Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,35
had vices that were specific enough that even if someone tried to tempt him into betraying one of his clients, they probably wouldn’t know what to offer him to make it worth his time. August had never seen him in person since then, but he considered them friendly.
The thought that something had gone wrong was…unsettling.
He stood up. “I’ll get dressed. We leave in ten minutes.”
“Five,” Ricardo called after him as he headed for his borrowed room. August was inclined to argue, but…
“Fine. Five.”
The shop was closer than the house, so they drove there first. It felt like Ricardo was driving terribly, almost offensively slow, but August knew that was just a side effect of his own anxiety. He did his best to hide it. It was still too early in the morning to get into a shouting match with Ricardo, and contrary to how August felt, it was actually a really good idea to be driving the speed limit right now. He was…restless, though, and his feet still ached despite the painkillers and the good set of orthotics. He checked the mirrors every few seconds, looking for anything out of place, but so far…nothing.
Ricardo didn’t bother to look his way as he said, “You need to calm down.”
“You need to not tell me what I need.”
“You’re going to draw attention if you keep moving around like that.”
August glared. “Like what?”
“Like you’re checking every car to find the person who tried to kill you so you can shoot them in the face,” Ricardo suggested bluntly. “People are literally changing lanes to avoid us after getting a look at you.”
“I’m just taking some simple precautions.”
“Well, knock it off.”
“I’ll knock you off,” August muttered, looking at his phone again. They were two minutes out. Two minutes. Please let him be passed out from an all-night geeky bender in the shop. Please don’t let him and his eighty-two-year old mother be murdered in their beds. August wasn’t a fan of collateral damage. Sometimes it was unavoidable, but in this case if that little old woman was dead, his mystery target was going to get a lot worse than a bullet in the face. He’d start with the feet.
It had taken August a long time to get to the point where he could torture someone from the feet up. If he’d had a therapist, he was sure they’d be proud of his progress.
“You aren’t actually friends with this guy, are you?”
What was that undercurrent in Ricardo’s voice…disapproval? Stupid August, abandoning all decent security measures and putting his liaison in deliberate peril by being friends with him in real life.
“I’ve met him exactly once and he didn’t know who I was,” August said crisply, putting his phone away and checking his pocket to reassure himself that he’d put the extra magazine in it. “No, we’re not friends. But he does a damn good job for me, and I’m not in the market for another liaison unless there’s no other choice.” He pointed up ahead. “His shop is the one in the corner.”
Ricardo drove around and parked in a nearby parking lot, surrounded by enough cars that surveillance cameras would have a hard time getting details of his.
They got out and walked over to the shop. The Wizard’s War Chest—Comics, Costumes, and Gaming Supplies. August tried the front door. It was locked.
“How fast are you with a lockpick?” he asked Ricardo.
“Fast. Cover me.” He stepped in close and August stepped back, crossing his arms casually as he looked out at the rest of the block for anything suspicious. No one caught his eye, no vehicle stood out—although if they were dealing with a professional, of course it wouldn’t. In under a minute, he heard a faint click.
Ricardo pocketed something as he opened the door, and August went inside first. After three steps, he pulled his gun. The smell was faint up here, but unmistakable—blood. Lots of it. He moved quickly, all pain forgotten as he strained his ears for the faintest whisper of noise, of something out of place…but there was nothing living in here. The store had the still, silent air of a tomb. August got to the door to the storeroom and, after he’d pulled on a glove, he tried the handle. It turned on the first try. He opened it, took two steps inside, and after a long look around the room holstered his gun before focusing on the scene in front of him.
Merlin was still sitting in his chair, slumped over a table