the Band of Bastards. I have to know your intentions so I can plan.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t . . .” Tohr lowered himself down onto his haunches, those navy-blue peepers sharp as blades. “You realized what is at stake, right? You’ve been knee-deep in the cesspool of this war for centuries, just like the rest of us. And you’re quitting at the end? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Syn debated whether or not he could let the insult slide, given that, considering his reputation, what was wrong with him was kind of self-explanatory. But then he thought about Jo.
Meeting her had changed a lot for him. Had changed . . . pretty much everything. And he had the strangest sense that if he spoke of this, if he said it out loud, it would be real. It would be forever.
Sitting up slowly, he prayed he could get the words out.
“I don’t want to kill anything anymore,” he said in a voice that cracked. “Ever.”
Jo went where Officer McCordle told her to go, even though when she got to Market and Tenth and found the alley, she wasn’t sure which side of it she was supposed to turn in to. She went left on a whim, and when she saw the squad car, she pulled up grille-to-grille with it. Getting out, she was totally numb.
McCordle motioned her over through his front windshield and popped the passenger side door. As she got into the squad car, she felt a stifling warmth and smelled spearmint gum, aftershave, and fresh coffee.
Shutting things up, she turned to the cop. “What’s this about—”
“We have reason to believe there’s a credible hit out on you.” The police radio squawked at a low volume and the laptop mounted on the center console spooled all kinds of data on its matte screen. “I want to show you some footage from the FBI feed.”
It was a commentary on how her life was going that a police officer telling her the mob wanted to kill her was an also-ran.
I’ll see you and raise you I’m-a-vampire, she thought.
Instead of going into the computer, McCordle got out his cell phone. “The FBI got warrants to surveil both Carmine Gigante’s cement business and the Hudson Hunt and Fish Club. The night after Johnny Pappalardo was found dead in that alley, a man met with Gigante at the latter. In that meeting, Gigante acknowledged that he asked the man to kill Pappalardo, and maintained that it had been done in too showy a way. He demanded that the man make things right by killing you.”
“Okay.” She watched the officer tap the screen of his phone. “And?”
“The man said he would take care of it. Your name was specifically used—hold on, I have to scroll through to get the right file.”
“Are you supposed to have this video?” God, she just wanted to go home and sleep right now. “I mean, shouldn’t I talk to the FBI.” Not that she cared one way or the other. “I can call whoever I need to.” And that was a problem, wasn’t it—the no-caring thing. “I mean—”
“Here it is.” He tilted his phone toward her and clicked the volume button up. “Let me know if you’ve ever seen this guy?”
The video was in black-and-white, shot from what appeared to be the upper corner of a windowless, grungy office. As she tried to orient herself, she had a mental image of someone drilling a hole in a ceiling’s Sheetrock and feeding in something of a fiber-optic nature. Whatever.
Okay, so there was a man sitting at the desk, a fat, older man who she recognized as Gigante. And then someone came in—
Jo’s heart stopped.
The man was tall and broad. Dressed in leather. And he had a Mohawk.
Swallowing hard, she tried to make her ears work. There was some kind of conversation happening on the little screen, but she couldn’t seem to hear anything. Sure, the phone’s speaker was tinny to begin with and the audio quality pretty poor. Then again, her brain was spinning with the implications—
“You know what, it’s your lucky fucking night. I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to give you a chance for redemption. As opposed to a grave.”
All at once, Gigante’s words came through loud and clear. And then she heard . . .
“You take care of this reporter problem for me,” the mob boss said in the video, “and I’ll forgive you for fucking up the Pappalardo hit.”