Page 86 of His Puppet

Why the hell aren’t they here yet?

Glass crunches as someone enters the laundromat, and my heart stops. The man on the phone quiets.

Please be Victor.

Please be Victor.

Please be—

Someone whimpers just before a shot fires, silencing them. I cover my mouth again to hold in my gasp, and the gun goes off again. Then again.

The woman in the corner shields her face and screams just before a bullet goes straight into her forehead, knocking her back. Her hands are limp beside her, and she leans against the wall with dead eyes still open, a permanent look of terror tattooed on her face.

Tears stream down my cheeks, and my hand is clasped so tightly around my mouth that it hurts.

Fear begins to oddly subside, making way for despair, when I hear the lone pair of footsteps come my way, and I turn my head to my right where I know Victor’s phone is laying on the ground, only feet away. Why didn’t I pick it up? Why didn’t I call Blade?

My chest aches, and I clench my fist, feeling my ring as my skin pulls. I wish I would’ve called him. I wish I could hear his voice right now. Even if it’s for the last time.

A boot comes into my view, and the chair I have in front of me is whipped away. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I clench my jaw, trying to keep a brave face. I stare up at the man even though I want so badly to close my eyes so I don’t see what happens next. He holds his gun at his side and stares back at me, expressionless.

I don’t know who this man is, but when he slings his gun over his shoulder and pulls out a rag, I know who sent him.

Victor was wrong. They weren’t here for him.

They were here for me.

25

Blade

Standing in front of my desk, I stare at the pathetic excuse for a man in front of me. We’re in one of the houses we use to store product in the city, and it’s the only place a dealer will find me. They are, under no circumstances, welcome or even given the location to the farm. This guy is a perfect example why.

“I swear to God, I’ll pay it back with my own money,” Spider says, his face ticking.

His hands, covered in inked webs that have given him his street name, tremble, and I wonder if it’s from fear or from withdrawal. As much as I hate my dealers being addicts themselves and have a strict rule against drug use, withdrawal is a good sign he’s at least telling the truth. Somebody truly stole the supply he was carrying. You would think people would have learned not to steal from me by now, but addicts will do anything to get their fix, including risk their lives. Spider included.

“Have you been getting high?” I ask, my voice monotone and my hands in my pockets. I’m not angry. This shit happens at least once a month with a guy like this. I’d be shocked if it wasn’t one of his friends who stole the five thousand worth of cocaine after he idiotically showed them where it was. It’s the same thing every time with people like him. Good help is hard to find.

“No sir,” he says, rearing back as if I’ve just insulted him. “Of course not.”

“Mm,” I say with a slight nod. “And you,of course, didn’t show your supply to any of your friends?”

“No sir, I would never—”

“Do you have the five thousand to pay for it?” I ask, running my hand through my hair and sighing, my eyes roaming to Franco who’s standing by the door to my office. He’s standing tall with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting for me to give the order to kill this sorry sack of shit.

Spider’s face twitches, and he starts picking at the skin of his arm. “I can get it, boss. No problem.”

“Yeah? From where? You have an IRA you can cash out?”

Franco snickers, causing Spider to look over his shoulder. When he turns back to me, there’s panic in his eyes.

“Boss, I swear to you, it ain’t my fault. Someone stole it. Just give me a little bit time, and—”

“Spider,” I say, starting to get annoyed.

He shuts his mouth and scratches his arm some more. I point my gaze at his hand, and he drops it at his side, pulling his arm slyly behind his back as if I haven’t already noticed the inflamed skin.

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