Page 1 of Whatever It Takes

“Hey, Bartender, another shot of Patron,”Grant Anderson muttered as he continued his pity party of one. He was at a dive bar down by the river in South Philly. Although his meeting with Dom Scarantino wasn’t for another hour, the thought of going home and having to face the very people he continued to let down was too much to bear.

As the burn of the tequila hit the back of his throat, he couldn’t help but wonder how his life had taken such a drastic turn for the worse.

From the outside looking in, Grant appeared to have it all. He came from a well-respected family, married the woman of his dreams, and had a beautiful little girl. He even managed to build a career with a promising future.

Everything should have been perfect, but things were seldom as they appeared. His wife was on the verge of leaving him, and his role as an ADA had turned into a sham.

At first, the requests from Scarantino seemed small and insignificant. He would help with a plea here and there, get some inside info when needed, or steer a cop in the wrong direction without suspicion.

Tonight’s request, however, was crossing a line. The threats had advanced, and his double life was becoming harder to keep quiet.

About ten minutes before nine, Scarantino walked into the bar, scanned the room, and slid onto the empty stool next to Grant. He removed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and leaned back.

“Good evening, counselor, what brings you out to our shitty side of town?” Scarantino smirked, the only hint of humor he ever showed. He was powerful and deadly—a man you didn’t fuck with.

The amount of alcohol that had built up in Grant’s system over the past hour had him forgetting that fact. “Well, Mr. Cartel leader, I’m here because a friend of yours told me that if I wanted my knee caps to stay attached to my legs, that I needed to meet with you.”

Scarantino tapped his meaty hand on the bar and ordered two of whatever Grant was drinking.

He waited until they were alone before he spoke. “If you keep running your mouth like that, you’ll find your lips will no longer be connected to your face.”

Grant clenched his jaw and thought it would be best to not provoke him any further.

“Look, Grant, my father always told me if you’re going to dance with the devil, you’re going to have to pay the fiddler. I’m here to tell you that your tango with the devil has come to end. It’s time to pay up, and I’m here to collect.”

Grant wrapped his hand around his drink. “What do you want?”

“I took the liberty of placing a backpack in the trunk of your car. Just like we discussed earlier this week, I need you to deliver the package to an associate of mine. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, my friend.

“I’m not your friend,” Grant hissed out.

“No, you’re not, Grant. You’re a self-centered, drug-addicted prick, that was stupid enough to let his addiction to nose candy get out of hand.”

The words stung, but it was the truth.

“My friend is expecting this package to be dropped off at exactly midnight. That gives you plenty of time to sit here and think about all the ways you’ve fucked up your life.” He took a hefty sip of his drink and squinted his eyes. “Or you could spend the next two hours banging your whore that’s waiting for you in that swanky hotel room across town.”

Grant concentrated on the ticking clock on the wall. He was about to lose everything that mattered to him if he didn’t do as he was told. There had been enough implied threats over the last few weeks directed toward his family that he knew he was out of options.

Scarantino pushed back to stand up. “Enjoy yourself, amigo. If I were you, I might switch those shots over to espressos. I’d hate to see you fuck this one up.”

“Adios, motherfucker,” Grant said under his breath as he watched Scarantino walk away in his well-tailored suit. His goons followed close behind him. After he was gone, he ordered two more shots of Patron. Once he was finished, he dialed up his side piece and told her he was on his way.

Looking back, Grant shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel of a car after downing all that tequila. Maybe then he wouldn’t have run the stoplight at ninety miles an hour. Perhaps he should’ve just stayed at the hotel with his girlfriend. If he weren’t so jacked up on coke, he probably would have seen the car in front of him.

But Grant didn’t have time to react or second-guess his decisions. He barely had touched the brakes as he skidded through the intersection, tearing the van in front of him in half. His airborne BMW slammed into a tree; the airbag hit his face, and when he woke up, everything hurt like a bitch. He waited a few minutes as he watched the van he destroyed burst into flames.

He didn’t have time to call for help; the only thing he could do was save himself. So, he took the backpack filled with ten kilos of cocaine and ran…

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