy the Kid while screaming “Fucking motherfucker!”

He’s thinner and moves faster than his dead buddy. Maybe the two of them got a special two for one deal on ski masks but I don’t need to see his face to turn him into mincemeat.

Even though the first shot hits him in the throat he manages to stagger backwards through the broken glass before falling down in the parking lot. He’s making a wheezing noise and claws at his ski mask with one hand while the other keeps wildly firing the only gun he’s still holding. Since I’ve had more than enough of this nonsense, I end the threat for good with one clean shot to the forehead.

After a quick walk around the building, I conclude that there’s no one else here except those two dead assholes and the unfortunate guy behind the counter, who I’ve confirmed is also dead.

Now the sheer crappy luck of it all is really setting in. I’ve just been blindsided at a rural gas station by two of the dumbest robbers ever to hold a gun. Once the New York crew gets wind of the story I’ll never hear the end of it.

I’ll have to worry about that later. Headlights are approaching in the distance. Worse, there’s a faint whine of sirens in the air. The last thing I feel like doing right now is giving my name to a gaggle of small town cops. This will mean a whole lot of questions while I’m stuck here with no good explanation as to why I have a duffel bag full of cash in the truck of my rental car.

A million times I’ve pleaded with Richie to get out of the dark ages when it comes to currency. But he’s stuck in old fashioned movie mode and likes the drama of unveiling a bag of cash like it’s fucking nineteen eighty.

And guess who now gets to deal with the fallout?

The first thing they’ll do is search the car. All it takes is one enterprising reporter to go digging and uncover my connection to New York crime boss Richie Amato.

Nobody needs that noise right now. Not me, not Richie.

Given the decrepit state of the gas station, it’s a reasonable hope that they don’t have a decent surveillance system. That will buy me a little time until I can set the wheels in motion to get this garbage sorted out.

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