The Harley makes noise, attracting attention, but Harleys aren’t uncommon in this neighborhood. The Aston Martin would’ve stood out like a sore thumb.
I quickly locate the address. The house sits in the middle of a row of semi-detached units. Like all the houses in the block, the lights are on. A television blares from next door. Loud heavy metal comes from the other side. The driveway gate stands open. It looks to be broken. I pull inside and park my Harley behind the one standing under an army-style camouflage awning. The old army edition tells me the guy is military. Old school.
Keeping my gloves and helmet on, I activate the infrared in the visor and cut through the weeds in the front garden to his door. I don’t pick up an alarm system. Avoiding unnecessary attention from the neighbors, I don’t knock or kick the door down. I pick the flimsy lock in five seconds. The hallway is empty. Smells of pepperoni and cheese hang in the air. The sounds of a sitcom come from a room on the right. A bluish light falls from the arch.
Locking the door behind me, I pocket the key. I remove my helmet and leave it quietly on the floor before clicking off the safety and pointing the Glock in front of me as I stalk toward the sound and light. I pause before every doorframe, surveilling each room as I go. The first room on the left holds an unmade bed and a ramshackle dresser. Clothes are scattered over the floor. A pair of worn boots stand next to a rocking chair.
An arch gives access to a kitchen with a gas stove covered in food residue. Dirty dishes are stacked high in the sink. I cross the floor, taking care not to make a sound, and lock the back door. I slip that key into my pocket too and back up into the hallway. A toilet is visible through the doorway at the end of the corridor. The only remaining room is the one where the noise is coming from.
The good news is that the guy lives alone. I tighten my finger on the trigger and walk into the lounge. A gorilla of a man sits on a brown corduroy sofa, facing an old CRT television. An empty pizza box lies open at his feet. The man gives a start. He reaches for something under the sofa, but I’m pressing the barrel of the gun against his temple and stepping on his hand before he can grab what he’s looking for.
He utters a cry of pain. “The fuck?”
Crunching the heel of my boot down on his knuckles, I kick the shotgun he was reaching for away with my other foot.
“You fucking broke my hand,” he whimpers.
I lift my boot. “That was the idea. Do I need to break anything else?”
Knowing how this works, he cradles his injured hand against his vest-clad chest and glares at me. “No.”
“Good. You’re ex-military.”
He narrows his eyes. “Mercenary.”
“My point is I’m not taking any chances. Move, and I’ll shoot you in the knee. I’m not in the mood for a fight, so save us both the trouble. If you give me what I want, I won’t have to leave you with a bullet in your kidney, bleeding out on this nice, snazzy sofa.”
“The fuck you want?”
“Something you shouldn’t have taken. Since you don’t have much of value in this dump, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and deduce you have enough brain cells to know what it is.”
He sneers. “That bitch sent you?”
I push the barrel harder, indenting the pale skin of his temple. “What bitch would that be?”
“There’s only one bitch rich enough to pay a collector. Must be that Gia chick.”
“You do have some intelligence after all. I want the video you took.”
He laughs, turning his face so that the barrel is pointing straight between his eyes. “Why would I give you shit?”
I knew he was going to be a tough bastard. Scum like him doesn’t scare easily. “How much did Elliot pay you?”
He spits the words at me. “None of your fucking damn business.”
“You didn’t think it through, did you? It seems you’re not so clever.”
“Say what you came here to say or pull the trigger,” he snarls. “I’m giving you jack shit.”
“Do you know who Gia Starley is?”
“A rich, pretty, bored chick.”
“As much as I hate being a sexist prick, let me define her status for you by name of her husband. She’s Mrs. Gus Starley.”
“So?” He rocks back and forth, clutching his wrist. His right hand is quickly swelling to the size of a cricket ball. “Who gives a damn?”
“You should give a damn. Gus Starley is the big boss of the IT mafia. If you’re not familiar with his reputation, just follow the trail of bodies linked to his name.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
The guy is fucking slow. “Where’s your phone?”
“In my pocket.”
“Take it out. No tricks, or I’ll blow off your trigger finger.”
He shoves his good hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone with some effort.
“Type the name in your browser,” I instruct. “See what comes up.”
Keeping one eye on me, the idiot does as I ordered. His pale skin turns even whiter as he looks at his screen.
“Why do you think Elliot Starley paid you to sleep with his stepmother and film it?”
The guy gapes like a fish out of water. “To blackmail her for money?”