Page 71 of Bullseye
“What do you know about that hit gone bad? About some sharpshooter?” Wrapping my fingers around the handle tighter, I press harder against the knife, and he crumples over. “Last chance.” He paws at the knife. “Make a move, and I will yank this out and move it a foot higher. It’s a small target, but I’m a really good shot. I promise I will impale you.” Sweat drips off of me as I lean closer. “So, was someone else there?”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard there was a guy. Worked for Don Bordono.”
“Worked?”
“He’s out.”
“How’d that happen?” I ask. “Nobody’s ever out.”
“Don Bordono liked him.”
“Who else knows that Mikey and Tony pulled the trigger and not my brother?”
“Your brother? Shit! You’re Seneca? What, you got a death wish being here?”
Pressing against the knife harder and forcing it deeper into his leg, the color drains from his face.
“Who else knows?”
“Just the guy. Some sharpshooter,” the man groans.
“Where do I find him?
“He ran.” His cheeks are puffed, and he’s blowing air through his clenched teeth. “Years ago. Don Bordono got him sprung early, and he ran. Nobody seen him since. Rumor is he’s somewhere in the Southwest.”
It’s like a punch to my gut. I know it’s all a coincidence, but damn…
Nodding, I hop off the stool. There’s no way anyone’s going to talk. Mikey and Tony won’t ever come clean, and this sharpshooter’s missing.
It’s hopeless. To free Matt, someone would have to squeal on Mikey and Tony, or magically announce they are the shooter, and who the hell would be stupid enough to do that?
And finding the sharpshooter who’s not afraid of Don Bordono? After all this time and all this fighting, it’s freaking hopeless.
Rushing through the crowd, pushing them aside and parting them as I go, I make my way to the back door I remember from the last time I was here. I’ve made enough of a mess tonight. What I need is to regroup and figure out what the hell to do next. Slipping out the door and up the stairs, I stumble out onto the sidewalk and run to the parking garage, sucking in the cold Manhattan air until my lungs may very well burst.
Hopping on my bike, I rush up to the Midtown Tunnel, and out onto the island. Once I’m clear of Queens and farther out on the island, which means I’m out of Ironclad’s turf, I pull into the first seedy motel I can find. Stopping next door at the gas station to fill my tank in case I need a quick escape, I look at the minimart attached, and immediately think of Avery and the night we spent in his truck. Despite the freezing New York night, a flush of warmth envelopes me.
Fuck. No. I have to forget him to keep him safe.
Buying some dry-looking slices of pizza, a box of chocolate-covered raisins, and a couple of mini bottles of wine, I run back to the motel, park my bike in the most hidden spot I can find, drape its cover over it, and go in to get a room.
Nearly falling into my room from exhaustion, I pull off the orange-colored spread that’s probably been here for decades and is covered in god-knows-what. Collapsing fully dressed on the bed, I cross my feet at the ankles. Propping my head up with extra pillows, I open the screw cap on the wine and flip on the old TV set. Taking a long swallow, I change from channel to channel. There’s nothing on except sappy romances, which make me think of Avery even more.
Crap.
Channel surfing, I land on a commercial of a daughter bringing her mother a box of chocolates. Sitting up fast in bed, I suddenly have such a strong desire to talk to my mother, it hurts.
But why? It’s been years… The woman abandoned me when my father decided I wasn’t good enough, and she left her son to rot in jail. But still…
When the mother embraces the daughter, my eyes begin to prickle. Damn. It’s just exhaustion. I need sleep. Finishing off the first bottle of wine, I crack open the second and change the channel.
What the fuck? Moving closer to the TV, there it is again. The same damned commercial. Looking over at the nightstand, I spy the old-fashioned hotel phone. My cell’s gone. I left it in Avery’s truck, but… Does she still have the same number? Is it possible after all these years?
Without thinking, I dial the number, and she answers on the second ring.
“Mom?”
“Sloane?” I hear her gasp. “Sloane, honey is that you?”
