Derek’s initial reaction was to find it odd that the man in charge of a criminal enterprise involving—at a minimum—drugs, gambling and extortion would have committed the schedule of the spouse of one of his customers to memory. On the other hand, Crowder’s goons had managed to find Derek and roust him without breaking a sweat, and he hadn’t had a permanent address in more than a year, so who was he to question anything?
He had moved as far as McHugh’s front door and was now standing like a goddamn statue, and had been for probably close to a minute. The porch was bathed in low-wattage recessed lighting, so the longer he stood out here the more likely he was to get caught.
And he’d begun to shake. Hell, calling what he was doing “beginning to shake” would be a pathetic understatement. Derek was shivering like he’d wandered into a February blizzard without a coat. It was partly due to nervousness, but mostly because the heroin Crowder had promised as payment for taking on this little job would be withheld until his return.
Crowder was no fool. He’d obviously had plenty of experience dealing with junkies.
But the problem was that Derek really needed a fix. Maybe Crowder had misjudged just how badly Derek was jonesing, or maybe he just didn’t give a damn, but in addition to shaking, Derek was sweating like he’d just run a marathon and he felt weak and washed out. He fingered the pistol in the right-hand pocket of his hoodie, knowing that unless he used the gun to punctuate his threats, McHugh would probably just laugh in his face and then beat the shit out of him.
He’d call the cops after kicking Derek’s ass and Derek would be taken away and that would be that. He would languish in jail, which would probably be to his benefit because if he somehow managed to get himself released, Crowder would hunt his ass down and throw him on a fucking lobster boat.
He sighed deeply and knocked on the door. Not the angry, insistent banging of a thug out to collect an overdue debt, but rather a polite rapping of the knuckles, exactly as Crowder had instructed. “Don’t let him think anything’s wrong until he opens up. Once that happens, force your way inside and get down to business.”
A moment later the door swung open and there he was. Derek had seen a picture of his mark, of course, but in person McHugh looked bigger than he’d expected. He was tall and bulky, muscly, like a bodybuilder, with curly sandy hair and a scowl on his face. Maybe he was unhappy at having his alone time interrupted.
“What do you want?” he grunted. He didn’t seem nervous, but he didn’t seem anxious to chat, either. In fact, he’d barely finished spitting out the question when he began stepping back, preparing to slam the damned door right in Derek’s face.
So Derek pulled out his weapon.
He’d kept his hand in his pocket the entire time, and now he yanked the gun out so enthusiastically it snagged on the side of his pocket and almost tumbled to the floor. Somehow Derek held onto it and even had the presence of mind to stick his foot over the threshold so McHugh couldn’t close the door all the way.
He aimed the gun in McHugh’s general direction and said, “Back away and let me in.”
He managed to keep his voice steady, more or less.
McHugh’s eyes widened and he did as instructed. He glanced back and to his left, a quick shift of his attention before returning his gaze to Derek.
When there was sufficient room that he guessed McHugh would not be able to bum-rush him before he could squeeze off a shot—not that he had any goddamned intention of shooting anyone, but he couldn’t let McHugh know that—Derek stepped inside the house and eased the door closed with his foot. It thudded shut and Derek was filled with the sudden bleak certainty he would never leave this place alive.
“What the hell is this about?” McHugh said, his voice a low growl. It seemed the man was trying to keep his voice down and that struck Derek as odd. After all, they were alone inside the house. But to the extent he could focus on anything—his mind was spinning and he was shaking and sweating and craving heroin—he assumed McHugh had never been victimized by a home invasion before and didn’t really know how to act.
It was a feeling Derek fully understood.
“You know what this is about,” he said.
“I don’t have any cash in the house, if that’s what you’re looking for. I might have a hundred bucks or so in my wallet. It’s yours. Take it and go and we’ll call it even. I won’t even call the cops after you leave.”
Derek scoffed, but inside he was actually considering the offer. A hundred bucks would set him up for the next couple of days. He could float away on the chemical high he needed so fucking badly and nobody would get hurt.
Until Crowder ran him down. Then there would be pain, and plenty of it, and McHugh wouldn’t be the one suffering.
Derek shook his head. “You’d better goddamned well have some cash in here, or at least something of value. I’m not leaving until your debt to Mr. Crowder is satisfied.”
McHugh blinked in surprise. “That’s what this is about? My marker to Crowder?”
“That’s what this is about,” Derek agreed. He continued to train the gun on the man, who continued to speak in a near-whisper, as if they were talking in church or something.
“Jesus,” McHugh said. “Crowder sends one guy? That’s it? And not just one guy, but a guy who’s white as a ghost and looks ready to pass out any minute now?”
“Shut up and gimme the money.” Derek was still scared, of course he was, but
