Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,17
eye on both of those heads.” He tapped his nails on the wheel. “Especially not when the fucking mafia’s involved.”
“We don’t even know if they’re involved with us or had anything to do with us being there.”
“Yeah, well.” Ricardo shrugged tightly as he followed the mostly deserted street out of the neighborhood and headed for downtown. “We were both there to kill Baldwin, and at least one very powerful person tied to the mob was on the guest list. I’m not going to take for granted that that’s a coincidence.”
August was blessedly quiet for a moment, but it didn’t last. “We need to get in contact with who hired us, and trace it back to whoever is actually behind this.” August paused, then added a bitchy, “It’s probably Victor. It has to be, that conniving asshat.”
Ricardo rolled his eyes. He was actually getting a headache from doing that, which was yet another reason to get as far away from August as he could. “You don’t know that.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Okay, that was fair. Victor was as mercenary as any hitman, and he’d been pissy for ages over not being the top-rated assassin on Rate Your Hit. Ricardo would probably do some unsavory things too if August were ranked above him. Plus Victor and Ricardo had some history, but that was a long story that he didn’t feel like telling to this idiot.
“Look,” August said, “whether Victor is involved or not, we’re both involved. We’re better off working together than—”
“I work alone. I sure as shit don’t work with pains in the ass who are targets.”
August made an indignant noise. “Kind of sounds like you just want to get rid of me.”
Ricardo shot him a pointed look. “Getting rid of you is just a very, very big bonus to an otherwise great plan.”
August tsked. “Rude.”
“Whatever.” Ricardo eased off the road, slowed to a stop beside the curb, and gestured at the passenger side door. “This is where you get off.”
August blinked. “Seriously?” He flailed a hand at his tactical attire. “You want me out wandering around looking like this?”
“I’m not the dumbass who showed up dressed as probable cause.” Ricardo pointed sharply at the door again. “Get out and get a cab. There’s a whole row of bars a block over, so hoof it to—”
“Dude. That is not cool.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion. Good luck, and goodbye.”
August glared at him, but must have had a rare smart moment and realized that arguing was pointless, because he rolled his eyes, snatched the bottle of wine off the passenger side floor, and got out. “Fuck off, Ricky.” Then he slammed the door and stalked away, looking every inch like a SWAT team member who’d swiped a bottle of expensive red as a souvenir after a job well done.
Ricardo laughed dryly, pulled away from the curb, and took off, ignoring August flipping him the bird from the sidewalk.
He hadn’t had the Camry long, but it was possible it had been reported stolen by now, and he didn’t like the idea of rolling around in a hot car. If the Cavalcante family was in some way tied to this debacle, then getting arrested would be a really bad idea, given how deep the family was in police back pockets.
So, he ditched the Camry in an alley, then walked a few blocks to pick up a cab. He had the cab take him home, but he didn’t stay there long. Instead, he changed into civilian clothes, pulled on a shoulder holster, checked the pistol on his ankle, and then headed out as he put on his leather jacket. When he left again, this time in his own car, he went straight to the outskirts of town.
Out here was a large climate-controlled indoor storage facility, and that facility was where Ricardo had stashed the cash he’d been given for this job. He never dared spend or deposit a cent of a cash payment until a job was completed; it was insurance in case of the unlikely event of him failing to take out the mark. If something happened to the mark before he could get to them, then there was a good chance the person who’d hired him would demand their money back, and Ricardo didn’t argue with them or make them wait for a wire transfer. It had nothing to do with his ranking on Rate Your Hit—it was his aversion to having his throat cut.
He parked a few blocks from the storage facility,