“Cause like I said, all our guys are known to the cops. We needed fresh meat.”
“Then why make us wear full masks? You’d have a better chance at the pigs not suspecting you if the witnesses said it was black kids who robbed the van.”
“That’s too obvious a diversion, kid. Remember, me and my guys met you at your little recreational club the other day? At least one snitch must have seen it. So when the cops link the robbery to black kids, who do you think the snitches will point their fingers at?”
Ryatt had to admit, he didn’t think this deeply.
Bugsy shook his head. “You don’t understand all this yet. You’re not even shaving, and you’re playing at a man’s game.” From his facial expression, Ryatt could see that Bugsy was trying his best to stop himself from jumping up and throttling him. “We. Did. Not. Plan. To. Kill. You.”
“Then you got nothing to worry about. We’ll finish the transaction and off you go.”
Bugsy bit his lower lip. “Paranoid little shit.”
Chapter 11
December 25, 1981. 01:57 A.M
Ryatt parked the Caddy between the MacSharp truck and the semi, all of them around ten meters apart from each other. Thomas jogged to the car, his eyes widening at the sight of their guests. “You gotta be…”
“No, it’s happening,” Ryatt said.
“You kidnapped the one person you don’t wanna fuck with in Detroit? What the hell?!” Thomas grabbed the hair on his sides. Leo cackled but Ryatt’s face was stern.
“Not now, Buddha. I ain’t ready for your bitching. I literally had a trashy day.” Ryatt put his arm out. “Give me the Eagle.”
Thomas looked at Bugsy apologetically. Then he ambled to the truck and returned with the gun, which he passed to Ryatt.
Ryatt grabbed it and got down. “Clear.”
The trunk lid flew up, and Leo stepped out with a shotgun. He was sweating profusely, his T-shirt smudged with dust and oil.
Finally, Bugsy relaxed and without waiting for instructions, stepped out of the car. So did Roman.
Ryatt had nothing to fear though. The pistol in his hand, ‘Desert Eagle’ the inscription on it read, was a strong backup. As he tapped its hefty barrel against his palm, he got reminded that this gun was not easy to maneuver like the SW. So he brought down his confidence level a notch. “Desert Eagle is heavy. Almost thrice my gun,” Ryatt spoke to Thomas. “Need some training.”
“What’s a Desert Eagle?” Roman asked.
Funny. Ryatt would have thought that Bugsy and Roman didn’t have secrets between them.
“An impressive pistol that’s not going to hit the markets for a few years,” Bugsy answered.
“A prototype,” Thomas said.
“Yes. MacSharp has been stealing designs from Magnum.”
“So they can’t report the hijacking,” Ryatt thought out loud.
“No, they can’t. That’s the whole point. Listen here, kid,” Bugsy said. “Don’t make this any worse for yourself than you already have. Give us the weapon crates, get your damn money, and we’ll pretend this whole thing never happened.”
“What if I wanna?” Ryatt asked.
“What?” Bugsy screwed his face.
“I said what if I wanna make this worse?”
“I don’t get—”
In one casual but flickering movement, Ryatt shot Roman.
On his left knee.
The bones splintered open and a bloody mist sprayed back. Ryatt could visualize the kneecap exploding by the velocity of .44. For all intents and purposes, Roman’s chunky leg was severed. Such was the raw power of this pistol, Ryatt had learned when he first opened the crates and tested it out. The recoil was the worst, but Ryatt was born for taming guns like this. In fact, he kind of liked the kick. What he didn’t like though was the sound. It deafened him for a minute every time he fired the damn pistol. He ought to do something about it.
“Santa Maria…” Roman muttered as his knee buckled under him. He tilted sideways and crashed on the ground like a soaked log.
Bugsy gawked at Roman in horror, then turned to Ryatt, his eyes spewing venom before his mouth did. “What the fuck?!”
As he stepped forward, Leo rammed the butt of the shotgun at the back of his head. Bugsy fell. To make sure he stayed down, Leo repeated the strike. Still Bugsy slowly tried to get up, disoriented.
“I can’t smack any harder,” Leo whined.
“Not like that you can’t,” Ryatt said. “Grab the barrel and hold it like a mallet at a game of high striker.” Ryatt showed him how by doing it empty-handed. “Then whack him in the head. But be sure there’s no round in the chamber.”
Leo emptied the gun and lifted it over his head.
“Stop it.” Thomas got fidgety. “Please, Lolly.”
Leo watched them both like mice peeking out of a hole, unsure.
As Ryatt held his chin and put up a show of pondering, Leo cackled and brought down the stock on Bugsy, who finally went to sleep.
* * *
“What the fuck?” Bugsy asked when he came to and found that he couldn’t move. He was fastened to the metal bedding of the semi, wrists and ankles tied to the corners of the container with nylon ropes. The underboss of a Mafia family sprawled on the floor like an X, butt naked, taught Ryatt an important lesson: never be brash.
“Why?” Bugsy asked. “I told you we ain’t planning to kill you.”
“You really weren’t?” Ryatt scratched his chin.
“No!” Spittle shot out of Bugsy’s mouth.
Hm. Maybe they weren’t. Ryatt was indeed becoming paranoid. Good. That meant he would take better care of himself and stay vigilant.
Ryatt said, “Don’t make no difference.” He walked out of Bugsy’s field of vision. From a corner, he grabbed a device and dragged it
