Free Darwin's Nightmare by Mike Knowles

He’s dead!”
    â€œTommy please . . . I . . . I need a hospital.”
    Tommy slapped his wife with a closed fist. She was trying to make him show that he cared, to make him show weakness. Tommy would never show weakness in front of us — it wasn’t in him. Even with his back against the wall, he would never let anyone see under the hard skin he wore like armour. He hit her again and again until his son tried to intervene. Tommy didn’t stop; his fists found the boy too. Both mother and son gave up and accepted their lumps. Tommy hit them both until he was breathing in heavy gasps. He turned to look at us once again and seemed to regain his composure. It was no wonder he was a made man and not just some strong-arm; he was trying to control the situation. He was trying to pass the events off like something that could never hurt him. Tommy was trying to show us that he was unafraid, and that it was us who should have been terrified regardless of the gun we held. He looked at us in disbelief, a look that told us we had made the biggest mistake of our lives. His look told us we should run and hide to avoid the fury of this self-proclaimed mob god. Tommy could have pulled it off too if we weren’t who we were. He had no idea that there were others just as ruthless as he was. Other people who were capable of handling their own affairs instead of just passing them off to the many arms of the underworld.
    Steve sighed and shot Tommy in the shoulder. The bullet hit him high on the right side of his body and spun him around, and down onto all fours. When he tried to get up, Steve kicked him hard in the ribs. Tommy flopped to his side, propelled by the foot and the crunching sound ofhis ribs. Steve stepped on the bullet wound and over the screams asked a third time.
    â€œIs she back alone?”
    â€œYah, she’s back alone. She’s alone. Okay?”
    Steve looked to me and said, “Check.”
    I went over to him, took the phone from his pocket, hit redial, and waited. When Sandra answered, I had her check outside for cars and men. She told me the streets were empty. I told her to lock up and stay put, then I told Steve everything was good. He nodded and looked around the room. The fire in him seemed to slowly drain. He looked at me, and there was less anger and violence in his eyes.
    â€œIs there any way out of this?”
    Steve knew the mob wouldn’t forget, and that they would keep coming until they were satisfied. Satisfaction would most likely involve the death of Steve, Sandra, and probably me. I had been working for Paolo Donati almost exclusively for a few years, and he owed me some favours. Unfortunately, favours from a mob boss are like Grandma’s china — nice to have, but you never thought of actually using it.
    â€œI’ll do what I can.”
    The gun sounded three more times, and we were on our way out. I had Steve wipe everything he had touched before we closed the door. In the lobby, the doorman was still on the floor and the streets were still clear. I wasn’t worried about the gunshots. I figured the neighbours knew who Talarese was and what he was into. That made them the type of people who would turn up the television to drown out gunshots rather than call nine-one-one.
    I drove Steve back to the bar and let him out in front of the entrance. He rode back without saying a word and got out the same way. He began to walk away, but stopped and turned to stare at me. He came back to the car and satin the seat beside me again. He looked like hell; his shirt was bloodstained, and his pants were dirty.
    â€œI don’t know why,” he said, looking at me.
    I stared out the windshield and thought about why. Why had I put it all on the line for a bartender and his wife? I wasn’t one of the good guys. I was on the other side. Steve came to see me because he knew I would know who took his wife. But even though I knew the men who kidnapped Sandra, I never