Page 12 of Assassin's Obsession

Some of the old guard are too arrogant to be smart, like that asshole Lorenzo Ricci. Worst capo under Severu. He's going down soon though.

"There are a lot of prisons that don't have cement walls." Boomer looks off into the distance, seeing a place that isn't the alley behind Pitiful Princess. "A lot of ways to die that don't include getting shanked by another prisoner."

I can't argue that. "Do you want to die?"

"No one has asked me that in a long time."

Not sure why the fuck I'm asking it now, but I don't ask it again. I just wait for his answer.

He looks at me and then he shakes his head. "No, I don't want to die. I've been off the booze for almost a year, but I am still working to get back on my feet. Lost my job though when I had to leave the shelter to take care of Mars."

The dog woofs his approval, his bark a deep bass tone.

"What kind of work did they have you doing?" It wouldn't be what the Army trained him for, that's for damn sure.

"Took their computer training so I could stand behind the counter and take orders at McDonalds. With most customers using the kiosk menus, not sure how long that job was going to last anyway."

"What did you do in the Army?"

"What they trained me for."

The Army trains for all sorts, but delivered in that tone, he was trained like I was. To kill. "You get into special forces?"

"What is this, a job interview?" Ronnie asks with too much attitude for a man on the way to losing a hand.

I glare down at him. "Shut the fuck up."

"Just let me go."

"He's a whiny bitch, ain't he?"

"Calling Ronnie a bitch is an insult to Mars' dam."

"True." Boomer turns to look at Mars. "Sorry, buddy. No offense meant."

"You're a bum and you think you're better than me?" Ronnie snarks with bravado he's shouldn't be feeling. "You're nothing but shit on my shoe."

I clock Ronnie and he drops like a bag of rocks.

"You going to tell management me and Mars are back here?" Boomer asks.

"Your offer to help with that pile of shit still good?" I ask instead of answering.

Boomer straightens. "Yes."

"Bring Mars. We'll get him checked out." Without the dog being returned to his former piece-of-shit owner.

Headlights shine in the alley, flipping on and off in a pattern I train my guys to use. Derian's here.

Making aproceedmotion with my hand, I don't have to tell Boomer to grab his stuff. He's not leaving it in the alley to get taken by someone else.

He disappears into the shadows by the dumpster as the nondescript black SUV, plates registered to a shell corporation, pulls to a stop.

Mars barks at the headlights. I give a firm command to sit and approach him with a confident posture, my hand out. He sits, showing that puppy, or not, he's had some training. It also shows that his animal instincts identify me as the alpha here.

As they should.

No one in this alley is as deadly.

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