Iron House

Why was I on the streets?

Yeah. The old man turned his lips, tilted his head. Smart kid. Good looking. You could have gone to the authorities, anybody. Why take the hard road? Why the streets?

I had my reasons.

That’s all you’re going to say?

Humor shone in the old man’s eyes, a kind of pride.

Yes, sir.

Whatever you were running from, Michael, it can’t touch you now. You know that, right? Not here. Not with me.

I know that.

And you still won’t tell me?

I have reasons for that, too.

He’d ruffled the boy’s hair, and, laughing, said, A man should have his reasons.

And in all this time, Michael had never told him why he’d chosen the hard road. Because the old man was right. A man should have his reasons.

And his secrets.

Michael straightened the old man’s arms and smoothed the blanket across his chest. He kissed one still-warm cheek, then the other; when he stood, tears burned hot in his eyes. He lifted Hemingway’s novella from the bedside table, then stood for a long while, looking down. “You were good to me,” he said, and when he left, he took the book.

He had reasons for that, too.

CHAPTER FOUR

There were people in the world who could kill better than Michael. A rifle shot from a thousand yards was beyond his skill, as were explosives and poisons and mass murder of any kind. He’d come into the business fighting for his life, and that was all about up close and personal. It was about food and shelter and keeping the blood in his veins. Those lessons came fast on the street, and Michael knew as a child that it was better to be vicious than soft, fast than slow. He learned to steal and scheme and wound, and that was his gift, an utter lack of mental weakness. Jimmy had simply taken that gift and magnified it. He’d honed a natural capacity for violence, then taught Michael an economy of movement that he still found satisfying.

Michael thought of Donovan. Old and gray. White stubble on his face. Jimmy would be appalled that Michael let him live, but Jimmy was not Michael’s only teacher. There was also the old man, and it was his death that taught Michael how he wished to live. Not once during his slow decline did the old man dwell on money or power or reputation. He lamented that his son lacked depth. He pined for women lost and the daughters he never had. A world too narrowly embraced.

Make a good life…

There had never been more than a small chance that Stevan would let Michael quit the life peacefully, either to honor the wishes of his father or to avoid the kind of grief that Michael could lay at his door. But small as the chance may have been, it was gone, now. Michael had killed his father when he would not, and shot dead six of his men. As long as Michael lived, Stevan would look weak, and that made killing Michael good business. But, it would be personal, too, and personal made things unpredictable.

Michael moved fast.

In the security room, he disabled the security cameras, front and back, then removed the zip drives. Stevan would know who’d done this, but Michael’s plans left no room for video proof. He wanted out of the life, and he wanted out clean.

Checking his appearance, Michael saw red spatter on the legs of his pants, his shirt, the backs of his hands. Normally, he would never risk a public appearance in anything but spotless condition. He would change and bag the clothes, strip the guns, and dispose of the pieces in any number of quick and efficient ways. Storm drains. Dumpsters. The East River. But the circumstances were not normal. There’d been no planning, no intent to kill the old man or wage war. The entire event had taken eighty seconds, and Michael was on autopilot, moving fast. Stevan was out there somewhere. Jimmy remained alive and Elena was on the street, unprotected.

Outside, Michael fired up the Navigator and blew south. He needed to get out of the city, and Elena had to come, too. Michael felt a moment’s guilt as the lies he would tell spooled out like video, but truth would be the matter of another day.

This was about living long enough to tell it.

Halfway to Tribeca, he hit heavy traffic. He called the restaurant from his cell and asked for Elena. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Paul’s angry.”

“Am I fired?”

“Do you care?”

“I care about you.” Michael tried to make it light, but she did not respond to the silence that followed. She was angry, and Michael understood that. “Listen, I’ll be there soon. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go?”

“Just don’t leave the restaurant.”

Michael hung up the phone and tried to bull through the dense stream of cars. He gunned one narrow gap after another, horns blaring, heavy car rocking. Twice, he rode tires onto the curb, and twice it made no difference. Traffic was a snarl of impatient metal. When he got to Tribeca, more than an hour had passed. Sixty-two minutes since he’d killed the old man. Michael double-parked the big SUV across from the restaurant. He checked parked cars and windows on the narrow street. Pedestrians were thick on the sidewalk. Michael slipped one pistol into the glove compartment and tucked the other under his jacket. He figured two minutes to get Elena someplace quiet, another three to get her away from the restaurant. Michael had money. They would fade into the city, and then he would get her out. Someplace with mountains, he thought. Someplace green. He felt the future like it was already there, but the future could be a tricky bitch. His cell phone rang as he killed the engine. He looked at the screen, and it rang four more times before he answered.

He knew the number.

Stevan’s number.

He opened it feeling unease and regret and pity. For all his faults, Stevan had loved his father. “Hello, brother.”

For long seconds, Michael heard only breath, and he could picture Stevan on the other end of the line, his manicured nails and lean face, dark eyes that were prideful and hurt. Stevan played strong, but deep down, he needed to see himself reflected in the faces of other men; he drew strength from their fear and envy, defined himself by their perception rather than his own. But his father knew better, and preferred Michael’s company for that reason. They were stripped down, the both of them, free of illusion and false want. Power, for them, was a tool to secure food, shelter, safety. That’s what childhood taught them.

Appearance means nothing.

Stevan never grasped the difference, never understood why Michael shined so brightly in his father’s eyes; and when his voice came over the phone, Michael knew that years of jealousy and distrust had finally darkened to something more.

“He made you family, Michael. You had nothing. You were nobody.”

“Your father was in pain.”

“The choice was not yours to make.”

“I loved him. He begged me.”

“You think you’re the only one he begged? Where do you get the arrogance? He’d have asked the cleaning lady, a stranger, anybody.”