Target on Our Backs
Page 6

I want to jab the knife into his larynx to shut him up, but instead I clamp my free hand down around his mouth and nose, squeezing. He starts to thrash, but settles down the second I say, "Don't."
He can't breathe now. I know he can't. His face is turning red, his eyes bugging out.
"I know it wasn't you," I say. "So don't waste your breath trying to explain that to me, or next time I'll take your breath away permanently."
I let go, and again, he gasps for air. His blood is on my hand and I absently rub it on my pant leg, not realizing what I've done until it's too late.
Shit.
I'll have to burn them now.
Get rid of the evidence.
He's quiet this time. Well, he's hyperventilating, and sobbing, but at least he isn't trying to beg anymore.
Armando lives in Hell's Kitchen, not far from my father's deli, in an apartment above the convenience store Ray used to own, the same one I stole from when I was sixteen years old. I stopped there on my way home to grab a newspaper… and I just happened to grab my old acquaintance while I was at it.
I know he didn't do it. I know, because he was sitting in a recliner, in his boxers, watching soap operas like the little bitch he is. But just because he didn't do it doesn't mean he wouldn't know who did. His kind are like wolves… they run in packs.
I'm gunning for the alpha.
The one brave enough to come after me.
"I want to know who shot up the block in Hell's Kitchen this afternoon," I say, continuing before he can give me the 'it wasn't me' spiel. "The streets talk, Armando, and you're about as close to a gutter rat as there is in this business. You hear it all. Ray's people are dropping like flies. Everyday, it's someone else. But somehow, you're still alive, and I can probably guess why. So I want to know who's behind it… I want to know who you're working for now."
"I'm not—" The words slip from his lips instinctively before he silences them with a gulp of air, swallowing back the lie he's trained to say. We're all taught to deny any involvement whatsoever, but he knows better. He knows giving me the lie will only get him killed. "Look, I haven't met the guy… he hasn't come to me yet, I swear! I'm nobody. I'm nothing. He probably doesn't even know who I am! But people talk, you know… they talk, just like you said. A guy came to me last week, came to me about some information, said he heard that I might know some things. He asked about you, but I didn't tell him anything he didn't already know!"
"Who was the guy?"
"I don't know his name."
As soon as the denial is out of his mouth, the knife slams down, right into the meaty part of his thigh. I yank it right back out, again clamping my hand down around his mouth and nose as he lets out a shriek of pain, muzzling the sound. His face turns bright red, and I let go, immediately regretting it when he screams, "Joe! They call him Fat Joe!"
He catches his mistake right away and starts pleading quietly, sobbing, as a stream of blood runs from the wound in his thigh. It's not much. Nothing he can't easily survive. I hold the knife up, telling him to be silent, as the damn dog starts barking in the kitchen, hearing us out here.
I listen for a moment, making sure Karissa hadn't been disturbed. The dog stops barking finally, giving up on finding out what's going on outside.
"Who does this Joe guy work for?" I ask when I'm sure we won't be interrupted. I need to get this over with and get my ass back upstairs. "And don't tell me you don't know, because next time, I'm aiming for the artery."
"There's a guy, he's new in town."
"I know that much."
"Joe, he didn't say who he was working for, and you know, Vitale… you know we're never supposed to ask! He kept saying 'my boss this, my boss that', but it's gotta be the new guy!"
"Does this new guy have a name?"
"They call him Scar, I think."
"You think," I repeat. "You better think right, or you'll come to regret giving me bad information, Armando."
"I'm sure," he corrects himself. "I'm positive that's it."
Scar. Huh.
"And Fat Joe's working for this Scar guy?"
I hate even asking that sentence.
My life has turned into a cliché Mafia movie.
"Has to be," Armando says. "Don't know who else would do it."
I stand there, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with this information, when Armando starts whimpering again, quietly begging for mercy. The sound grates on my nerves, and I step away, tossing the knife down on the top of my toolbox as I snatch up the roll of duct tape. I rip a chunk off and slap it over the bloody slit across his mouth, silencing him again.
"You're lucky, Armando," I say. "You see, I'm trying to do better these days, trying to be a better man, trying to be the man my wife thinks I can be, so I'm not going to kill you tonight. I'm going to give you a chance. If you survive until morning, I'll take you home; I'll drop you off right where I picked you up. You understand?"
He can't respond, not with his mouth taped again, but I take his muffled frantic mumbling for confirmation that he understands. Before, things would've been non-negotiable. Cross me, and you die. That was the way it was. But I can't do that anymore. I can't keep that up. If I'm not flexible, I'm not commendable.
And I'm trying to be commendable for her.
"But remember… you let my wife find you and the deal's off."
I slam the trunk closed, hearing his startled cry, but then he goes silent again.
The gutter rat wants to live.
Grabbing the knife, I head back into the house, making sure to lock up behind me. Killer retreats a few steps when he sees me, his chest rumbling as he starts growling.
In the kitchen, I reach up into the cabinet beside the sink, digging into the bag of pepperoni-flavored dog treats. I toss a few to the mutt, and he gobbles them up, too distracted by the treats to bother with me anymore.
I wash the blood from the blade and toss the knife in the dishwasher before heading toward the stairs, veering to the laundry room on my way. I pull off my sweatpants, burying them in a pile of dirty clothes, making a mental note to remember to do something about them later.
I head upstairs then, back to the bedroom.
Karissa is still asleep. It doesn't look like she's even moved an inch. I climb in the bed beside her, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her to me.
It worried me today.
Thank God she's safe.
I just need her to stay that way.
She stirs then, briefly waking up, before nuzzling against me and going right back to sleep in my arms.
She starts dreaming again.
This time, though, she's smiling.
She wouldn't be smiling if she knew what I was thinking, if she knew where my mind was venturing, the things I was yearning to do. I'm trying, for her, I'm trying my damndest, but I'm not sure how much more I can give. She says retaliation is a choice, and maybe she's right. Maybe it is a choice.
But maybe I want to choose retaliation.
Is it so wrong to want vengeance?
I don't think so.