Page 91 of Shark Bait

“I don’t have one.”

Alessio laughs evilly. “Troy’s slot with Dr. Gruber is open now.”

I pinch my lips.

“No smart comeback?” he asks.

I flip him off.

He smiles like a hyena, then moves toward the back of the car, where he pops open the trunk. “You want to clean? Leave no evidence?”

I follow him.

He uncaps a canister of gas and shoves half of my T-shirt into it, then lights it up.

We stare at the burning cloth, neither of us moving away.

The fire burns up the cotton T-shirt, and the moment it soaks up the gas, it’ll blow.

Alessio’s still standing there.

“Jesus.” I grab his arm and drag him away from the car just as it explodes. The detonation lifts our bodies and throws us up in the air. We hit the ground hard, ears ringing and for a moment or minutes even, I don’t know how long, I can’t get up.

My body aches everywhere, and I groan as I turn onto my back. Then I sit up and pull my knees toward my chest so I can rest my elbows on them. The gauze from my nose falls out. I feel the blood trickling out. Oh well.

I kept the other half of my white undershirt, and I twist it, then shove it into my nostril to prevent my brain from bleeding out.

Pieces of the car are scattered all over the helipad. The chopper’s tail broke off. People are running toward us. Sirens. I see a red fire truck.

“We’re about to get cluster fucked,” I say.

A tire rolls past Alessio. He’s still down on his belly.

I shove his shoulder. “Up we go, cluster fucker.”

He’s not moving. I crouch beside him and pat him for injuries, then gently turn him over and touch him again. I don’t see any wounds, but I press two fingers on his pulse, and the beating of his heart scares me. It’s too slow.

I grab him by his shoulders. “Hey, man, what’s wrong?” I keep shaking him, but he’s not getting up. Real fear tightens my chest and panic sets in as the sirens get louder and people converge on us.

“Help” I shout. I’m that helpless little boy again, trying to get the adults to pay attention to me, help me, help my mom as I try to remove the rocket shrapnel sticking out of her chest. “Help us!”

Suddenly, Alessio opens his eyes, and they’re as clear as they’ve ever been. He sits up, then stands, brushing the dirt from his sleeves as if dusting off some grass that landed on him after a fantastic golf swing.

I rise with him, scanning his body just in case I missed something while he lay there dying. “You okay?”

Alessio looks me in the eye and says, “Now you know how I felt when they told me they arrested you.”

I pull back my fist and sock him in the nose.

I hold my hand, almost crying out from pain. My knuckles are done punching for a decade. I can’t punch a sponge after this, I swear it.

But hey, my best friend and I have matching wounds. Both our noses are bleeding.

Classic gangsters, don’t you think?

THIRTY-THREE

MISSING SHARKS

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