Free The Assassin's Case by Craig Alexander Page B

haven’t been contacted.”
                  Using his palm, Cane ratcheted the pistol’s slide. The move was for show. Dramatic affect. He had removed the bullet in the chamber before coming into the room. He pointed the pistol at the geek’s face. “So, tell me. What possible use do I have for you now?” 
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    Grant’s foot smashed into the center of the bar’s two glass doors. They swung wide and he rushed in. Leading with his gun he tracked for targets, prepared to open fire and dive to the side if necessary. His gun locked on a man sitting with his head bowed in a chair.
    It was him. Jimmy Boom Tedesco. What the hell was he doing? Praying?
                  Grant kept his gun trained between Tedesco’s eyes and scanned the bar for signs of ambush. Moving to the right, Grant put his back to the wall, away from the doors which had slammed shut behind him. “I haven’t heard from my sister. If I don’t know in thirty seconds she’s all right, I’m going to whittle you away, piece by piece, bullet by bullet.”
                  Moving slowly, Tedesco held his palms in front of him and sat straight in the chair. He hadn’t changed much. Only his head was shaved to a quarter of an inch, the little remaining hair grey. He was a block of a man, big head, boxer’s flat nose, brown eyes. Muscular, not gym-rat ripped, just big, with natural strength. The hands he held in front of him large enough to belong to an NBA seven-footer. “As far as I know your sister’s fine. I swear it. I didn’t really have anybody on her.”
                  “How did you know where she lived?”
                  Tedesco looked at the floor. “I’ve known for a long time where both of you lived.”
                  “You murdering bastard—”             
                  “No. No.” He waved his hands back and forth. “I am a murdering bastard. But it’s not like that.” He dropped his gaze. “I found you because … I needed to … I had this, this … crazy idea. I thought maybe if I talked to you both, told you how sorry I am. But I couldn’t work up the nerve.”
                  Grant squeezed the SIG’s grip. He ached to pull the trigger. An almost overwhelming, visceral urge to see the man bleed, to writhe in pain, beg for mercy, threatened to consume him. But, he needed answers. Not the least of which was whether or not the poison on the case would kill him. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much I want to—need to—kill you?”
                  “Yes.” Tedesco placed his hands in his lap. “You don’t owe me anything. All I ask is for you to give me five minutes. Please. Give me a chance to tell you my story.”
                  Grant nodded toward a clock adorned with the Lone Star beer logo. “Clock’s ticking, Boom.”
                  “I was an enforcer for the Delfuco syndicate. Yes. I killed a lot of people. But I swear to you I had rules. Carmine knew it. I wouldn’t touch family, wives, children. The men I killed were bad. I know it doesn’t make it right, but they were. Murdering pieces of garbage themselves. But Carmine lied to me. I was his best.” He again dropped his gaze to the floor. “I didn’t know I was going to be killing innocents.”
                  A miasma of anger and grief rocked Grant. This killer attempting to justify his heinous acts. Grant detected a tremor in his gun hand and forced it to be still. Tears attempted to surge into his eyes but he bit them back.
    Tedesco must have seen something in his face. “Wait. I’m not making excuses. Just here me out. It’s not just about me. Please.” When Grant didn’t respond, he continued. “After the trial, as you know, I went into witness protection. They put me in this small town in Washington State. There was a church. A tiny place, on