Fuck, Cillian. Know I owe you. And I do. But I'm getting out. Retiring. Can't do that kinda shit. Too dangerous. Still owe you. But not that.
Then he'd walk away. Because he could--that was the reward for being at the top of the food chain. He'd owe Cillian an explanation for his refusal, which was more than any other client would get. But if Jack said no, Jack meant no. End of discussion. That was the rep he'd earned.
At five minutes to eleven, Cillian strolled around the corner, and all Jack could think was, "Fuck, he's gotten old." Which was, sadly, what he thought about most of his former colleagues these days. Cillian couldn't be more than seventy but fuck if he didn't look eighty-seven. A long and hard life.
He was about to do one last perimeter check when he saw Cillian nod, as if to someone passing on the street. Except there was no one on that particular stretch of road.
Fuck.
Jack strode to the roof edge and adjusted his position so neither he nor his shadow would be spotted. Then he peered into the dark alley below and . . .
Fuck.
A guy stood in the shadows. Youngish--early thirties, Nadia's age. Young compared to him, a fact of which he was not unaware.
The guy leaned casually against the brick wall. Just a guy enjoying a smoke. Nothing to see here. His sight line, however, lined up perfectly with Cillian's table.
Fuck.
Don't pull this shit, Cillian. Tell me you just got nervous. Asked one of your boys to keep an eye on this meeting because, hell, it's been thirty years. You don't know me anymore, so I'll allow the backup, even if I'm kinda insulted.
The problem? The really big problem? If that guy in the shadows wasn't just there to protect his boss.
Fuck.
Jack crossed to the other side. He hopped from the roof to the fire escape balcony. Okay, yeah, "hop" was pushing it. He was in fucking good shape for fifty-one, but still not at the age where one "hops" off roofs. Still, he managed the descent easily enough and took no small amount of satisfaction in that.
Off the roof. Down the fire escape. Hop onto a Dumpster. And that was a hop, being only a two-foot drop. A little more than a hop in the descent to ground level. Then through the back alley, heading toward the one hiding Cillian's thug. When he reached the corner, he peeked around. The guy was still there, still looking toward the road.
Jack sized up the distance between them. Thirty feet. There was another trash bin, maybe ten feet this side of the guy. He flexed his ankle, the one he'd broken last spring. Just a little sore from jumping to reach the fire escape. A necessary reminder he wasn't twenty anymore and couldn't pull stupid twenty-year-old shit.
He took three careful steps across the alley, then three quick ones to get into the shadow of that trash bin. He climbed onto it with surprising ease--Don't get cocky, Jack--and held his breath for two seconds, making sure his target hadn't caught the movement.
The guy checked his watch.
Yeah, I'm late. Give me a minute . . .
Jack eased along the trash bin, each step taken with extreme care so the metal didn't creak underfoot. N
ow the tricky part. Step up to the edge, crouch and . . .
He leapt and hit the guy in the shoulder, knocking him down. Then he grabbed the guy's leg and hauled him behind the bin, which might have been the toughest part--the guy was not small. He wasn't too fucking smart, either. Instead of going for his weapon, he just flailed, as if he could throw Jack off.
Jack tossed him behind the bin and the guy finally remembered he had a gun. He didn't even get it out before a barrel pressed against the back of his neck.
"You got anything to say?" Jack asked.
"What?"
He spoke slower. "Got anything to say?"
"You fucking--"
Jack slammed his foot between the guy's shoulder blades. "That's a no." He patted the guy down, taking a gun, two knives and brass knuckles. People still used brass knuckles?
He shook his head and pocketed the weapons along with two cell phones. The guy squawked, saying, "Private property, you--"
Another slam sent him face-first into the dirt.