Page 65 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

A block later, he sits heavily on a bench. This is a man I’ve seen take three bullets and still complete the mission.

Fuck.

I call Orton and order our doctor dispatched immediately, my tone leaving no room for questions. I pocket my phone and sit next to him, watching the street for threats. “How bad is it?”

“Pulse elevated. Lethargy. Slight loss of coordination. Dizziness.” The battlefield report of symptoms.

I examine his eyes. “Pupils look normal.” But his brown hair is dark with sweat, and the night air is cool. “Doc’s on the way,” I say, my voice carrying the certainty of a man whose orders are never questioned.

He blinks, seeming to have trouble focusing.

“Fuck,” I say, already planning retribution against whoever is responsible.

“Go on to the meet. I’ll wait,” he says.

“The fuck you will,” I snap.

The doc arrives within minutes—as he should when I call. His men bundle Storm into a car while the doctor hangs back with me.

“You think he was drugged?” I demand.

“Or bad fish. A seizure. Or a million other things.”

“Find out which. Keep me posted. Every detail.”

“Need a ride, boss?”

“Nah.” I need to walk is what I need. Need to think about who might be making a move and how many bodies I’ll need to drop before sunrise to remind this city who the fuck is in charge.

I continue on to the bank, past the neon glow of restaurant signs and nail painting places. The air is thick with the rich scents of South Bronx at dinnertime—fried meats, garlic and rosemary, curry and cumin.

I go further east, my footsteps commanding the pavement beneath me, not even flinching when that familiar prickle crawls up my neck—somebody’s watching me, following me. Sixteen years in combat zones teaches you to smell fear and danger like other men smell perfume.

I deliberately slow my pace, a predator toying with its prey, turn a corner and melt into a shadowed doorway.

The footsteps approach and hesitate. Then stop. This person knows I’ve made them. Professionals recognize professionals.

I wait, heart steady as a metronome.

I’m surprised when they start up again, coming toward me—amateur move.

I wait until they’re close enough to smell their aftershave, then explode from the darkness. One fluid motion and I’ve got him in a vise grip, my Glock kissing his liver.

“Drop it.” My voice is crushed gravel.

He shakes his head, gasping for air. I tighten my hold. Not enough to send him to sleep, just enough to remind him who’s in charge of this conversation.

A two-tone Smith & Wesson hits the pavement.

“Who?” I don’t waste words.

“Dunno.” His voice trembles.

“Don’t fuck with me.” I bring my lips closer, my breath hotagainst his ear. “You came to my neighborhood. You breathe my air. Now, who sent you?”

“I—I don’t know,” he gasps.

“There are two ways this ends. You tell me here, or I take you somewhere nobody will hear you tell me. Choose.” Something dark and hungry rises in me, something I’ve been trying to cage since talking to Dardan. I should have fucked him up is what I should have done, but she’s not mine.

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