Page 47 of Stabby Little

Jagger tips me a nod. "No problem. You know I want to discuss this, too."

My eyes rake over the drink menu as I pretend to study it. Yesterday, Jagger informed me that he had an unproductive conversation with Michael. Michael wanted to send him to Abu Dhabi to kidnap the young Saudi royal's son he told me about.

Jagger wasn't having it. The young Saudi prince didn't do anything to Michael—it's his father who's the deadbeat. Jagger said there was no fucking way he'd kidnap an innocent person for his boss. We're here to discuss this and other trepidations.

I decide on a tap beer and tell the server my drink order. Jagger orders after me, selecting a gin and tonic. I also grab a basket of hot chili wings with ranch sauce and celery sticks.

Normally I try to eat ethnic cuisine in Chinatown. I'm not the type of man to stick to comfort foods when I travel outside my neighborhood. But this place is known for their wings and I've never had them before. The owners migrated from Beijing twenty years ago and built up a reputation for frying chicken. A food review for this place said the hot chili wings beat any they'd ever tried. On the way here, I vowed to give them a shot.

The server returns with our drinks. "Here you go."

"Thank you." I slip the server a ten-dollar bill.

When the server leaves, Jagger places his palms on the table. "Michael tried to get me to go to Abu Dhabi."

"I heard."

"I can't believe that shit." Jagger clenches his fists. "I do all his bidding. I never turn down a job, but he knows this is a hard limit."

"It's not your fault." I reach out and squeeze Jagger's hand. "He turned on me because we killed Bolverkr. He's in a mood."

Jagger takes a sip of his drink. "Do you think his mood has to do with Seth's death?" He gnashes his teeth. "He was never this bad when Seth was alive. He's out of his fucking mind if he thinks I'm heading to Abu Dhabi to kidnap a royal's innocent son. That's a fuckinghell nofor me."

I nod. "Something's going on in his life. I don't know what."

Jagger blows out a breath. "He showed me more pictures of the boy who stepped in the bathroom with Xavier Sanchez."

"I saw those."

"Is Michael losing his touch?" Jagger narrows his eyes. "I got the name you sent me. Kobe Bailey. He has no criminal record. He hasn't even received a parking ticket or a jaywalking fine. There's no way in hell he took out Xavier Sanchez—one of Michael's most vicious men."

"You're telling me." I move a stack of napkins to my left to reach the salt and pepper shakers. "There's no evidence Kobe killed Xavier. I bet he wasn’t even in the same part of the city during the murder.”

"Kobe's twenty-one," Jagger grits out. "His family has no mob ties and he was only in the bar for fifteen minutes. There are hundreds of men in the city who want Xavier Sanchez dead, but Michael wants to blame a twenty-one-year-old child."

I shake my head. "I can't believe he pushed you to go to Abu Dhabi."

"It's bullshit." Jagger drives his fingers into his glass. "I'd never kidnap an innocent person. Michael knows this—it was the chief condition of my employment when I signed on to be his hitman five years ago."

Jagger joined Michael's payroll later than me. He was a security guard in the warehouse district who led wildlife retreats into Canada for his nephew's Wilderness Explorer troop on the weekends. He'd done odd jobs for the Diavolo brothers, but it wasn't until he lost his position as a bodyguard at a nightclub that Michael hired him full-time.

Jagger didn't have any other employment options so he agreed to start the next day. He told Michael his limits and Michael swore he'd respect them.

The waiter returns with my wings. I pick one up and dip it into the ranch sauce, then slide it in my mouth. Fire burns my throat, searing my esophagus. I chew the chicken, relishing the meaty taste. I take a sip of beer to wash it down, then set my glass on the coaster.

This meal is shit for my acid reflux. I'm not worried, though, because I have a bottle of antacids in my car. They're natural—not that processed crap you get at drugstores. These are from a top-notch health market on the Upper West Side that hedge fund managers send their assistants to for meds. There's no bullshit preservatives or ingredients that will harm my organs.

I tick my eyes up to Jagger. He's eating a hamburger and licking his fingers. He dips his fries in ketchup, then slides them in his mouth, chewing carefully. A concerned expression sits on his face, one I recognize very well.

I lean forward. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Go for it."

"Michael has Miles on his payroll."

"You're joking."

I pick up a napkin. "Miles owes him money. He told me he'd call Miles's outstanding debt if I don't do his bidding."

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