Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

Maybe, in some other life, I could've been a doctor. A cardiologist. Instead of stopping hearts, I could've got them started again. But in this life? I'm nothing more than a man with a fascination, watching as yet another heart makes its last beat.

The door behind me opens.

I don't turn around.

I don't really have to.

Call it intuition, but I know already who it is.

I knew he wouldn't be far behind.

Lorenzo strolls over to stand beside me in the middle of the room, his gun in his hand. He's not going to need it, and he realizes that right away. He lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, that's anti-climatic."

I glance at him. "You sound disappointed."

"I am," he says, slipping his gun into his waistband. "I was kind of looking forward to shooting someone today."

I shouldn't laugh, but I do.

The son of a bitch probably means it.

"You can still shoot him," I say, motioning toward where Fat Joe lays on the concrete floor in a pool of blood, his heart no longer beating.

"No point," he says. "You already killed him."

"No, I didn't." Reaching down, I pick up the knife. "Karissa did."

She doesn't know, though.

She has no idea what kind of wound she inflicted.

She stabbed blindly, aiming to incapacitate, to get away, but she hit him at the perfect angle. I couldn't have done it better myself. The blade went into his inner thigh, slicing right through the femoral artery, and then she twisted it.

She twisted.

As soon as she yanked it back out, I knew he was a goner. He was on the ground, gushing blood, his heart making its last beat in under a minute.

"Huh." Lorenzo steps closer, surveying the guy. "He smells like we need HazMat for clean up."

"Probably do," I say. "It's ether."

He looks at me with surprise before turning back to the guy, hesitating when his eyes find the silver Zippo. He picks it up, shaking his head. "What an idiot."

That's one way to put it.

"We should get out of here before the police show up," I say, turning to head for the door, carrying the knife with me. It's got her fingerprints on it. "I give them twenty minutes, tops."

Lorenzo follows me. I hear him clicking the lighter open and closed as he walks. The fresh air is welcoming when I step outside, after breathing in those ether fumes the past few minutes.

It's got me feeling queasy.

I can't even imagine how Karissa must be feeling.

I don't have time to dwell on that, though.

I turn toward Lorenzo and start to speak when I see him flick the wheel of the lighter with his thumb, igniting it. Son of a bitch.

He tosses it behind him, back into the building, before running.

BOOM

I barely have a chance to duck before the windows blow out, glass shards flying, as the inside of the building goes up in flames. My ears ring from the explosion, the concrete walls keeping most of it contained. Fire burns, though, hot and heavy, catching the fumes and following them straight to the body, the highest concentration of it. Lorenzo rubs his ears with the palms of his hands as he grimaces. "Better make that ten."

The heat radiating from the building is intense.

I can still feel it as I approach my car, concealed over among some trees. I'm about to get in and leave when Lorenzo follows me, slipping into the passenger seat.

"Where are your men?" I ask, annoyed.

"Already left."

"Too bad," I tell him. "Find your own way home. I've got to find Karissa."

He ignores me, settling into the seat. "My place."

"I told you, Lorenzo. I've—"

"Got to find Karissa," he says, cutting me off. "Heard you loud and clear. And if you want to go out there and tear the city apart looking for her, be my guest, but it'll be much easier just to, you know, go to my place."

Reaching over, I grab ahold of his shirt, yanking him toward me. "What the hell did you do?"

"Relax," he says, holding his hands up defensively. "Just had my men take her there for safekeeping."

Safekeeping.

There's no such thing as far as Lorenzo is concerned.

I barely make it out of the park before I hear the sirens, red and blue lights flashing in the distance, heading straight for the fire. My heart pounds ferociously at the barrage of police cars passing us. I wait for one of them to stop. Wait for one of them to recognize my car.

But we get through without incident, and once we do, I start to speed. I weave through traffic, heading out of Manhattan, right to Bensonhurst. Lorenzo says nothing the whole way there, staring out the window, his posture casual.

None of this bothers him.

I park right near the abandoned pink house and follow Lorenzo across the street, to the townhouse. As soon as we step inside, I hear the chaos. His men are everywhere, scrambling and shouting.

It stirs up a bad feeling in my gut.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Lorenzo says, strolling down the hallway. "What's going on in here?"

A guy turns to him, pinching a bloody rag to his nose. "The bitch punched me!"

Lorenzo's eyes widen as I freeze, staring at him. Did he really just say what I think he did? "And which bitch would that be?"

The guy looks at me, just now noticing I'm here, too caught up in his own circumstances to realize what's going on around him. The color immediately drains from his face, turning him a shade of white I'm not sure I've ever seen before on someone still living. "I, uh… I mean… nobody. I didn't mean…"

He's stammering, starting to sweat, as he blinks rapidly, like he's about to pass out and lose consciousness. Huh. Figured a man who worked for Lorenzo would have more balls than that.

"Yeah, so she broke your nose," Lorenzo chimes in, reaching over and grabbing the guy by the nose, roughly squeezing it. The guy screams as blood starts soaking through the rag. "Suck it up, buttercup. If you'd rather, I'm sure Ignazio would be happy to put you out of your misery."