Poletto’s initial reaction was short-lived, however, as the Quiet Man jabbed him in the face.
Lowry had been through a lot of street warfare. He’d witnessed his fair share of prize fights, many of them sanctioned, but most of them not. He’d seen and taken part in many back-alley beatings. But he’d never seen a punch like this.
The speed of it was stunning, but it was the precision that had truly made Lowry gape, how the man’s hand shot forward mechanically like an oiled piston hammering through a cylinder.
Poletto’s head snapped back, his eyes pinching shut. Another scream echoed across the yard. He staggered into the trees. The Quiet Man followed.
That punch…
A thing of beauty. Order in the face of chaos. Engineering. Pugilistic art.
It was the punch more than anything—more than the fact that the man had the right height, the right hair, the right build, more than the fact that the man had appeared precisely before the attack on the Ramirez house—that made Lowry know.
It was him. It was the Quiet Man.
No normal man could punch like that.
Poletto grabbed a branch; and, as the Quiet Man lunged toward him, he pulled it back and released. It snapped into the Quiet Man, fazing him for just a moment—long enough for Poletto to level his gun.
But the Quiet Man grabbed the barrel before Poletto could squeeze the trigger. He twisted, wrenching the weapon from Poletto’s grip, and immediately reversed his momentum into a backhanded strike, acquainting Poletto’s face with the butt of the pistol.
A plume of blood snaked from Poletto’s mouth. Another scream.
The Quiet Man lunged again, this time putting his hands around Poletto’s neck. Poletto produced a knife from a sheath on his belt and jabbed at the man, who quickly juked to the side. The blade missed everything, even the flapping edge of the man’s sport coat.
The Quiet Man grabbed Poletto’s hand, twisted it, and brought the knife toward Poletto’s chest.
The two men struggled, all four of their hands on the knife’s handle, arms quivering. The Quiet Man was stronger, though, and he inched the blade closer and closer to Poletto.
Finally, with a surge of energy, the Quiet Man simultaneously thrust the blade between Poletto’s ribs and clamped his free hand over Poletto’s mouth.
Lowry could just discern, from a distance, Poletto’s eyes going wide. Death wide. His entire body shook as he stared at the Quiet Man for a few painful, pitiful moments. Then his body went limp, eyes still open.
The Quiet Man crouched down, bringing Poletto’s body to the earth. He regarded it for a half moment, then gave it a shove, rolling it into the trees.
And then he jumped to his feet and turned. Looking right at Lowry.
Oh, shit!
Lowry locked eyes with him. The man was now fully out of the shadows, completely revealed in the muted light. Those sharp, angular features Lowry had seen moments earlier were clear and defined with cold dark eyes looking out of them.
He hadn’t moved yet. Just stared at Lowry. A showdown. But Lowry could see energy about to explode from him—a sprinter on the line, a gunslinger about to draw.
And then it happened.
The man bolted toward him.
Unbelievable! There was no way the man could catch him. No way in hell. A block and a half separated them. And Lowry was in a car.
Yet Lowry still fumbled in his haste as he reached for the stick shift. He pounded the gas, dropped the clutch, and the 3000GT’s all-wheel drive grabbed the pavement with a chirp.
He peeled off—yanked the wheel to the right and squealed around the corner.
Ahead was a major road, Suez Street, the road he’d turned off to get to Ramirez’s shitty little house. Traffic. Bright streetlights. Benches. A well-lit restaurant. He shifted into second, barreled toward Suez.
He looked to the rearview. The Quiet Man was still running in his direction. And now he held a pistol.
Lowry buried the gas pedal. Almost to the street.
Another look in the rearview, and the Quiet Man had slowed to a stop. He was now a dark silhouette at the edge of the Ramirez property, pistol dangling by his side, watching.
Lowry slowed slightly at Suez Street, quickly checked for traffic, and then took another squealing turn.
He didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to do next. He’d barely considered the fact that the plan at the Ramirez house had failed—let alone the implications of that failure.
He just knew he needed to put some immediate distance between him and the monster two blocks back.
Chapter Two
Silence Jones stood at the edge of the yard, watching where the 3000GT had made its screeching, violent disappearance.
It had been Rupert Lowry he’d seen through the windshield. Silence recognized the face from the photos he’d been given. Long features with a pointy nose, thin eyebrows, a mustache and hair on his chin—a countenance brimming with twitchy, primal energy, a dark-shoulder-length-haired, blue-eyed bad boy, grungy cool in a natural way, not a purchased-at-the-mall way. Silence hadn’t expected to face the head honcho tonight.
Movement behind him. He turned. The house. A figure in one of the front windows. A woman, just visible in the shadows, clutching the drapes. Even from a distance, Silence could see her shaking.
He holstered his Beretta 92FS and crossed the yard.
The porch’s floorboards squeaked with his weight. An earthy smell of faint rot, wood exposed to Florida humidity too long. He rapped on the door twice.
The door moved immediately, but the person who’d been waiting behind it opened it incredibly slowly. A cautious delay. When the gap was two inches wide, it stopped growing.
A woman peered out of the sliver of open space, the same woman he’d seen in the window. The house beyond was mostly dark, lit by a single lamp, most likely. He couldn’t discern much of her, just dark, wavy hair, an almond-shaped eye, and olive, Hispanic skin.
“Thank you,” the woman whispered. “Who … who are
