I scooped out a gob of gel and slathered my brow to kill any eggs that were already there. “See any other cuts?”
He tilted my head back in the lamplight and gave me a good once-over. “I don’t think so, but I can’t tell for sure.”
I rubbed gel over my knuckles. “Good fucking fight.”
“Shit, yeah.” He patted my shoulder and brought the gel to Deluski and Kripsen.
I walked over to them. “Can you guys get Wu home?”
“You bet, boss,” said Kripsen.
“Let me borrow your phone.”
Kripsen handed it over. It took me only a few seconds to get the address before I tossed the phone back to him. Fun as it would be to buy everybody a round, it was time I shoved off.
I found my piece in a pile of weapons on the walk and tucked it into my waistband.
“Where you going, boss?” asked Kripsen.
“I got something I gotta do. You guys get Wu home.”
Suddenly remembering, I reached for my shirt pocket. Good. My shades were still there. I pulled them free and gave them a look. They’d made it through just fine. Smiling, I slipped them on.
I started hoofing, purpose in my gait. I didn’t care that my head ached, didn’t care about my ribs and knuckles either. I wore the wounds like badges, something to be proud of. I’d kicked some ass and tagged myself a fucking force.
I didn’t want to think about where I was going. I wanted to enjoy the moment. Good fucking fight.
I was back.
Nobody would care that I’d taken a beating at the end. What they’d remember was me not backing down. They’d remember how I threw that nasty sucker punch, how I’d stomped that hump’s nuts.
Confidence surged through me. The tattered mission was restored, achievable. I’d take back KOP. My will was too strong. My desire was too great.
I was putt-putting the river on a rented skiff, a breeze drying the blood on my face.
I was very aware of the fact that nobody had made a move against me at the Beat. Even when I was down, catching facefuls of knuckles, nobody tried to arrest or kill me. That told me Mota’s influence over KOP was minimal. Captain or no, he couldn’t turn the police against me. He was a middle manager, a bureaucrat, nothing more. He didn’t send a crew to guard the alley last night. The best he could do was to get a single uniform posted. A clueless uniform. Jimmy.
I wasn’t going to feel bad about Jimmy. Not tonight. I was serving a higher purpose. Together, Maggie and I were going to change this city.
Mota was just a bump in the road. A temporary hurdle. And I was going to end this thing tonight. I was going to kill the bastard.
I angled the boat into one of the many canals built when Lagarto’s brandy trade was the agricultural envy of the Unified Worlds. I passed houses on stilts, drawn curtains and dark windows. An offworld flyer rose into the Big Sleep’s perpetually black sky. Unusual for this neighborhood. Not many offworlders ventured into the residential districts. The dumbass had probably got lost and decided to get his bearings by taking an aerial view. The flyer banked left and headed for the river, buzzing rooftops with its ear-rattling shriek.
I ducked my head as I passed under a low bridge, viny growths scraping through my hair. I turned left and entered a broad canal. Both banks were lined with stilted homes jutting over the water. I couldn’t stop myself from remembering: Niki grew up not far from here. She’d still lived with her parents when Paul and I staked out their home. Back then, Paul and I were young guns hot to make a name for ourselves by nailing a big-time drug dealer, Niki’s father.
Hour after hour, day after day, we’d spied through the windows, watching her brush her hair and read her books and change her clothes. I fell for her. It was as simple as that. I fell, and fell hard.
The earliest days were the best. We each had our demons, but we were still young and stupid enough to believe that our love for each other would conquer all. I didn’t need to stop my enforcer’s ways, and she didn’t need to face the ugly truth that her son-of-a-bitch father had raped her.
But the happy days didn’t last long. The shit we were carrying kept getting in the way, so we broke up and reunited, broke up and reunited, over and over until we each found a way to contain our demons. For me, the secret was booze. For her, pills.
But even then, the demons never stopped nipping at our souls. They took tiny, little bites, nibbles so small we didn’t even notice them until our hearts and souls had been completely devoured.
She’d had the good sense to escape her torment by leaving this world. And me, I was still here. Why, I didn’t know.
Mota’s house shouldn’t be much further. Afraid of making too much noise, I turned off the motor and let the boat coast to a stop before grabbing a pole. I stood in the stern and stabbed the water, driving the pole deep down into the mud, and propelled the boat with a shove. Quietly, almost silently, I moved toward my destination.
Stroke by stroke, I made my approach. Monitors lurked in the water, their reflective eyes watching me pass.
I stopped.
This was it. Mota’s place. Light from a neighbor’s outdoor lamp penetrated enough of the shadows to let me see his back wall. Weighted by the relentless strangle of jungle roots, the porch had partially separated from the rest of the house and hung down in the water.
I’d expected something nicer. Looked like Mota’s intensely manicured image didn’t extend to his house.
The bedroom light was on, shadows shifting on the ceiling. He was home. I poled the skiff to the opposite side of the canal and drove it as far as I could into a thicket of mangrove. I sat down and waited for the light to go out. I’d do him in his sleep.
I’d be the prime suspect. Thanks to Wu, my feud with Mota had been well advertised. And it wouldn’t take much asking around to learn of my new protection racket. They’d come for me. A cop killer.
Did it matter that Mota might’ve killed a cop himself?
I doubted it.
Were this the old days, I wouldn’t sweat it. Back then, I had protection at the highest level. Between Paul and the Bandur cartel, I had free rein. I was untouchable. Bulletproof.
Shit, Mota never would’ve challenged me in the first place.
Damn that SOB. Why couldn’t he have stood down like he was supposed to?
The guy had grown tougher than he used to be, a bona fide badass. But had he gone so bad he could’ve chopped off Froelich’s head? That shit was savage.
The timing of it was hard to contradict. Froelich must’ve died just hours after I ordered the breaking of Jimmy’s legs. Who else could it have been?
I told myself it didn’t matter. Either way, Mota had to die. The mission required it.
My face hurt. I probed my features with my fingers. They felt strange, like I was wearing a puffy mask. My side ached, like somebody had shoved a shiv between my ribs. Despite the pain, I had to smile. Good fucking fight.
The bedroom light went out. My heartbeat moved up a tick. I checked the time. I’d give it a half hour, let him get into a deep sleep first. Let him dream his last dream.
I spent the next thirty concentrating on how I was going to beat the rap. The obvious move would be to frame Wu. After that stink he raised tonight, he’d be an easy mark.
But he was one of mine. That dumb, scar-headed asshole was one of mine.
I twisted my brain, trying to figure a way. All raps were beatable. There was always a way. And I was a fucking master, a frame-job maestro. Evidence was my paint, crime scenes my canvas. The perfect scam was out there. I could find it if I just concentrated. Think, dammit. Just think…
Fuck this brainy shit. I’d kill that dickhead and take his body with me. I’d take it out to the jungle and find a nice private place to dump it. The jungle made quick work of corpses. Geckos and ’guanas. Beetles and maggots. Give it a couple days, and he’d be mulched into shit.
I poled the skiff out from the mangrove and crossed the narrow canal, pulling up to his dilapidated back
