Page 1 of Bullseye
Chapter One
Bullseye
“Move!”
“No way, man! No freaking way!”
“No!”
Looking down the sight of my gun, I find the bullseye, exhale softly, and then, closing my eyes and firming my grip on my Ruger twenty-two, I squeeze the trigger.
Bang!
There it is. That delicious rush of adrenaline with a chaser of pure bliss. The smell of metal and the sound of casings hitting the concrete lull me into a state of peace. This, even more than being on my bike, is the one feeling that helps me forget the date and that night. Even if it’s just for a fraction of a second—point-zero-seven seconds to be exact—when I’m shooting my Ruger with a muzzle velocity of a thousand-and-seventy feet per second, a distance of twenty-five yards.
Damn. I need to get laid. It’s been way too long.
But what’s getting laid going to do? Yeah, maybe a woman—the right woman—could set me straight for an hour or two, but nothing compares to the range long-term. And where am I going to find the right woman, anyway? Sure as hell not in Hoppa, Arizona. And that’s okay. Hoppa has other things to offer. Like the fact that it’s over two thousand miles away from New York City, and it’s the home of the Steel Knights.
Just thinking of the Knights brings a welcome calm over me, which is good because today is September thirtieth, and that date is making me damned jumpy.
Taking a deep breath of the heavy, metallic air calms my brain. I don’t bother looking at my target; no doubt it’s a bullseye. They always are. Instead, I stay motionless, with my eyes closed, my feet still in a hips-width position, my arms bowed slightly for greater flexibility, commanding my heart rate to slow and the “fight or flight” instinct to quell. It doesn’t matter that I’ve shot for nearly all of my twenty-six years of life, or that the guys call me “Bullseye…”
Every single time I squeeze that trigger is like the first time all over again.
Like I’m a damned virgin.
A stupid kid.
“Move!”
“No way, man! No freaking way!”
“No!”
Stupid kid.
What the hell was he doing there? And in the middle of a Bordono mob hit? The image of that damned kid, huddled in a corner, crouching down on the piss-soaked rug with his hands stuck to his ears like they were plastered there, will never leave me.
That one night, it was like everything moved in slow motion. Why was the kid even there? He must have been brought in by Mikey and Tony. I was commissioned to work alone, and I was only supposed to scare the scrappy, punk druggy who owed the Don a hell of a lot. Standing in the hallway outside the door with my gun drawn, I knew something was wrong. I could taste the acid in my mouth and feel the swirling unease in my gut. But what choice did I have? This was a favor for Don Bordono.
Sliding in through the cracked open door, I nearly doubled over from the smell of piss and feces. Forcing my stomach to calm, I saw them in the next room—the damned target, begging for his life, with Mikey and Tony laughing as they pointed their guns at him.
Whimpering pulled my attention off of the target—a cardinal sin in my old line of work—and that was when I saw the kid crouching in the corner.
Bang!
Even with a silencer, Mikey and Tony’s guns were deafening in the small apartment. Don Bordono was going to be pissed.
“Police!” They were rushing up the stairs. It would only be a matter of seconds…
Damn it. A bad hit all around. Panicking, Mikey and Tony tossed their weapons at the foot of the kid.
“Kid!” I whispered as the police barreled in behind us. I was going to tell him to go, to jump out the window—risk the damned broken ankle—and run, but it was too late. Placing my piece on the floor, I raised my arms high in the air. I was going to go down, so there was no sense fighting it. Especially since I was there for Don Bordono, and once he knew what was happening, he’d be sure to fix it.
But Mikey and Tony decided to split. Scrambling across the floor in that pigsty on St. Mark’s, crawling over needles, roach clips, spoons, and bongs that cracked under their weight, they clawed their way to a window. They were like two rats gnawing at each other so they could get off a sinking ship.
Maybe if that stupid kid had run and not sat there shaking with the literal smoking guns at his feet, maybe he’d be out today, too and not in for a murder he certainly did not commit.
