The gunshot would bring the rest of them. She drew the Glocks, slapped in the thirty-round magazines.
Showtime.
* * *
Vincent burped, pushed away from the table.
?You want me to call back to the kitchen?? Billy asked. ?Get you another plate? There?s a good minestrone.?
?Full.? Vincent rubbed his belly. Tight. Now maybe a little nap.
Billy Romano poured the last few dribbles of Chianti into his glass. He put the glass to his lips, tilted it back. The gunshot made him jump, and he spilled wine down the front of his jogging suit. ?What the fuck was that??
His goons were already on their feet, pistols ready. One looked at Billy Romano and raised his eyebrows. ?Boss??
?Well, go see what it is, for fuck?s sake.?
The goon lumbered to the hall door, threw it open. He was shredded by a hail of gunfire, his belly and chest blossoming in little splashes of blood.
?Shit!? Billy overturned the table, glimpsing a lithe figure in black dart into the room. He ran for the back door, jerked Vincent along with him by the sleeve. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, saw his other man convulse as bullets tore across his chest. Billy ran through the back door, more bullets splintering the doorframe, biting dusty chunks out of the drywall. He slammed the door closed behind him, yelled at Vincent, ?Come on! Haul ass!?
They ran up a back staircase. Vincent felt like he was going to puke, pasta and wine sloshing around in his gut, but he heard the door slam open behind him and ran faster.
They just made it out of the stairwell and onto the second floor, more bullets chewing up the hall behind them. They ran into the closest bedroom, shut the door, twisted the lock. Billy pressed himself flat against the wall just to the side of the door. Vincent backed up all the way across the room until his butt was pressed against the room?s only window. He turned quickly, tried to open it. Maybe they could get down the fire escape. He tried to open the window, grunted until his face turned purple. Painted shut. ?Motherfucker!?
Billy whispered, ?You got a gun??
Vincent shook his head. The revolver was still in his jacket pocket, but the jacket was hanging in a closet downstairs. ?Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.?
?I can?t carry a gun in this jogging suit,? Billy said. ?It won?t stay in the elastic band.?
?I tried a clip-on holster,? Billy whispered, still pressed against the wall and watching the door. ?But it kept pulling my pants down. I got this jogging suit on sale. It?s usually like a three-hundred-dollar outfit, but I got it from a guy I know for seventy-five. People think I wear jogging suits because of my belly, but I think they look pretty sharp.?
He?s babbling, Vincent realized. He?s scared shitless and he?s babbling like a fucking idiot. Is this really it? This is the best the mob can do, this fat dumb-ass in a purple jogging suit? This giant, greasy plum? This was the guy who was supposed to protect him?
Vincent looked around the room for something he could use to smash the window. No chairs. No lamps. What stingy son of a bitch furnished this place? He reared back, preparing to punch his fist through the glass, when the doorknob rattled.
They froze. Billy put a finger to his lips in a
A pause. Silence stretched. The tension started to leak out of Vincent.
Gunfire erupted on the other side of the door, three quick bursts. Bullets ripped through the door and lock. Vincent yelled, dove onto the floor next to the bed.
She kicked the door in, rushed into the room, a smoking machine pistol in each hand. Her face didn?t seem human, like some kind of killer bitch Terminator robot. A strange sound was coming out of his throat. A whimper. He tried to crawl under the bed.
