by Jason Pinter
Amanda.
“So you wanted to see me?” I said. Forty-five minutes ago, Amanda called me at the office, told me to meet her outside. She said it was important. And she didn’t use that term lightly.
“So what’ya writing?” she asked. She reached for my notebook, and I tucked it away.
“Wallace gave me an assignment to write a story about these—” I pointed to the large insects swarmed by tourists “—things. I never got around to it last time, so I’m making amends.”
“Sounds like a nice little human interest piece,” she said. She wrapped her arms around my neck. I could smell her, sweet and light, a scent to wake up to forever. “Know any other humans that interest you?”
I smiled. “I can think of one, but I haven’t run a DNA check to make sure she’s not from the planet Melmac.”
She playfully punched my arm, then lowered herself into my lap. Amanda leaned in and nuzzled her cheek against mine. I felt her lips brush my nose, my ear. I could taste her on my tongue. Amanda. The woman who saved my life.
Then I felt something kick my leg, looked up to see a young girl on the ground. She’d tripped over my foot, but jumped up like an acrobat in training, brushed off her overalls.
“Ta-da!” she squealed, like she’d meant to do it all along.
“Alyssa!” Her mother came jogging up, holding a New York City map and a Dean & DeLuca bag. “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “Kids can be clumsy.”
“Not a problem,” I said. I leaned down so my face was close to Alyssa’s, Amanda’s arms still clenched around my neck. “Careful there, Alyssa, you don’t want to disturb these guys.” I pointed to the spiders.
“Why not?” she asked, her little mouth confused, but spread in a mischievous grin.
“Because if you don’t watch out, they might…” Then I began tickling Amanda, until she squirmed and squealed out of my arms. Alyssa was clapping and jumping, giggling like a baby.
“Or else they tickle you?” she asked.
“Exactly.”
Her mother smiled at me, took Alyssa’s hand and led her away.
“What can I say,” I said, pecking Amanda on the lips. “Kids love me.”
“I think she was sweet on you,” Amanda said, her jeweled eyes laying me open. “Do I have anything to be jealous about?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve decided to forgo my gorgeous, mature girlfriend in lieu of a much younger woman whose parents have a more stable bank account and a good sandbox.”
She kissed me, placed her hand on my chest where the bullet had torn through my skin.
“How does it feel?” she asked.
“Still burns sometimes, but not as bad. Doc says it’ll hurt more in the winter. That gives me about three months of summer sun, and after that you’ll have to keep me warm.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem.”
“So what’s the emergency? Sounded important.”
“It is,” she said. She took the notebook from my hand, kissed it, then reached into her pocket. When she looked up her face was serious, more serious than I’d seen in a long time.
“I want you to have this,” Amanda said. “I’ve never given one to anybody before, but…” Her voice trailed off. “You deserve to see it.”
Into my palm, she placed a notebook of her own. The cover looked familiar. I opened it up. There were two words written at the top of the page. Carl Bernstein.
“Remember that night in my car, how you wanted to know what I could possibly have learned in such a short amount of time?” I nodded, knew that night vividly. “Well, now I want you to know what I thought about you that day. Go ahead, look.”
I read it.
Carl Bernstein
Early to midtwenties. No baggage other than a backpack, all alone. There’s a look in his eyes like something I’ve never seen, a tenderness that seems to come from out of nowhere. Like he’s scared, vulnerable. He acts like I’ve saved the life of somebody I’ve just met.
I scanned the rest of the page. When I was through, I stood up, gathered Amanda into my arms and swung her around, our lips never parting, until my rib hurt and I had to put her down.
Amanda leaned down and kissed my shirt, right where the slug had entered my body. She rose back up and grinned. “I think scars are actually kind of manly. And you know what I like most about them?”
“What?” I asked.
“You never know exactly what’s below them.” She smiled. “Now come on, hero, you have a story to write.” We both laughed and walked down the street, arm in arm. Amanda laid her head on my shoulder. Kissing her forehead, I held her tight.
Never to look back.
Epilogue
The cold wind snapped and bit Michael DiForio’s face as he stepped off the curb. An aide he’d never met stepped into an ankle-deep puddle as he opened the door to the Oldsmobile. Fucking new guys, DiForio thought. All utterly worthless.
They’d had to take on extra help after Barnes massacred four men in that run-down building on 80th Street. The new faces only added to the disharmony, only made their family weaker. And over the last few weeks, Michael’s family barely had the strength to continue.
In the last three weeks, nearly all of DiForio’s protection had ceased communication, fell off the face of the damn earth. Most had simply stopped responding to phone calls, others would whisper stop calling and hang up. That’s why the new faces. That’s why the whole thing had gone up in smoke.
According to a Lieutenant at the 53rd Precinct, several weeks after Henry Parker’s vindication on three counts of first-degree murder, every officer, politician and newsman on the DiForio payroll received a mysterious package in the mail. Inside each package was a reprint of a photograph that Michael recognized as the handiwork of the late Hans Gustofson. Accompanying these photos was a letter, warning that unless all illegal activities were ceased immediately, the pictures in question would be released to the press.
Half the cops were scared shitless. The others all had a “change of heart.” The photo album had disappeared completely. And countless hours and dollars had been thrown out the window.
We can’t work for you anymore, Michael. We swore an oath to the city.
Goddamn fucking saints going back on their word after they’d already taken Michael for thousands. Cut him off, just like that. That goddamn Parker was behind it. He had to be.
Michael’s first order of business was to find Henry Parker and end him. The kid had ruined so much, Michael wasn’t sure how much was salvageable. Regardless, vengeance had to be dealt, and swiftly. Michael had to regain control.
Blanket slid into the backseat next to DiForio. A portly driver who reeked of fried onions got behind the wheel. Blanket gestured to the new man, who gave Michael a nervous nod.
“Boss, this is Kenny. Kenny’ll be driving you for the time being until we take on more help.” DiForio gave Kenny a quick nod, nothing more.
Kenny turned the ignition and began to ease out of the driveway. He braked abruptly, then started up again, sending Michael lurching forward. Kenny clearly hadn’t done much driving outside of the pizza truck or wherever they’d found his sorry ass. Kenny pulled out of the complex, zipping along at four miles an hour, like a teenager afraid to piss off his driving instructor.
Henry Parker. A twenty-four-year-old kid, had all but ruined him.
The album was gone. Gustofson and Fredrickson were dead, as was Shelton Barnes. Leonard Denton, a reliable soldier for years, was dead. Luis and Christine Guzman were in protective custody. So many soldiers dead. The rest deserting like rats from a ship.
DiForio had known all along about Denton’s history, figured sooner or later it would catch up to him. Talk about shitty timing, even if he wanted to take out Parker right now—which he did, oh, God, how he did—goddamn video surveillance was on him like the clap on a prostitute.
The papers didn’t mention a funeral for the third man, didn’t even identify the man’s name. Didn’t mat
ter. He wasn’t worth a funeral. And for the second time, Michael DiForio had killed Shelton Barnes. And this time, he wasn’t coming back.
“Hey, Ken, whatever the fuck your name is, you want to step on it?”
“Ken’s new, Mike,” Blanket replied. “You’ll get used to him.”
“I’ll be late for my own fucking funeral the way he drives. Hey, Ken, you see that movie about a bomb on the bus? You go a mile an hour under fifty the rest of the way and I’ll cut your fucking ears off.”
Ken nodded. The mood he was in, Michael just might keep his word.
Ken pressed his foot down on the gas and DiForio watched the speedometer climb to five, then ten, fifteen. At least Ken listened. It was a start.
As the car passed through the wrought-iron gates, a tremendous explosion shattered the air, and the car erupted into an enormous, golden fireball he detonation knocked down dozens of pedestrians, shattering windows up to three blocks away.
Orange flames shot into the sky as the fuselage caught fire, sending the car’s chassis ten feet into the air. Molten debris rained across the street.
When the car crashed to earth, black smoke pouring from the windows, people gathered around the smoldering wreckage, whispering in hushed tones, hands over their mouths to stifle the horror. Cell phones were taken out, 911 immediately inundated with horrified callers. Most simply watched the car burn, gasping at the charred corpses inside. Wondering who’d fallen victim to such a ghastly fate.
Slowly one man began to make his way through the crowd. He was tall and his skin was pale. Thin, like he’d recently lost a tremendous amount of weight. His cheeks were sunken and he wore dark sunglasses, a thick black overcoat wrapped around his gaunt frame. He walked with a slight limp and held his right arm in a sling. The man stepped forward, carefully winding his way through the gaping onlookers. As he approached the twisted mass of destruction, the man removed something from his breast pocket. It was a picture, worn and tattered and smeared with red.
He pressed his lips to the photograph, then set it on the ground by the burning wreckage, just a few feet from the charred bodies inside.
Standing back up, the man coughed into his fist, and said two words.
For Anne.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Jason Pinter
eISBN 978-1-943818-12-9
First published July 2007 by MIRA Books
Reissued November 2017 by Armina Press
About the Author
Jason Pinter is the bestselling author of five novels in his Henry Parker thriller series, which have over one million copies in print worldwide and have been published in over a dozen countries, as well as the Middle Grade adventure novel Zeke Bartholomew: SuperSpy. He has been nominated for the Thriller Award, Strand Critics Award, Barry Award, RT Reviewers Choice Award, Shamus Award and CrimeSpree Award. Two of his books—The Fury and The Darkness—were chosen as Indie Next selections, and The Mark, The Stolen and The Fury were named to The Strand’s Best Books of the Year list. The Mark and The Stolen both appeared on the ‘Heatseekers’ bestseller list in The Bookseller (UK). The Mark was optioned to be a feature film.
He is the Founder and Publisher of Polis Books, an independent publishing company he launched in 2013. He was named one of Publisher Weekly’s inaugural Star Watch honorees, which “recognizes young publishing professionals who have distinguished themselves as future leaders of the industry.” He has written for The New Republic, Entrepreneur, The Daily Beast, Medium and The Huffington Post, and been featured in Library Journal, Publishers Weekly, Mystery Scene and more.
He was named one of the top writers on Twitter (@JasonPinter) by Mashable and the Huffington Post, and his articles and essays have been covered in the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, CNN, The Atlantic, Boston Globe, New York Observer, Baltimore Sun, Salon and as far as Australia’s Sydney Morning Herald. He was born in New York City and currently lives in New Jersey with his wife, their daughter, and their dog, Wilson.
Visit him online at www.JasonPinter.com and on Twitter at @JasonPinter.
Also by Jason Pinter
The Henry Parker Series
THE MARK
THE GUILTY
THE STOLEN
THE FURY
THE DARKNESS
THE HUNTERS (novella)
THE CASTLE (standalone)
