Page 78 of Bullseye
Instead of just sitting here and letting fear control me, I take the time to clean myself up by wiping the blood on my face onto the sleeves of my sweatshirt. Then, quickly, I unzip my sweatshirt and turning it inside out, I slide it back on again. Reaching inside, I pull up the zipper and force the hood out. I’m so damned exposed on this bike, I want to do anything I can to make sure I’m not noticed and singled out.
I cannot afford to waste one more second.
Finally, the cars ahead of me move, and I glide up on my bike. Without making eye contact, I pay my toll. In my peripheral vision, I catch one of the police officers—holding a rifle—and staring at me. Shit.
That’s all I need. Nodding to the cop, I wait patiently as he lowers his rifle and walks toward me. Here goes. I have to sit here and listen to what he says. It’s not like I have any choice. I could take off and probably even outrun him, but he’ll just get on the radio and call me in on the other side of the tunnel.
“Officer,” I say, nodding. He looks behind me to check out the traffic. “Everything okay?”
The officer points to my tail bag. Christ. That’s where my piece is stored.
“That tail bag…”
Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath.This is okay, it’s all okay. I will get to Seneca. I will get her to safety.
“How’d you get one that slim that fits that well on a Harley? Mine is too bulky. I mean, what are we carrying in there, right?”
Holy Mother of God, he smiles. Whew.
“Right.” I laugh it off, praying he doesn’t ask what in fact, Iamcarrying, or ask to see the inside. “It’s retro. Bought it off a guy on the island years ago. He’s a master at bikes and sells vintage parts.”
“Johnny?”
“Sounds right. Don’t really remember. Just stopped by once.”
“I’ll give him a try.”
Nodding, I look ahead. I’m desperate to get moving.
“Well, all right. Have a good day.”
“You too, officer.”
Holy crap. Pulling away as nonchalantly as I can, I don’t pick up speed until I can no longer see the entrance to the tunnel in my rearview. Fuck. That was way too close.
Speeding through the tunnel, it’s like I’m trapped in a video game. Thanks to the damn barriers, I can’t really zigzag in and out of my lane, but moving quickly and handling my bike expertly, I pass the cars ahead of me. The lights overhead blur into long yellow streaks as I speed through an open section.
Finally, I see the lights of the city ahead. The sun has gone down on a freaking cold, New York night, and damn, I wish I had the warmth of the Steel Knights jacket around me. Who am I kidding? It’s not the jacket I miss, it’s the feeling that someone has my back. Especially when I’m about to face Ironclad and his asshole minions.
Downshifting, I exit the tunnel toward downtown and pull a sharp turn left, deciding last minute to merge onto the FDR Drive—it’ll be faster. Speeding down the drive at a higher speed than I ever could have cruised down Second Avenue, I take the exit way too fast and have to catch my balance as I right myself and rush into Alphabet City. Purposely passing the entrance to Mammon, I make a lap around the block. Pulling off to a dark, hidden spot next to an old tenement, I reach behind me and grab my Ruger from my tail bag. Stuffing it into the back of my jeans, I ride on to a busy street a couple of blocks away and park my bike.
Hopping off, I pull my sweatshirt up from the collar, covering my neck, and round my shoulders forward—staying as warm as possible, while I draw as little attention to myself as I can. Glancing around, I don’t see anyone on Mammon’s block, so I hustle back, and passing the main entrance, I rush to a side door of Mammon. The one that Don Bordono uses.
Using the side of my fist, I pound on the door. No answer. Crap. I really hope I don’t have to pull out my piece and shoot at the damned door, but that’s what I’ll do if I have to. Pounding on the door again, I hear movement on the other side.
Stepping back, I draw my weapon and point at the door as it’s pushed open.
“Yeah—” The man on the other side of the door takes one look at me and steps back, dropping the arm that’s holding his weapon. His chin is low and his jaw hangs slack. The color drains from his already pale skin. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, and around here, that may be exactly what I’m considered. “B-Bullseye.”
Grabbing the door and propping it open with my foot, I keep my piece on the guy.
“I’m here to see Ironclad.”
The man reaches for something—probably a radio—but I step closer and press my gun to his skull. Lifting my arm hurts my side, but it’s not the shooting pain of a broken rib. Thankfully.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn. “I’m here on official business for Don Bordono. You are to turn around, not make a sound or a motion, and take me to Ironclad immediately.”
“Y-yes.”
