Page 11 of The Prices We Pay
“All good, Seb. You can dispatch on the target.”
“All right. Calling in the tip now,” he answers through the coms in our ears.
“Sometimes it still amazes me that he can do this shit,” Enzo says while twisting the silencer off of his Beretta. He’s practically giddy as we skip down the alley toward the van. He always gets like this after a job. Not that I would call this one particularly stimulating by any means, but Enzo thrives on mayhem of any kind.
Considering his offenses, I would have assumed the target would have put up a little more of a fight.
We were literally in and out in ten minutes.
It was almostboring.
Gregory Stanton, a forty-six-year-old New York Congressman whose wife accidentally stumbled on his collection of videos of him fucking prostitutes in their home, which was rather unfortunate for him for three reasons.
First and foremost, he wasn’t just fucking them. He was physically and sexually assaulting them to the point they could barely crawl out of his home.
Two, his wife also happens to be the daughter of the director of the FBI’s Transnational Organized Crime Task Force, which literally specializes in human trafficking. You would think that would have caused him to think twice, but obviously not.
Three, neither his wife nor his father-in-law seem keen on operating within the confines of the law regarding this matter.
She found out and told dear old Dad. Dad reached out to us, paid double to complete the job in forty-eight hours, and we got to remove one more piece of human trash from the earth. We’re rarely aware of who exactly puts out the hit, but once westudied the case, it wasn’t exactly hard to put two and two together.
Bing, bang, boom.
Lucky for us, too, Greg here excuses his security most nights at ten, which is incredibly stupid considering his position of power. But it makes sense… wouldn’t want them to see what a piece of absolute shit he is.
It’s by far one of the easiest jobs we’ve done, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing more than a drop in the bucket. But I know I can speak for all four of us when I say that this is what we’re most proud of.
Not Vittori Enterprises…this.
And no one even knows it’s us. We get no fame. No recognition. No glory. Just the satisfaction of knowing that we’re ridding the world of people who truly don’t deserve another breath of air.
Some call us mercenaries. Some call us a hit squad. Some call us vigilantes. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that when people like Gregory Stanton gasp for that last breath, they know their demise was at the hands of The Horsemen.
“I love it when we don’t have to do cleanup,” Luca beams as we shuffle to our unmarked black van. Depending on who the hit is and the severity of the crime, we either clean up and dispose of the target ourselves or, like in cases like this, we have Sebastian call in an untraceable tip. In fifteen to twenty minutes, a dozen police cars are going to show up at this house with a body and a plethora of evidence laid out in front of them so everyone can learn just who Gregory Stanton really was. And the police will be none the wiser. For all they know, it was just a pimp who reacted badly after Greg sent one of the girls back, beaten to a pulp. But even if they did suspect a different kind of foul play, Sebastian ensures that none of this can ever be traced back to us or the ones who hired us.
He really is a genius.
“Cops will be there soon.” Seb’s voice sounds through the coms again. “I’ve cleared the cameras at the scene and will follow you until you get home.”
“Thanks, Seb.” I pull my earpiece out and slide it into my jacket pocket as I relax into the backseat.
“See you soon,” Luca adds from the passenger seat as Enzo, our usual driver, slowly pulls the van out of the alley. I like to stay in the back to have my hands available for weapons in case we have a tail; plus, I’m a big guy, and there’s double the room back here. Luca prefers to communicate with Seb since the two of them are so in sync anyway, and Enzo is a professional at driving like a bat out of hell when the situation calls for it.
Like I said… he thrives on mayhem.
Passing a hundred other vans that look just like ours, Enzo makes his way through the city in no time and parks the van in the lowest level of Vittori Enterprises, where we all parked the cars we drove in this morning.
Just as I’m about to get in my truck, Luca in his Chevelle, and Enzo in his G-Wagon, Enzo stops. “Shit. I have to go upstairs. I left my keys on my desk.”
Sighing heavily, I close the door of my truck. “All right, let’s go.”
His smile beams. “I can handle myself, Big Guy.”
“I know you can, but I’m coming anyway.”
I need to be sure he’s okay.
“I might as well come up too. I’ve had to fucking piss since we left Stanton’s.”
