‘Have a word with Lionel Dafoe. He was the one who offed Sloane. Something about a beef over his girlfriend. It was also him spread the rumor it was down to you. You want proof, the nine he used for the hit is still in his apartment. The girlfriend will also confirm the story.’
Bartok thinks about this for a minute. Doyle wonders whether it’s enough. Because what he hasn’t told Bartok is that Dafoe has already fled to Mexico. Giving Bartok some proof that will take Tucker’s heat off him is one thing, but he’s not going to be responsible for setting up Dafoe to be killed.
Bartok says, ‘And you know this how?’
‘From a CI of mine, whose information was always reliable.’
‘
Doyle doesn’t want to talk about Spinner. Not with this monster.
‘Your move, Kurt. You’ve been paid. I want my goods.’
Bartok smiles. He makes Doyle wait that little bit longer.
‘Yes, I think you’ve earned your stripes. Perhaps now you’ll join me in a little drink to celebrate our new relationship?’
‘The name,’ Doyle says, and will keep on saying until he gets it.
‘All right,’ Bartok agrees. ‘The name. As I said, it’s a man you know already. You can stop digging into your past because-’
He doesn’t get any further.
Primarily because his throat has just exploded.
A hole has opened up in his neck, sending a fountain of blood spurting across his desk and onto Doyle’s leather jacket.
Bartok looks surprised that he can’t speak any longer. He sits there, his mouth moving soundlessly, seemingly unaware that the source of all that gushing blood is himself.
Doyle’s reaction isn’t exactly immediate either. He doesn’t know what has just happened here. The shock of what he has just witnessed has confused and paralyzed him. And then he zooms out, takes in the wider picture, sees the movement behind the man choking to death on his own blood.
Bruno is also clearly puzzled. His arms come up and his fingers grapple comically with thin air as though he’s operating some complex invisible machinery. By the time he works out that he should be reaching for his gun, it’s too late. Sonny Rocca is already on him, his gun arm outstretched, his silenced weapon making phut-phut sounds as it spits. Bruno stares uncomprehendingly while his chest is drilled. When anger finally appears on his face, it is there for the fleetest of moments before being obliterated by a salvo of bullets that take out his teeth, then his nose, and then his right eye. Bruno stiffens, leans back like a toppling domino, and crashes to the floor with the force of a felled elephant.
Doyle is already on his feet. His hand dives automatically under his coat, finds itself clawing at the empty leather of his holster. He starts moving toward Rocca, no thought yet as to what he might do when he gets there. Rocca whirls on him, aims his gun at Doyle’s face.
‘Back!’
Doyle brings his hands up, takes a step in reverse. He watches as Rocca moves calmly back to Bartok, now clutching at his neck, trying in vain to plug the hole there as he coughs and splutters.
No, thinks Doyle. Don’t.
Rocca observes his boss for a second or two, not a hint of compassion on his face. It’s like he’s studying the behavior of an amoeba under a microscope.
With casual ease, Rocca raises the dark semi-automatic again, and Doyle can only look on helplessly as bullet after bullet smashes into Bartok’s head and face. Even when Bartok’s body slides lifeless from his chair and lies crumpled on the wooden floor, Rocca stands over him and continues with the steady eradication of his ex- employer’s features.
I have one chance, Doyle thinks. And it will come only if Sonny Rocca hates his former boss badly enough.
So he watches and waits, listening to the muffled explosions, the clatter of empty cartridges hitting the floor, thinking that the destruction seems to be going on forever.
And then it happens. The slide on Rocca’s gun jerks back and stays there, announcing that its work is done: there are no more bullets to be fired.
Doyle makes his move. He believes it’s the fastest he’s ever shifted. His high-school sprinting instructor would have been proud of him.
He manages to cover all of one yard.
Rocca is ready for him. His other hand, which Doyle hadn’t even noticed dipping into his pocket, now comes up and points at Doyle. And it’s not empty.
The soles of Doyle’s shoes squeal as he applies his brakes. For the umpteenth time, he mentally slaps himself for agreeing to surrender his Glock. He thinks, finally, that he’s learned his lesson. Certainly he’ll never do it again.
Because now, for the first time in his life, he’s staring into the business end of his own gun.
‘Back!’ Rocca says again. He twitches the gun muzzle to one side. ‘Back in the chair.’
Doyle takes a few steps backwards, his eyes never leaving Rocca’s.
‘Why, Sonny?’ he asks. ‘What the fuck’s this about?’
Rocca doesn’t answer. He swaps his guns over, putting the loaded Glock into his right hand. Then he steps over Bartok’s
corpse, edges around the desk, the Glock aimed squarely at
Doyle’s forehead. He comes to a halt. Continues to point the gun.
He stands like that for several seconds, as if allowing Doyle the
opportunity to say a final prayer.
‘I was beginning to like you, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says. ‘So long.’ Doyle senses the change in Rocca. He realizes that Rocca has
just made his decision. He sees the whiteness of Rocca’s knuckle
as he tightens his trigger finger.
Doyle closes his eyes and thinks of Rachel and Amy.
TWENTY-FOUR
When Doyle opens his eyes again, Rocca has disappeared from in front of him.
He twists in his chair and sees that Rocca is now standing at the door.
‘Sonny. .’ Doyle says.
‘I got no instructions to kill you, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact.’
There is a trash basket next to the door. Rocca holds the empty, silenced gun over the basket and allows it to drop in. His left hand now free, he reaches into his inside breast pocket and pulls out an envelope. A white one. There is typing on the front, and even though Doyle can’t read it from here he knows that it will be addressed to him.
‘A message for you,’ Rocca says, and lets the envelope float down to join the gun.
‘You’re not thinking this through, Sonny. They’ll hunt you down. You know that, don’t you?’
‘We’ll see. Goodbye, Mr Doyle.’ He reaches for the door handle behind him.
‘Sonny! The name. You know who it is, don’t you? Please, this was my last chance. Give me the name.’
Doyle hears the desperation in his own voice, but he doesn’t care. Right now he thinks he’d get down on his knees and beg if it’d get him the name.
Rocca hesitates. ‘I’d like to help you, Mr Doyle. Really I would.’
But he’s not going to, Doyle realizes.
In one smooth motion, Rocca drops the Glock into the trash basket, swings open the door, and leaves. Doyle
