His arms flailed in every direction, balled fists looking to land another strike on my chin.
I stepped on his arm, pinning it to the floor. “You know, I’m trying really hard to not hurt you, pal.”
Jessie continued thrashing, fighting to get away. I pressed the Beretta against his forehead, looking him dead in his wide, fearful eyes.
Heavy footfalls sounded from the hallway. Jessie stared at me. I kept the Beretta pressed to his skull as I looked at the door.
Shit.
We were about to have company.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CORY
The wood floor creaked a warning from outside the loft. Jessie drew a sharp breath, but remained silent. I looked to him, keeping the Beretta fixed against his head.
“Oh, shit. They’re here,” he said, his voice unsteady.
“Who’d you sell the data to?” I asked, sounding more animal than man. “We’re out of time. Spill it.”
“Sanchez Domingo. Now get off me.” Jessie yanked at his arm, trying to free it from under my shoe.
The door swung inward, slamming against the wall. Multiple beams of light swept from the hallway into the loft.
I ducked and stepped over Jessie’s body. He scrambled from the floor and ran toward the back part of the apartment.
Gunfire erupted from the entrance.
Jessie ran hard with his head ducked and arms covering his head. The incoming rounds hammered the brick wall near him and the staircase he ran toward.
I returned fire from behind a beige love seat that had seen better days. The Beretta barked, firing round after round at the surge of men who barged into the loft.
Bullets punched the back of the love seat and tore through to the front, past my head. I lowered even more, lying prone on my stomach. Foam and feathers rained down around me like snow.
Jessie ran alongside the stairs, heading for the landing. He jerked, his hand clamping down on his thigh as he fell to the floor.
“Hold your damn fire,” an agitated voice shouted over the hammering gunfire.
I laid on the floor, still and silent. The gunfire had all but ceased, trickling off to silence. Jessie groaned in pain, out of my sight.
“We need him alive, you idiots,” the agitated man said. “He’s no use to us dead. Think.”
I sat up from the floor, then peered over the top of the love seat. Two men in dark, black jackets wearing gas masks took positions near the entrance with rifles shouldered. Standing between them, a shorter, stout man with one hand on his hip pointed out over the loft. He looked familiar. It took me a second to realize who he was. Stocky.
“Whoever’s got the heat, toss it out now and come out,” Stocky said. “We’ve got you pinned down, and there is no place for you to go. If you want a quick death, that’s your best option. If you want it slow and painful, I can grant you that as well.”
Jessie wailed in pain from across the loft. I couldn’t lay eyes on him from where I crouched. A slew of cuss words fled his mouth between each cry.
“Yeah. I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” I crawled toward the edge of the love seat. “Besides, I’ve seen how you and your men operate. I think I’ll take my chances. It worked out pretty well at that shithole house.”
Stocky grew silent. “Hold on. How did you know—” He paused again. “Oh shit. It’s you.”
“Why don’t you and your men cut your losses and leave? This isn’t going to work out the way you want it to,” I replied.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,” Stocky shouted. “I can promise that you’re not going to make it out of here alive. How you want to leave this world, painless or not, is up to you. But make no mistake, you are going to die here today, and I will find the woman.”
He spoke similarly to Scarface, as if he did his victims a favor by offering them a choice in how they met their end.
I peeked around the side of the love seat, and through the open space between a stack of leaning boxes near the entryway.
Stocky skimmed over the ratty piece of furniture, then pointed at his man near the table and chairs. The masked man moved toward the table with his rifle shouldered.
I popped off a few rounds in his direction, clipping him in the arm. He stumbled against the wall and fell out of sight.
The other gunman and Stocky fired at the love seat. I backed away on my hands and knees, then returned fire. Both men ducked and took cover. I got to my feet and made my way back to Jessie.
The Beretta clicked empty. I dropped to the floor, hitting with a dense thud. Both kneecaps smashed into the wooden planks, sending a wave of pain lancing through my body.
Jessie dragged his body around the banister to the landing. A mural of blood painted the planks of wood behind him.
Stocky and his men held their positions, ceased firing, and peered in our direction. “Sounds like you’re empty, friend. Bad luck for you, I’m afraid.”
I ejected the spent magazine, pulled a fresh mag from the pocket of my coat, and slapped it into the well. I cycled a round and stayed low. “Why don’t you come closer and find out if I am.”
“I don’t know who you are or why you’re involved in this, but I’ll make a deal with you.” Stocky stayed low, as did both of his other men. I scanned the kitchen and the entryway for any targets, but only caught a sliver of their coats and bodies as they jockeyed for a better position.
“What’s that? You leave, take your
