patches for both ass cheeks. There was also a small black-and-white monitor showing the image of the man with the magazine righting his plastic throne and sitting back down outside.
“Have a seat,” the old man said, indicating the hard chair on the far side of the desk. “This won’t take long.”
Syn noted the way the corridor’s panel re-shut itself, disappearing into the wall. Across from him, there was another door with conventional hinges and a knob, and he angled his back to the corner next to it so he could visualize the old man, the hidden passageway’s entrance, and the regular way into the office.
“So you come highly recommended,” the old man grunted as he lowered his weight on knees that were clearly wearing out early. “I usually handle these things myself, but not in this case.”
There was a pause. And then the human took out a laptop and put it on the paperwork. Turning the thing on, his cataract’d eyes flashed upward. “This filth needs to be taken off the streets.”
The man turned the screen around. The photograph was black-and-white. Grainy. Like it was a camera phone shot of a newspaper article.
“Johnny Pappalardo. He’s violated some rules that cannot be violated in my territory.”
When Syn didn’t acknowledge the picture, the old man frowned. “We got a problem?”
His pudgy hand dipped beneath the desk, and Syn moved faster than a human could track. Without changing the position of his eyes, he palmed a twin set of Glocks with suppressors and pointed one at the old man and the other at the door with the hinges and the knob.
Just as some kind of bodyguard lunged into the office.
As the humans froze, Syn said in a low voice, “Don’t do that again. We’ve got no problem, you and me. Keep it that way.”
The old man got to his feet and leaned over the desk. “Son, you ain’t from here, are you. Didn’t your friend tell you who I was—”
Syn pulled the triggers on both guns. Bullets landed into the walls to the side of both heads, causing the men to jump.
“I only care about the job,” he said. “Don’t make me care about you.”
There was a tense period of silence. Then the old man lowered himself back into his chair with that grunt.
“Leave us.” When the other guy didn’t move, the old man snapped, “Jesus, Junior, you deaf?”
“Junior” looked at Syn and Syn spared him a glance. Same coloring as the old man. Same facial structure. Same way of narrowing the eyes. The only thing that differentiated the two was twenty-five years and seventy-five pounds.
“Shut the door behind yourself, Junior,” Syn growled. “It’ll offer you some cover when I pull this trigger again.”
Junior checked in with his father one last time and then backed out.
The old man laughed. “You have no fear, do you.” As he went to duck his hand into his cardigan, he said dryly, “You want to lower those guns?”
When Syn didn’t reply, the old man shook his head with a grin. “You young boys. Too much gas in the tank. If you want to get paid, I’m going to have to take your money out of my pocket—”
“I don’t want the money. Just the job.”
The old man narrowed his eyes again. “What the fuck.”
Syn moved over to the hidden door. As he willed the panel to slide back, the old man recoiled, but he recovered fast, no doubt assuming it hadn’t shut right.
“You don’t want the money?” he said. “Who the hell does a job without getting paid?”
Syn lowered his chin and stared out from under his lids. As his eyes flashed with all the menace of his talhman, the old man abruptly sat back in his chair as if he didn’t like being in an enclosed space with the very weapon he had sought to purchase and was putting to use.
“Someone who likes to kill,” Syn said in an evil growl.
CHAPTER THREE
As Butch O’Neal stood inside an abandoned mall’s groundskeeping building, he stared at a woman’s vacant, frozen fear and had a wicked odd thought. For some reason, he recalled that his given name was Brian. Why this was relevant in any way was unknown, and he chalked up the cognitive drive-by to the fact that she kind of reminded him of his first cousin on his mother’s side. That connection wasn’t particularly significant, either, however, because in Southie, where he had been born and raised in Boston, there were only about a thousand red-haired women.