Chapter Fifteen

Landon

I follow Rossi around LA, stalking him – basically, acting like I know what I'm doing. I'm not an assassin and trying to plot out how to take Roberto Rossi out isn't something that's coming easily to me. It's not like I have a lot of – or any, – experience with this.

But, I've seen movies where they follow a target around, get to know their patterns and habits, so I figure that's as good a place to start as any. Maybe, if I can find a pattern, know where he's going to be at a given time, it'll make it easier to pop him.

I slip the gun Max gave me out of the paper bag on the seat next to me and stare at it. The fading sunlight of the late afternoon filters through the windshield and glints off the dull steel of the gun, somehow, making it seem even more ominous and more deadly in my mind.

It's the first time I've actually ever held a gun and I'm not ashamed to say that it scares the shit out of me. Knowing that I can end somebody's life with the simple pull of the trigger – it's heady stuff. And I know I'm way out of my league here. In way over my head.

But really, what choice do I have? I don't do this, Rossi is gonna kill me because there's no way in hell I'm gonna be able to come up with the kinda cash I owe. I sigh and slip the gun back into the bag before sliding it back under the seat.

“Suck it up, asshole,” I tell myself. “You gotta do what you gotta do if you want to keep hustlin'.”

I watch Rossi leave an office building with a tall, sexy as hell blonde chick – and of course, with his two bodyguards trailing not that far behind. That's going to be the big wrinkle here – his bodyguards. It's going to be tough enough to put a bullet in him, but to have two guys drawin' down on me at the same time – it makes it a whole shit ton tougher. Because not only am I gonna have to put a couple in Rossi, I'm gonna have to take out his men as well.

I shake my head. I have no idea how in the hell I'm going to do this.

He and the blonde talk on the sidewalk for a few minutes before they turn and go their separate ways. I'm so busy watching those long legs and tight ass walking down the street, her briefcase swinging in time with her step that I almost forget to watch Rossi.

I look up just in time to see him climb into the backseat, his goon jump in the front, and the car take off down the street.

“Shit,” I mutter as I start the rental car and rocket off down the road behind them.

From my education based solely on my extensive movie viewing, I know that I need to keep a car between us, just so they don't see me tailing them. Traffic is a little thick and I'm having a hard time keeping sight of them given the damn monster truck in between us, but I don't want to make an erratic move around it and give myself away.

Almost too late, I see them take a right down a less congested street. Nobody turns with them, which means I'm going to be in their rearview mirror when I make the turn.

“No choice,” I mutter – which seems to be a common theme in my life these days.

I make sure to hang back a distance from Rossi's car, hoping that if I drive casually enough, they won't even notice me. The car pulls into a parking lot beside a massive church and parks – which surprises me. A church? A ruthless, evil bastard like Rossi goes to church?

Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I drive past the car and watch Rossi climb out of the back seat – without his goons. My heart races and the knots in my stomach tighten like a son of a bitch as the urge to piss myself overwhelms me.

This may be the golden fuckin' opportunity I've been waiting for.

I pull around the corner, just out of sight, and park. I'm going to have to take a bit of a risk here, but it just might be my chance. I shut off the engine and sit for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves.

This is it. This is my chance. And given that it's at a church, I can't help but think it's been divinely ordained.

“Okay, get your shit together,” I say. “Get your head in the game.”

I know I may not get a better shot at Rossi than this. He's alone – probably unarmed. I mean, who brings a damn gun into a church? All I have to do is stand in the bushes outside the church doors and when he walks out, step out and boom, I blow his fuckin' brains all over the place.

Yeah, maybe it's a little sacrilegious to blow somebody's head off right outside a church, but I got bigger things to worry about at the moment than God being pissed at me. I'll have to square my account with God some other time.

I pull the paper bag out from under the seat and set it next to me as I hype myself up for this, trying to quash all the nervous energy flowing through me. I need to get up for this. I can't afford to hesitate because I'm nervous. When the time comes, I need to be so hyped that I pull that trigger without a second thought.

But, I know I'm not going to be able to do it without a little help. Reaching into the glove box, I pull out a small glass vial and stare at it. I'm not a big cokehead – I only take a rip now and then when I'm stressed out and need a little boost. Like now. Although I've been using a lot more since I stepped foot in LA – which tells me a lot about how fucked up this whole situation is.

Unscrewing the top, I scoop a little of the cocaine inside with the spoon and hold it up to my nostril. Inhaling deeply, I take the coke in, relishing the way it burns. And then I repeat the process with the other nostril. It doesn't take long before a manic energy grips me and I suddenly feel indestructible.

And then I nearly jump out of my skin when somebody knocks on the car window.

I whip my head around, my heart pounding and sweat rolling down my face. Standing there are Rossi's two bodyguards – the one Mexican guy I recognize from Club Delirium the other night. The night that son of a bitch took Harper from me.

“Why don't you get out of the car, hoss,” the Mexican guy – I think his name is Miguel – says. “Let's have a talk.”

When I hesitate, he opens his coat and flashes me the gun in the holster he's carrying. The second man stands back and to his right, also flashing me his piece. I look at the bag sitting next to me, feeling a surge of energy and power rush through my body.

I'm positive I can get the drop on them.

“Yeah, I wouldn't even think about that,” Miguel says. “Step out of the car, man.”

“What's the problem, man?” I ask.

“Just get out of the car,” he says.

I continue to hesitate, continue to weigh the possibility of me getting my gun out of the bag and taking two shots by the time these guys get their guns out of their holsters. Long odds, but I'm feeling like I can do it. Hell, at the moment, I feel like their bullets would just bounce off of me.

“You'll have two in your head before you even get a finger on that bag, hoss,” Miguel says. “So, do yourself a solid and get out of the car. Unless you want to die or somethin'.”

I look back and see the gun in Miguel's hand, pointed at the ground. He'd somehow gotten it out of his holster without me even realizing it. But, it made the odds of me winning a shootout pretty bleak. With a sigh, I open the door and step out of the car.

Miguel and the other man stare me down. Trying to intimidate me with a steely gaze, no doubt. We stand there in a tense silence, one that's pregnant with the promise of violence, for several long moments.

“What do you think you're doin', hoss?” Miguel finally asks, breaking the silence.

I shake my head. “Don't know what you mean.”

“I know who you are, Landon,” he says. “I remember you from the club the other night.”

“Good for you,” I say. “You want a gold star or somethin'?”

“We picked up your half-assed tail hours ago, asshole,” the other guy, a thick, blocky white dude with a crew cut, says. “Where'd you learn how to tail somebody, a fuckin' movie?”

The two men shared a laugh, Miguel shaking his head. I hate it when people laugh at me. When they disrespect me. And right now, both of these pricks are doing exactly that. A bright, burning rage fills me up and I feel like tearing them apart with my bare hands.

But, some calm, rational part of my brain tells me that discretion is indeed the better part of valor. They've got nothin' on me. I can still walk away from this and live to fight another day. Maybe, I wasn't meant to tag Rossi today. But a time would come. As long as I play it cool and keep my fuckin' head.

“I ain't followin' you guys,” I say lamely. “I stopped here just to have a snort. That against the law or somethin'?”

“Actually, it is, idiot,” Miguel says. “What I want to know though, is what you think is gonna happen here? You think you're gonna get within ten miles of Mr. Rossi with the gun in that bag?”

I shake my head, feeling an almost crippling bolt of fear tear through me. They knew. They knew about it all. Had Max sold me out? Had he tipped them off? How the fuck could they have known? Max had to have sold me out. That's the only thing that makes sense.

“I don't know what you're talkin' about,” I say. “I don't have a gu –”

Miguel pushes me aside roughly and when I step forward, the blocky white dude is between us, his hand hovering near his gun. Miguel reaches into the car and pulls out the bag. Pulling the gun out of it, he looks at me.

“Don't have a gun?” he says. “This must be a figment of my goddamn imagination then, right?”

I sigh and lower my gaze to the ground. I've obviously been busted. The only question is, what happens next?

“Mr. Rossi ain't the cause of your problems,” Miguel says. “And tryin' to take him out ain't gonna solve them. And it sure as hell ain't gonna get you your girl back. That shit's only gonna get you killed.”

“You don't know shit,” I snap, the rage in me rising at the mention of Harper. “You don't know shit about my problems.”

Miguel shrugs. “Maybe not,” he says. “But, I caught enough the other night to know that you're the one who fucked up here, hoss. So maybe, you should figure out how to get out of your mess without getting yourself killed, huh?”

“Yeah, great. Thanks,” I say, disdain dripping from my every word. “Always love gettin' life advice from somebody's fuckin' lapdog.”

Miguel shrugs. “I'm earnin' an honest living,” he says. “Which, is a hell of a lot more than I can say about you.”

“Get in your car,” says the other guy. “And get the fuck out of here. Now.”

“The man says it's time for you to go,” Miguel says and smirks at me. “Guess it's time for you to go.”

“And if we see you trying to shadow Mr. Rossi again,” the other guy says. “We'll put you down ourselves. We clear?”

Looking from Miguel to the other man and back again, I know that there's nothing I can do. I'm not gonna get anywhere near Rossi now. I'm going to have to wait for another – better – opportunity to put a bullet in his brain.

Live to hustle another day.

I climb back into the car and look at them, anger and hatred flowing through my veins like a river. They stand there, smirking smugly at me as I start the car.

“You have a nice day now,” Miguel says. “And be careful out there.”

“You both can go fuck yourselves,” I snap.

As I pull away from the curb and drive off, the echo of their laughter follows me, burrows into my ear, and stokes the flames of rage ever higher. I'm going to kill Rossi and I'm going to get Harper back.

But first, I need to vent some of my rage. The power I feel from the coke still surging through me, I know I need to vent it all over the person who deserves it most. The person who sold me out.

Max fucking Irving.

He's going to pay for selling me out. For letting those assholes clown me.