The Fall Read online

  He and I both knew it wasn’t an idle threat. The only value human life held for me was the number of zeros I got paid to give a shit either way. But killing someone who squealed, that would be purely for pleasure. Which is why, even though I’d been hauled in by Chicago’s finest more times than I could count, nothing ever stuck. No one saw shit, and what do you know, my alibis were always rock solid.

  Lou gave me another nod, this one a little slower than the last just to make sure there were no misunderstandings. Clearly not as stupid as I’d first pegged him which might just have saved his life.

  Without bothering with a goodbye, I unlocked the door and strolled into the deserted butcher shop, the glow of the streetlights coming through the glass giving me enough light to move around without having to hit the switch.

  And just like I had slipped into the building, I was out, my feet moving quickly to the back alley where my latest ride was waiting. Not my black Camaro—the car I actually enjoyed driving—this was some five-door piece of shit Mazda that had been parked on the wrong street at the wrong time.

  Boosting a car or two was easier than risking my ass being hung out to dry, which is why I operated as a ghost, taking what I needed so I could remain under the radar. And tomorrow morning, Sally Jones—or whomever the car belonged to—would be getting her rusty shit box in one piece. Maybe parked a little further up the road so she’d question her sanity, but devoid of any DNA or fingerprints that could tie me to it.

  I didn’t return the car out of some misguided morality. Ha. I didn’t believe in karma, for me it was about keeping my ends nice and tight which didn’t happen when you started holding onto shit you didn’t need.

  The Mazda roared to life, its four cylinders getting a bigger workout than they were probably used to on account of my boot punching the gas.

  Lucky for Lou, traffic was light and getting to the shitty warehouse didn’t take long. And assuming the moron had been on the level, as soon as I busted the lock and retrieved the cash, I’d call a meat wagon so the asshole didn’t bleed out.

  Or not.

  I couldn’t make myself give a shit either way except for the fact Damon wanted his return business. Dead men couldn’t borrow cash. Which meant in about six months I’d probably revisit the loser, earning me more green.

  I eased the car around the back and killed the engine. This wasn’t the kind of area I’d expect any neighborhood watch peeking through their drapes, but wasn’t the kind of guy who took chances either.

  It was dark. The overgrown grass and weeds littered the backyard, obscuring the rusty door on the old brick building. The faded sign above the door pointed to a failed import/export business venture, the padlock keeping out unwanted visitors needing nothing more than a pair of bolt cutters in place of a key.

  Pulling the bag off the passenger seat, I unzipped it and checked I had what I needed, grabbing the flashlight and an extra clip for my Glock before busting the lock.

  And just like that, I was in. The musky air of the building filled my lungs as I shined a flashlight through the dusty space, the gutted-out interior making it crystal clear that whatever purpose it had served in the past had long been retired. The building itself was probably worth less than the money I’d been sent to recover which didn’t look promising. Now, to find that safe.

  My phone buzzed from the front pocket of my pants; it had been vibrating for awhile, but I’d chosen to ignore it. Damon had the phone habits of a sixteen-year-old girl and I expected the previous missed calls had been from him.

  Why I chose to fish out my phone and take the call is not something I understood. Possibly because I was already bored with this job and enjoyed playing Russian roulette with Lou’s life. Or maybe because I, like any contractor, never knew when the next big job was coming. For whatever reason, I hit accept and pulled the phone to my ear as I walked to the rear of the warehouse, trying to find this illusive safe.

  “Yeah,” I barked into the cell, my current burner not having enough numbers to warrant checking the caller ID.

  “You’re a tough man to get a hold of,” the voice rumbled on the other end of the phone.

  It had been a few months, but Jimmy Amaro wasn’t the kind of man you forgot. Neither was the gravelly rattle that came out of his voice box every time he spoke, gifted to him from about forty or so years sucking on the Marlboros.

  “I’m in the middle of something.” Neither of us bothered with friendly introductions.

  “Yeah, well get out of it. I have something that requires your attention.” He wheezed into the phone, the details of the something noticeably absent.

  “Well, it will get my attention when I’m ready.” I didn’t do too well with demands, especially unspecified requests from a bastard who’d buried more men than AIDS.

  “You’re still the same pain in the ass.” Jimmy laughed, the disruption of air supply inducing a lung-rattling cough. “Meet me at the place. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Ordinarily that kind of invitation would have received a two-word response—fuck and you. But turning down the self-proclaimed king of Chi-Town wasn’t what many men lived to regret. Besides, Jimmy was a lot of things—cheap bastard wasn’t one of them—which meant my pockets would probably be a little heavier just for having the conversation.

  “I’ll be there in two hours.”

  “Good. Don’t be late.”

  The call ended in the same no-fuss way it began. No names, no places, no details. Too many ears, and phones—even unregistered ones—couldn’t be trusted. Thanks to Bin Laden and the Patriot Act, the only way serious business was done these days was face to face, which suited me just fine.

  It would have been easy to call Damon and tell him I was walking. Lou was probably already buying time with the reaper, and I still had yet to locate the safe. But I didn’t like leaving jobs half done—call it a personal grievance—which meant I needed to haul ass.

  With my cell shoved back into my pocket, my flashlight did another sweep of the warehouse. And there, sure enough, along the back eastern corner of the space was a matte-black box that was remarkably clean considering the rest of the landscape.

  Bingo.

  Then it was just a case of a few twists left and right and it was giving it up quicker than a cheap hooker in West Garfield Park.

  And what do you know—it was empty. Color me surprised that a sackless POS with a gambling addiction didn’t have any actual cash. Sucks to be him. Well, at least it was no longer my problem.

  I palmed my cell and dialed Damon’s digits, he could decide whether or not he wanted Lou dead or alive—my end had been taken care of.

  “Mikey, taking a little longer than usual.” Damon’s Irish lilt crackled on the line.

  “He’s dry, and close to lights out.” A quick scan of my watch giving me the heads up he’d probably lost consciousness by now. “Your call.”

  “Well, that’s a damn shame.” He let out a long sigh. “Still, it’s my wife’s birthday today, so maybe I feel like giving out a present or two. It’s amazing what some newfound perspective will do. I’m positive Lou’s situation will change in the very near future.”

  Translation, he was feeling charitable and was hoping now that Lou knew playtime was over he’d come up with the cash. No money to be made from a dead man, I guess.

  “Yep. Understood.” I ended the call without so much as a goodbye.

  Gathering any evidence of my visit and tossing it into my duffle bag, I pulled out a second burner and got my fingers working fast on the keys.

  “Hello 9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  I doubled timed it out of the warehouse and back to my boosted ride. “Need an ambulance at Lou’s Meats, West Lake Street. Near West Side.” The call killed before they could ask any more questions.

  No doubt they’d trace the call, not that it would yield much. But just to be sure, I pulled out the SIM and let the heel of my boot get cozy with it before tossing the lifeless phone over the fence.
r />   No point taking chances.

  Now I just needed to dump Sally Jones’ Mazda so I didn’t have a police escort to my meeting with Jimmy. And here I was thinking the night was going to be boring.

  Jimmy Amaro might sound like he had a foot in the grave, but he was still razor sharp. Standing around six-two, with shoulders that would put most of the Bears defensive line to shame, his expensive suits earned their price tag keeping his big frame under wraps. And while he was happy to hang an American flag outside his door, it wasn’t the red-white-and-blue that had his allegiance. The self-serving bastard’s ties to the Old Country might have been a couple of generations removed, but it did nothing to loosen his stronghold on the family business. And by business I meant anything and everything the black market moved. Drugs, whores, guns, people—whatever there was a demand for, the Amaro family dealt in, which earned out more dollars than most small countries GPD.

  A call from the man himself meant two things. The job was personal and the payout would be substantial. He had enough thugs and lowlifes in his crew that he didn’t need to outsource, so if he was—well, it couldn’t mean good things.

  The place was an old speakeasy on South Dearbourn Street, on the south side of Chicago. It had been in the “family” since the Amaro Grandfather stepped off the boat, and while it seemed like a harmless old bar, the underhanded shit that passed through its doors would give Al Capone a fucking hard-on. It had been raided a couple of times, and every time—whether it be Feds or local PD—they left empty handed with their tail between their legs. No one knew how they pulled it off, and if you were smart, you didn’t ask.

  After returning the Mazda—the busted ignition sure to give poor Sally a case of the heebies—and wiping it down for prints, I retrieved my own set of wheels and made it to the meet with barely a few minutes to spare. It seemed the running theme, the tight schedule not unusual when running more than one job at a time. But it was being on Amaro’s turf without so much of a clue rather than my full agenda that was giving me the scratch.

  “You carrying?” Sal, Jimmy’s personal bodyguard greeted me at the door. The bastard grinning like he already knew the answer as he met my eyes.

  Standing six-four, there weren’t a lot of guys who gave me the eyeball without tipping their chin. Sal was no exception as he readjusted his stance.

  “No, I was walking around town with my dick in my hand.” I rolled my eyes as I slid up my shirt to reveal the forty-five in the small of my back and the nine strapped to my chest.

  “You can’t take those.” Sal smiled, a nod of respect thrown my way.

  “Well, then we have a dilemma don’t we?” I made no attempt to unarm, my shoulders squaring off as I lowered my shirt.

  I hadn’t called the meeting. So if Jimmy wanted a sit down, he was going to have it with my Glock and Heckler and Koch joining the party. I could just as easily walk out the door, and as much as Sal was a nasty SOB, he’d never shoot a man in the back.

  “You make a move that is in any way hostile, you’ll be dead before your body hits the floor,” Sal warned, delivering his threat with a smile.

  “Are we done with the theatrics now?” I folded my arms across my chest, his friendly advice not needed. “The old man called me; I’ve got better things to do than watch you jerk each other off.”

  “Ah, Michael.” Sal chuckled. “You amuse me. That’s rare my friend, but don’t think for a second it makes you indispensable. We all have expiration dates.”

  Considering the guy had been a suspect in his wife’s homicide, I didn’t doubt for a second that he’d pull a trigger on anyone if needed. Unfortunately for Mrs. Sal, she’d been caught fucking her daughter’s drama coach—the irony. And there was only one thing valued higher than family in these circles—loyalty.

  Fortunately for me, I had no family so I didn’t need to make the distinction. Everyone was a traitorous bastard, and I was just biding my time until it was time to have my earthy sleep.

  “Jimmy ready?” I gave Sal my second let’s-move-this-along, knowing the old man was probably watching the whole exchange on his intricate security system.

  “Yeah, follow me.” Sal turned and led me through the main part of the bar, the place still full of drunk-ass wastes of space even though it was well past midnight.

  The old wood-paneled walls hadn’t changed in over fifty years with any upgrades keeping with the old-time feel of the joint. And although there was a stage, no one came to hear a band. Most of the clientele were either unsavory characters who treated it as a one-stop-shop of excess—drugs, drinks and pussy. Or they were adrenaline-chasing assholes who got off on dipping a toe into the scumbag pool.

  Moving to the back of the bar, we hit a set of stairs that led to the basement. And unlike its above ground counterpart, had been completely gutted and renovated.

  My heavy boots echoed off the reinforced steel stairs that had replaced the original wooden ones, descending until we landed in a room so pristine you could probably do surgery on its floor. Chances were, it probably had seen a stitch job or two.

  The two meatheads at the entrance gave Sal a nod as they turned and followed us like obedient Rottweilers, our little adventure apparently needing an entourage.

  We continued further down the hall to a set of doors. The overhead LED’s flooded the space with so much light it was hard not to squint, Sal doing the honors and beat his fist against the large metal door.

  Unlike my initial welcome, we weren’t greeted at the door. A dull metallic thud signaling the lock had been disengaged was the only sound as Sal pushed open the door and stepped aside so I could enter ahead of him. His eyes tracked every step I took as he and two of his ’roid loving friends joined us in the modern office space.

  “Michael.” Jimmy didn’t make any moves to stand, instead tipping his head to the vacant chair in front of his desk. His trademark version of a hello and take a seat.

  “You called?” My ass lowered onto the fancy armchair I’d been offered; its patterned cloth fabric looking out of place in the testosterone-filled room.

  “Yes, I have a job for you. It’s of a sensitive nature.” Jimmy didn’t bother insulting me with the idle small talk, getting to the point on why I had been summoned.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been offered work from Jimmy. While he was fully decked out with his own heavies, every now and then he needed an outsider to handle sensitive issues. I didn’t ask questions, which he liked, and the payout always made it worth my while. It was a win/win for everyone concerned which is why I guessed he was a return customer.

  “My gentle touch is legendary.” I smirked, my tightly balled fists resting on my knees. Just because I was smiling didn’t mean I was relaxed. I never did well with company, preferring to be alone rather than chilling with a crowd. “What’s the job?”

  “I need you get a girl, keep her out of sight and alive.” Jimmy eased back into his chair, zero emotion in his voice or on his face.

  Well, this was a new. I’d done a lot of jobs in my time, most of which involved breaking a few bones. None had ever involved keeping anyone safe. Not my gig, that’s for damn sure.

  “I’m not the babysitting type, Jimmy.” I did my best not to insult the motherfucker, because he was clearly out of his mind. “You best shop around for someone else.” My boots shifted on the floor as I rose to my feet.

  “Sit down.” Jimmy tipped his chin to the chair just as he had when I’d walked in, his voice no louder than it had been. “You haven’t heard the price yet.”

  Money for a man like me was a big motivator. In fact, it was the only motivator, and the reason why I did what a lot of others found unsavory. I wasn’t bound by the same rules as everyone else. Morality, family, religion, conscience—all met a dead end when it came to me.

  My ass lowered back down, hitting the seat as I waited for a figure worth sticking around for.

  “One hundred.” Jimmy smirked, the additional clarification on thousand not needed.
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br />   Okay, so now he had my attention. “That’s an interesting amount of zeros.” And given I had no idea how long the gig was going to last, I was still undecided on whether or not I wanted to commit. “How long?”

  “A few weeks. Just until I find a better solution.” Jimmy’s eyes dropped down to the sealed envelope sitting on top of his otherwise meticulous desk before snapping back to mine. “Not so quick to leave now, are you?”

  A hundred K for a few weeks work was too good to be true. And in my experience, lottery wins didn’t exist. So unless Jimmy had decided he was trying on a red suit and giving the fat man a run for his money, this spelled out bad news.

  “This isn’t just a baby sitting job, is it?”

  I didn’t usually get chatty. In fact, the less I knew the fucking better, but something about this seemed off. Too many unanswered questions. Like why a man like Jimmy fucking Amaro, who had more money than the douchebag who owned Facebook and infinite resources, wouldn’t put this girl on a plane and have her chill in the Bahamas. Or hook her up in one of his undisclosed properties; the ones that made the Pentagon look like a freaking Wal-Mart.

  “You don’t usually ask questions.” Jimmy’s brow rose, my need for elaboration unprecedented.

  “And you don’t usually hand out favors.” Nor was I in the habit of accepting them. “So if you’re tossing out those Benjamins, I’m expecting I’m going to be earning them. I’m not going in blind. What’s the catch?”

  “She’s my daughter and not so thrilled with my way of earning a livelihood. Children, they really are sent here to test us.” He gave me a tight smile before continuing. “She recently has been making more noise than usual, which might suggest she has actually found something. And her vendetta has extended to people who aren’t so friendly and who aren’t so tolerant. And I promised her mother that no harm would come to her at their hands.”