About half-an-hour ago, the crew that was working on my end of the street finally packed up and left.
It’s about 7pm now, and I’ve been able to infiltrate the electric fence that surrounds the property.
This is my last chance, but it’s also the best one I’ve had yet.
I have little doubt that Santino was here this morning—I can almost smell him in the air—and I’m betting my entire life on the hope that he still is.
I sneak behind a dumpster while Finn circles the premise. There’s still a small construction crew left behind, but they’re only covering the front entrance. I go around back and find a way in.
“Are you ready?” I whisper into my earpiece.
“Let’s do this,” Finn replies.
I take a deep breath and try the back-entrance door. It doesn’t open, but with a little convincing from the butt of my Glock, the handle falls to the ground and the door creaks open.
I push my way inside.
The warehouse is dim and quiet. The only sound I can make out is the drip of a leaking pipe echoing off somewhere in the distance. I creep around and listen for a sign, any sign.
The place is huge and empty. The floor is strewn with huge shipping containers and debris and the only light is what’s seeping in through the holes in the roof. On a windier day, the warehouse might be a filled with the loud racket of howling wind, but there’s barely been a breeze out today.
The leaking pipe drips like a metronome, and I try to time my footsteps to it. My gut tightens with every second that passes. Santino has to be here, or I’m fucked. I’m almost tempted to call his name and try to smoke him out—I’d rather he scurry outside to be caught by Finn than have him stay hidden in the shadows of this warehouse for one second longer.
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I’m just about ready to do something drastic, when I hear it.
A cough. My heart stops and I freeze in place. What direction did that come from? It’s almost impossible to tell, the echo of the noise fills up the empty warehouse. Still, I don’t move. Most people don’t cough just once. Wherever the next cough comes from is where I’m going, it’s where Santino has to be.
I close my eyes and wait. The drip from the leaking pipe sounds as loud as ever.
Suddenly, I hear what I’m waiting for. The second cough.
I know where it’s coming from.
My pulse kicks into gear but I keep my footsteps calm and in sync with the dripping pipe as I tiptoe around a big yellow shipping container. The further I walk, the more I can hear. Rustling paper. A shifting chair. There’s no doubt about it: someone’s here.
I turn a final corner and see someone sitting on a chair; his feet are up on a rickety table and he has a magazine pulled up over his face—I can’t tell who it is, but I’m not about to hesitate.
I take aim and click the safety off of my gun. The sound echoes through the giant warehouse. It’s enough to make the man sitting before me freeze.
I’m so ready to blow this motherfucker’s head off that I can barely wait as he slowly lowers the magazine from his face. The first thing I see is the bloody bandage wrapped around his forehead, the second thing I see are his eyes—the same eyes that have taunted me since I failed to put a bullet between them three nights ago.
Santino Costa.
It’s him.
It’s over.
I squeeze my trigger, and the warehouse is filled with the sound of thunder.
Santino’s dead body is heavy, and I don’t get him far before I hear the heavy grating sound of the warehouse’s front entrance opening up.
Panicked voices fill the room, but I can’t understand what they’re saying... it almost sounds like they’re speaking—
Before I can finish that thought, the warehouse is again filled with the sound of gunshots. A bullet whizzes right by my ear and ricochets off the shipping container behind me. I look up and see a construction worker with a pistol.
Fuck.