Target on Our Backs
Page 7

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"Good morning."
Karissa's voice is a sleepy mumble, her words broken around a yawn. I glance over toward the doorway as she steps into the kitchen. Her hair is a tangled mess. She's wearing nothing but a too-big black t-shirt that I'm guessing she stole from the back of my closet.
Half of her wardrobe comes out of there.
"Morning." I'm not sure yet if I'm willing to call it good. I haven't had a wink of sleep and I'm probably not getting any until sometime tomorrow. "You're up early."
It's seven, maybe eight in the morning. Clocks are still quite scarce around the house, and I don't feel like looking at my watch, so I'm not entirely sure. I'm dressed for the day and have been since around four.
"Yeah," she mumbles. "Had a hard time sleeping."
I consider pointing out how much she actually slept last night, but I think better of it. "Pity."
"I know, right?" Karissa tinkers with the coffee machine on the counter, brewing herself a cup, as I unload the dishwasher, making sure everything, including the boning knife, goes back where it belongs. She watches me as she waits on her coffee, rubbing Killer's head as he nudges against her, wanting her attention. "Looks like you've been busy this morning."
I've done a load of laundry, burned a pair of pants, and scrubbed the kitchen from top to bottom, all to distract me while waiting on her to wake up. "I suppose you're not the only one who had a hard time sleeping."
She regards me curiously, picking up her coffee cup when it's finished, blowing on the steaming liquid. "You know, it's still not your fault."
Pausing, I close my eyes, forcing myself to not react to that. I don't want to have this conversation again. She's starting to sound like a damn self-help tape with her constant reassurances. It's not your fault. After a moment, I press on with what I was doing and change the subject. "So, what are your plans for the day?"
"Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that."
I shoot her a look as she sips on her coffee. She's purposely trying to provoke me. "Care to elaborate?"
"I've got class most of the day," she says, pausing before adding, "Which you already know. Other than that, nothing much… might stop by and see Melody later on. Been a while since we hung out. You?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Sounds exciting."
"I'm sure it will be as thrilling as it sounds," I reply. "Do you want me to drive you into the city?"
"No, it's okay. I can just grab a cab."
I pull my phone from my pocket as soon as she says that. "How about I call a car for you instead?"
She shrugs, like it doesn't matter, as she guzzles her coffee now that it's cool. It does matter, though. The drivers with the car service are vetted. I know their names and addresses.
I know where their parents live.
"Whatever you want to do," she says, pushing away from the counter to leave the kitchen. "I'll be ready in about forty-five minutes."
"I'll have them pick you up then."
An hour later, the car is sitting by the curb in front of the house, patiently waiting as Karissa dawdles around the house, feeding the dog and making herself another cup of coffee—this one to go. When she's finally ready, all of her things together, she rises up on her tiptoes and pecks a kiss against my lips before heading for the door. "Have a good day doing nothing."
"I'm sure I will," I tell her, watching as she walks out, leaving me alone. I hate it, whenever she leaves, but I find myself relieved today to have her gone. I feel like I can breathe deeply without risking her realizing what I've been up to and having to see that look on her face.
The look that says I still terrify her sometimes, even to this day.
It's been a while since I've seen it.
I've certainly been trying to keep it at bay.
Sighing, I look around the spotless kitchen, smelling the harsh bleach scent that clings to everything, as I lean back against the counter near the sink. Killer stands in the doorway, ears laid back as he regards me. The second our eyes meet, I hear the grumble, a low growl resonating deep in his chest.
"Don't look at me that way," I say. "I do what I have to do."
He barks once without moving. Reaching up into the cabinet near my head, I grab a treat. I toss it to him, the growl instantly ceasing, his tail suddenly wagging as he gobbles up the treat, forgetting—at least momentarily—that I'm supposed to be the enemy.
He's easily trained.
Easily tricked.
If he keeps this up, I might eventually start to like him.
Or not.
Grabbing my keys, I leave, heading out into the garage. It's a little warmer now than last night. It's going to be a hot day.
Popping the trunk on the car, I grimace as the stench again hits me, waving it away as I recoil. Son of a bitch, it's even worse this morning. I'm going to need a ton of bleach to tackle this disaster.
Armando is out cold, but I can see his chest moving. He's still breathing. He survived the night.
Lucky bastard.
"Rise and shine," I say, slapping his cheek a few times, rousing him from his slumber. It's amazing… he got more sleep in a fucking trunk than I managed to find in my own bed. It takes him a moment to come around, a moment to realize where he is, to remember what I did to him. He balks when he sees me, blinking rapidly, his face contorting with pain. "Well, nothing, it seems you made it to morning. Congratulations."
He probably cried himself to sleep last night, thinking this was the end, thinking this was just me prolonging his death, torturing him a bit before taking his life. He probably passed out thinking it was the last time he'd see the dawning of a new day.
I still have half a mind to kill the bastard just on principle. Don't leave witnesses. He certainly witnessed what I was up to yesterday. But I'm not going to. Instead, I'm going to give him his second wind. "I won't kill you today, Armando. A deal is a deal, and I'm a man of my word. But that doesn't mean I won't kill you tomorrow. The first time you slip up or get in my way, I'm going to end you, and it's not going to be as merciful as a knife to the neck. You understand?"
He nods as he starts to cry again, tears streaming from his eyes. Disgusted, I slam the trunk closed and walk over, climbing in behind the wheel. I'll take him home, just like I said I would, and I'll let him go, like I said I would, too. I'm going to give him a chance to live out the rest of his days.
He better not disappoint me.
I'm already low on patience.
T he café near NYU is pretty dead at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, most students off in class somewhere or already headed home for the day. There are only a handful of tables occupied, nobody waiting in line for a drink. I sip on my chocolate mint tea as I glance around the place, tapping my foot on the dark linoleum floor. I've had a ton of caffeine already today, enough to revitalize a tranquilized horse, but that isn't what has me so antsy.
No, it's what happened at the deli.
I can't get it out of my mind.
I wonder how Giuseppe's feeling, wonder what he's thinking. His life's work shut down because of a hail of random gunfire in the middle of the afternoon. I remember Naz said his father added the extra security years ago, after his son fell in with Raymond Angelo, but for the first time, the precautions actually became necessary.