Last Hit(12)

Wasting no time, I run to the bedroom, shedding my backpack and my jacket in my wake. Inside the bedroom there is one mattress with an old green coverlet. I flip it over and with the knife from my pack, I rip the stitches on the side. The loose threading falls away. Pulling out the foam, I throw it to the floor and reach inside for the case.

My heart is beating fast and adrenaline is kicking in. I glance at my watch. Three minutes since I left my bike on the street.

I fall to my knees and flip the case open. It takes me less than a minute to assemble my rifle.

“It has been a long time, friend,” I whisper and kiss the barrel. I pocket the shells and race to the bathroom. With a twist the vertical slats of the blinds open just enough so that I have a clear view of my target through the scope. I turn the laser off. No need to announce my presence.

Through the magnified glass, I see him park his four-door sedan. I make a mental note of the front grille that has a large cross in the middle and the black license plate.

He looks up, counting the stories. There are four of them. I am on the second floor. I’ve always liked second-floor apartments. They are high enough to provide some measure of distance between unexpected intruders but not so high that I cannot jump from a window to safety.

He counts the windows that are lit and then turns to look at my bike. Oliver McFadden removes a glove from his hand and presses it on the still-warm engine. My finger moves to the trigger. I will have to break the glass with the first bullet and then shoot a split second later with the second, anticipating which way McFadden will duck at the first shot. He’s right-handed given that his gun is holstered on the right side. The odds will favor him moving to the right and down.

I take a breath.

He moves toward the door, trailing his hand along the seat and then across the handlebars.

My finger tightens and . . . a buzzing sounds in my pocket. The noise in the still apartment startles me, and the end of the barrel knocks against the window. McFadden’s eyes jerk to my location. The phone buzzes again.

With a sigh, I flip the gun upward, place the stock between my legs, and glance at the text.

Daisy: What time do you think you’ll be home? I made homemade pasta from a recipe I found on the Internet!

I type out a response. Soon kitten. My practice is near completion.

Boo. You don’t need your guns anymore. You’re retired, remember?

Yes. Still, it is safe before sorry.

Better safe than sorry is the saying. Love you.

I will be home soon. XOXO.

Outside, McFadden is pulling away. He has lost interest or he is waiting for me to lead him to my Daisy. I’m afraid again. I killed two men in this city, a former accountant from the Petrovich Bratva and a drug dealer. Both were barely human and I feel no remorse at the loss of their lives, but McFadden, the man who wears a police-issue handgun holstered in plain sight, may feel differently.

But how can he have made the connection between an expert marksman and the two deaths? The accountant’s body was treated with acid, leaving only bones behind. The skull shot would not have revealed anything about me. The other man? He was not shot by my hand but by Daisy’s father.

If I am taken into custody, what would happen to Daisy?

In the bedroom, I dismantle the rifle and place it back in its case. With thread and needle, I close up the mattress and then return the room to its former order. I exhale heavily and check the kitchen. Pushing the refrigerator aside, I loosen a baseboard. Right where I left it is a brick of cash and one passport. The picture is of me and the identity reads Niall Hemley, hailing from Leeds, England, UK.

The phone rings again, this time signaling a call and not a text. The caller ID reads Unknown.

“Yes,” I answer tersely.

“Nick old man, sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. Regan and I were riding the fences this week. We were out of cell-phone range.”

It is Daniel. I had called for advice but he had not reached me in time. Resentment stirs but I push it down. It is not Daniel’s fault Daisy and I are inept.

“You and Regan are doing well?” I ask, leaning back against the cabinets.

“Yeah, it’s great. How about you and Daisy? Did you have a good party?”

“Nyet. It was no good.” It also seems unimportant now that there is Oliver McFadden noting my gun prowess and following me through the busy streets of Minneapolis. “Do you sometimes think you should not be in Regan’s life? That there is too much danger and . . . unsavory parts of your past that could bring harm to her?”

He’s silent for a moment and then replies, “Maybe, but then I think that there’s no one who can protect her better than me. Where are you, by the way?”