The Untouchables(102)

Drawing their weapons, we walked as quickly as Mel’s belly would allow through the draped corridors and down the grand blood red carpeted staircase that overlooked the front entrance. Monte walked two paces behind us, Antonio to the right of Mel and I right in front of her. The moment we exited the theatre, the wind blew past us as we stepped into the thunderously loud and frigidly cold Chicago night. Fedel pulled up so fast the tires skidded on the pavement.

Before he could even open the door, one single shot tore through the wind beside me and a spray of warm blood splattered across my face.

In that moment, my heart stopped. I turned and caught a glimpse of her bright brown eyes, widened in absolute shock as she went down. Blood drops seemed to hang in the air, time slowed, and for what felt like hours. I couldn’t hear a thing, couldn’t even remember how to breathe. All around her was just so much blood, like red wine spilling over a white rug, staining it forever.

It’s not hers. It’s not hers! My brain screamed, forcing me to move again to see past the blood. Blinking for what felt like forever, Monte and Fedel both shielded Mel as she sat up on her knees, blood soaking her dress and her hands. The bullet had missed her. She had stumbled because of the weight of Antonio’s body as it came down.

Fedel yelled, glancing back as the sirens descended upon us. “The police are on the way, sir. We need to go.”

“We aren’t leaving him on the fucking street!” Mel hissed, staring into the hole that was now between Antonio’s eyes.

“Mel, it’s not—”

“I said NO! And that was a motherfucking order,” she snapped. “We aren’t running, we aren’t leaving him, and we are going to make that bitch pay!”

I kneeled beside her, not caring that the rapidly cooling wetness underneath me was blood. It seemed to be flowing out of him like a never-ending river. Neither of us spoke. I was grateful it wasn’t her. When I watched her fall, when I thought she’d been hit, it was the worst moment in my sorry excuse of a life.

“Are you okay?” I whispered, and she glared at me as if I had asked her the dumbest question ever to leave a man’s lips. I looked at her stomach. Her stomach spattered with stains of blood. It wasn’t hers, but she had still fallen.

“He’s fine. Monte caught me before I went down,” was all she said before she tore her gaze from mine and back to the man I barely knew but owed everything to.

“The cops are here,” Monte said, holstering his weapon and finally facing us. In his eyes a storm was brewing harsher than anything even Mother Nature could produce.

“What do you want us to do?” he asked, finally looking at me.

I glanced over my shoulder as four cars with stunning red and blue lights pulled up. The occupants didn’t even wait for their vehicles to come to a complete halt before jumping out. I knew these were just the tip of the iceberg, the first of many public servants who I could only imagine were chomping at the bit to get some sort of recognition or in with the Callahans. Whether to try to use it for personal gain or thinking this would be their shot at law enforcement glory, only God knew.

“Give the police a statement,” I said. “Then go drink on my dime. We grieve for our loss, and then we find this bitch and burn her alive.”

It was all I said before the yelling began as they came to save us.

“Sir, Ma’am, come with us! We’re clearing the area! Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”

All I wanted was a date, not the fucking flood gates of hell to open.





THIRTY

“What strange creatures brothers are!”

—Jane Austen





NEAL

“Another,” I hissed, throwing back my shot. The bartender simply raised his eyebrow at me, shaking his head, yet he continued to pour.

What was he going to tell me? To go home—scratch that—to go back to my hotel room? With as much as I was tipping him, he’d better keep his opinions to himself.

“Well lookie here, if it isn’t the Neal Callahan. Maybe this is my lucky night.”

Fuck man. I sighed before turning to look at Archer White, the lead presidential reporter for fucking TIME magazine, a.k.a. a fucking pain in my ass.

“What do you want, Archer?” I sneered.

“One Pepsi.”

“Pepsi? You pussy.” I laughed.

He pulled out his cellphone, ready to start recording. “Can I quote you on that?”

“What the fuck is your problem? I’m not running for motherfucking office! Who gives a shit about what I say?”

“The people of the United States are losing democracy. Your father-in-law is running without any real opponent. He’s basically won and that’s without answering any real questions: women’s rights, gay rights, global warming, war, economic relations, education…”