Page 80 of The Devil's Den

I get one straight in the temple as he falls on top of another guy. I come out of hiding, firing a bullet into the chest of another until there’s only one left.

One I know well.

“Well, kid”—Louis Esposito grins—“can’t say you’re not clever. Nice to see you out of that chain.”

I snicker. “I did promise I’d kill you when I was eight.”

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got.” He raises his gun and fires.

I duck, rolling onto the floor before I shoot, hitting him in the calf.

“Fuck!” he howls as I rise, treading to him, weapon drawn. “You’re not as young as you once were.”

“I can still fuck you up.” He drags himself to the corner of the wall, separating the space between the two sets of stairs.

I kick over the two dead men as I climb down, and they topple before his feet. He points his pistol at me.

“You won’t be able to kill me, old man.”

But he tries with a shaky hand, the bullet whizzing past me, hitting the wall. Just as quickly, my finger on the trigger, I shoot, the bullet ripping into his hand, the weapon in it slipping out.

His scream turns into bitter laughter, the pain on his face evident, even as he tries to fight it.

“Where’s Agnelo?” I ask, now standing right before him.

“I don’t fucking know,” he grits. “He sent me here as soon as he realized his men haven’t checked in. He figured you must’ve escaped. The tracker on the van told him you were here.”

“Tracker, huh?” My foot comes on top of his hand and I grind it. Hard.

“Ahhh! Fuck!”

“Where’s the tracker? How do I get rid of it?”

“Go to hell,” he grunts.

I press even harder. “I can kill you slow or I can kill you quick. Pick one.”

“You son of a—”

“Call my mother a bitch and I’ll rip off your dick and feed it to you.”

His eyes go wide. He should know I don’t kid. If he doesn’t, I’d be glad to demonstrate.

“Under the trunk, by—by the wheel! Just toss it.”

“Thanks.” I grin, letting his hand free. Kneeling, I press the barrel of my gun to his forehead. “So, Agnelo, where the hell is he?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Think harder!” I roar. “Where does he usually go?”

“The…ahh…there’s a cigar shop they go to. Try there, okay?”

“Address?”

He shoots it off.

“Do you know where he sent Aida and the boy?” When he doesn’t say a word, I get to my feet, trampling his hand again, the heel of my shoe digging into his wound. “Speak!”

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