Page 6 of Darkest Deeds
Niko
New Orleans, Louisiana
One Week Ago
Everyone dies sometime.No matter who you are or how much money you have, eventually, your time’s up. Depending on whose path you cross, it may come sooner than you expect. That’s where I come in. Once a name is on my list, that’s it. Game over. There’s no negotiation. No begging. No deals. The amount I’m paid determines whether the ending comes quickly or piece by piece. It makes no difference to me.
Lucky for Robert Lancaster, it’s arriving in one clear shot to the head.
All the lights are off on the tenth-floor office building except for one, so I walk straight toward it. I don’t bother hiding my presence. What’s the use sneaking around like some common thief? It’s not as if the end result will be any different if he hears me coming.
Lancaster sits at his enormous desk like the pompous jackass he is, his fingers steepled while staring out a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looks out over the French Quarter. I want to shoot him right now just for being a moron. Four satellite companies in four states and the idiot chooses to hide out in a city I know better than my own dick.
Reaching underneath my black leather jacket, I pull my Glock from its holster. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. You fucked up.”
His body stiffens, and I wait until he turns around, his horrified eyes tracking every movement my hand makes. Just because I can, I lean my hip against the doorway and slowly reach inside my jacket, pulling out one hell of an impressive silencer. I take my time attaching it to the end of my gun because I’m a son of a bitch, and the fear on his face fuels my sadistic high. Once his knees start to bounce up and down, I have to fight the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. It won’t be long until he pisses himself. They all do.
“Who are you?” There’s a tremble in his voice that shakes all three of his chins.
“Penance.”
His hands shoot up in surrender. “Look, you’ve got the wrong guy. I didn’t do anything. I’m just a stock broker.”
“Do not insult my intelligence,” I warn through clenched teeth. “I may be a lot of things, Bobby, but wrong is never one of them.”
My message must have been clear because all the color drains from his face and his hands fumble around for his checkbook. “Fine! Tell me who sent you, and I promise I can pay you double what they offered.”
I don’t dignify that with an answer. I’m a killer, not a whore.
In a moment of panic, he dives for the desk phone. I don’t bother telling him I cut the line before stepping foot in the building. It’d just piss me off to know he thinks I’m that careless.
While he slams his pudgy fingers on every button, I release the safety on my gun and aim. I’m tired of his whining. “Bobby, you’re a piece of shit stock broker who jacks off with stolen money from decent people. While I think that makes you an asshole, it doesn’t concern me. Unfortunately, you stuck your dick in my boss’s whore, and that does concern me.”
Pointing the gun at his forehead, I pull the slide back as he drops to his knees, crying like a little bitch. “I’ll do anything! Please!”
“Arthur Calthorpe sends his best wishes for a safe trip to hell.”
I squeeze the trigger while thinking of what I’m going to have for dinner. I’m not insensitive—I’m efficient. Know why? Because it only takes one shot to end Robert Lancaster. That’s all it ever takes because I’m damn good at my job. My conscience is clear as I disassemble my weapon and tuck it away. I don’t think of my targets as people. That way, I have nothing invested except extra work at the end for clean-up.
Luckily for me, I’m leaving this one for the cops to find. Lancaster has so many people who want him dead, his murder will be a cold case before the end of the week.
Avoiding pooling blood and bits of brain matter, I gather the shell casing and drop it into my jacket pocket. With a last sweep of the room, I leave what’s left of him, anxious to get home after a being out of the country all week.
Once outside, a wave of unseasonal humidity smacks me in the face. Within seconds, beads of sweat roll down my forehead, plastering a chunk of dark hair over my eyes. I’m not used to this constant furnace bullshit anymore. Somewhat normal weather is one of the reasons I didn’t mind putting down a root or two in New Orleans when the Tabella Della Morte came calling. At least Mother Nature got off her period once in a while in the French Quarter.
I’m halfway to my car when my phone rings.
Speak of the voodoo devil.
Biting the tip of my middle finger, I jerk my glove off and answer. “It’s done.”
“I had no concern it wouldn’t be.” Arthur’s voice sounds slightly out of breath. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why, and I roll my eyes at the irony.
I just killed a man for fucking one of his whores while he was busy fucking a spare.
A more cautious man would take the compliment and keep his mouth shut. Then again, safety and silence aren’t really my style. “Then what’s wrong? Someone else lick one of your thirty-one flavors?”
He lets out a low chuckle that’s anything but amused. “Careful, Niko. Don’t mistake my respect for tolerance. Each Cavalieri is invaluable but not irreplaceable.”