ELEVEN
The thwack the lamp makes connecting with Saban’s skull sounds like a fucking heavenly chorus of angels. Blood splatters across the wall behind him, and he slumps down in his chair.
Shattered glass from the bulb crunches under my boots when I move to stand next to him.
A groan slips from his lips. I clamp my hand over his nose and mouth, silencing any protests or screams. I’ll have to take care of this fast. As soon as the guys outside realize we aren’t talking anymore, I’m toast. And if they heard the lamp break, I’m well and truly fucked.
His one working eye flies open and meets mine.
“I hope it was worth it…whatever benefit you received from betraying me to my brother.”
He gurgles under my left hand while I yank open one of the drawers on his desk. The letter opener glints in the light.
Perfect.
My hand curls around it, and I bring it up so he can see it.
“I much prefer my own implements, but I’ll make do.”
The fear in his eyes warms my otherwise cold, dead heart. The heart that never felt anything before Jade walked into my life and has been slowly dying again since she was taken from me.
The blade of the opener slides into his ear easily with one hard shove. I muffle his scream with my hand and press down, watching him struggle for breath as I impale his brain. He jerks and spasms under me before finally going limp.
His one remaining eye stares back at me blindly as I step back and survey my handiwork. It was a far too easy and good of a death for him, but desperate times call for quick action.
Muffled voices outside the door draw my attention away from my latest kill, and I quickly rummage through the drawers on his desk looking for anything useful.
Two handguns and a small pile of ammo later, I make my way to the corner where a safe hangs open. Stacks and stacks of cash line the inside.
“Thanks, Saban.”
My mumbled words go unheard by the dead man in the chair as I grab bundles of bills and shove them into a duffel bag next to the safe on the floor.
This stash will certainly come in handy.
I press my ear against the door, listening for any signs of life in the hallway, but all is quiet. I'm not dumb enough to believe there isn't anyone out there, though. Saban always has at least two goons milling about in the back hallway. And they saw the big guy bring me back here.
Both weapons are loaded and ready to go.
So am I. I sling the bag over my shoulder and ready myself before I yank open the door and step out.
Three shots to the chest take out the guard to the right of the door and the suppressor on the weapon gives me enough time to maintain the element of surprise on his buddy down the hallway to the left. The asshole has a cell phone pressed to his ear, and when he turns and his eyes meet mine, they bulge just before two bullets enter his chest.
A few more guns and some extra magazines join my friends in the bag, and I peer around the corner toward front of the restaurant. Clanking of dishes and silverware and the light din of voices echo down the hallway toward me.
The back door down at the other end of the hallway is an option, but there are likely to be more guards that way than if I go through the restaurant. I know they congregate in a room back there. I just hope these assholes aren't dumb enough to shoot at me in such a public space.
I tuck my guns away and walk as casually as possible down the hallway past the public bathrooms and out into the restaurant. I'm just another guy. No one seems to be paying any attention to me until my hand curls around the handle on the front door. The big guy out front sees me through the windows. A brief moment of confusion flashes across his eyes before he draws his weapon.
It’s all I need to see to know he never expected to see me again. Saban was going to kill me, or at least have someone come in and do the dirty work. Tarek may have wanted me back alive so he could personally finish the job, but Saban wanted me as a trophy.
The front door sticks slightly, losing me a precious second of time before I can fire at the large guard and empty the magazine into him. A burning flash of pain in my shoulder lets me know he managed to get at least one shot off before I took him down. His two buddies scramble and fire shots back at me. Another hits my left arm and a searing blaze of agony shoots through it.
I stumble momentarily but manage to fire a few more rounds before I dive into my car and hightail it away from the clusterfuck that was my Hail Mary.
Blood seeps into my shirt and trickles down arm. Drops land on my leg and cover the steering wheel.
This one is bad. There’s no way I can take care of this myself and stay standing for long.
I need help.
And there’s only once place I can think to go in Chicago. I just hope he hasn’t closed up shop since the last time we were here and needed his special brand of assistance.