Page 7 of Bleed (Two Wheeled Psychos #4)

The night sucks, and I’m in a foul mood as I pour over more information I’ve had Valentino collect about the Recluse.

There’s not much to go on; more grainy photos of her from the back, and a few paper articles from Paris where she was spotted at a boutique shopping.

The only lead is in one picture where I can see half of the supposed boyfriend’s face as he holds up a dress for her in the store.

He's young, with dark hair and a crooked smile that barely raises in the corner. A small tattoo sits on his cheekbone under his right eye, something like a tear drop maybe. With the quality of the photo it’s hard to tell for sure.

“Well, this is another fucking waste of time.” I sigh, pushing the shit away from me, watching it flutter off the edge of my bed and land silently on the carpeted floor.

It’s been three long days and nights since I saw the woman in the café, and my mood is just getting worse as each second ticks by at a snail’s pace. I wanted it to be her, but I didn’t. I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t, and now I’m just fucking miserable.

I’m getting nowhere with locating the fucking phantom that is the Recluse. Even a name, something would help, and that’s pissing me off more.

“I need something to level me out.” I sigh to myself, throwing myself backwards onto the pillows and grabbing my phone off the small nightstand to my right.

“Yeah man?” Valentino says as he answers the phone out of breath and annoyed. “This better be good, to be calling me this late, and while I’m getting my cock sucked to boot.”

“Gimme another project to do while I work on this. I need some stress relief.” I say into the phone, trying to ignore the wet sucking sounds coming over the line and the occasional moan from whatever whore he’s with.

“I’ll send Ramon over with something. You home?”

“Yeah. Where the fuck else would I be?”

“Shush, don’t ruin my good mood.” He says, then the line clicks dead, and I’m left laying on my bed both angry at my situation and disgusted at the mental image of Valentino’s dick in someone’s mouth.

It’s not long before a single knock on my front door gets my attention, and I walk down the hall, through the living room and to the sound.

A manila envelope sits on the floor just inside the door, waiting for me.

It crinkles in my hand as I pick it up and open the little metal clasp that keeps it shut, dumping out the contents into my hand as I make my way over to the little kitchen table.

Scraping the chair across the linoleum floor, I sit down and flip through the papers and photos.

“Gustapo Marinelli. Sixty-one.” I read aloud, already knowing who he is. He’s one of us.

One single word is written in red ink across his face in one of the surveillance pictures. “Traitor.”

“Fuck man, what did you do to earn me?” I sigh, tossing the photo down, and rubbing my temples. Killing someone I’ve worked with in the past sucks ass, but it’s still not as bad as the shit going on in my head already. “Damnit Valentino, I wanted something NOT stressful,”

There’s no use dragging this out. I already know where to find him. We’ve been acquaintances for over 5 years. I’ve had meals with his family, I’ve held his grandchildren, and I’ve kissed his wife. It’s best to just get it done and over with.

Cursing under my breath, I dress quickly and don my riding jacket and gloves. My favorite knife slides into its sheath in my belt, and my riding boots slip easily onto my socked feet.

I leave my apartment, twirling the keys to the bike around my index finger, silently grumbling and feeling a little shitty for asking for a project.

I know better. Valentino will always push my buttons.

He does it on purpose. I swear that man wants me on edge all the time, because unfortunately it makes me more effective at my job.

“Let’s go girl.” I say to Luna as I put on my helmet and adjust the chin strap to fit snugly. “We have work to do.”

She turns over a couple times before she roars to life, obviously not happy with the late-night disturbance, and I pat her gas tank gently, soothing her and coaxing her to smooth out for me.

“Good girl.”

The sounds of her engine and exhaust echoe in the parking garage as I rev her throttle, idling her higher. It bounces around and comes back to me, following us as we drive between the other parked cars and pop out on the street.

The late-night air doesn’t reach me through my jacket and gloves, but when I open my visor, it blasts me in the face, refreshing me, waking me more, and helping me to prepare for what I’m about to do.

He’ll be asleep in his bed with his wife at his side in their charming little three-bedroom house. The lights will be off, and the house will be quiet. But it won’t stay that way, and that’s the regret I will have to carry.

“Fuck it.” I grunt, pressing the button for the Cardo on the side of my helmet, quieting the music that plays in my ears.

With a swipe of my gloved finger on my phone mounted to Luna’s tank, I bring up the contact for Gustapo and click the green call icon. The line rings loudly through the speakers three times before his sleepy voice comes into my head.

“Yeah?” He asks with his thick Italian accent, then pauses, listening for me as I swallow thickly. “Reaper?”

“It’s me.” I simply say, and I know that from the tone of my two words, he knows what’s coming.

I also know he won’t run or hide. He’ll accept his fate like the goddamned king he is. I just wish he hadn’t done whatever he did to earn my visit.

“You coming for me?”

“Yeah man. Sorry. I don’t want to wake Christine.”

“I get it. I’ll be outside.” He says solemnly before the line goes dead.

My reputation precedes me in the underworld of crime, and I’m known for being the most gruesome and effective contract killer there is.

Having worked with me in the past, my old friend knows this.

He knows it’s no use trying to avoid it, because it’ll happen anyways.

It’s best to give himself to me, it’ll be easier and less traumatic that way.

The rest of the ride to his place, out of the city and into the suburbs is deathly quiet. I don’t turn the music back on, and I can’t even ear the rumble of the bike. I’m in my own head planning the kill, seeing every step and every stab.

Motherfucker.

The street is deserted when I turn onto it, and the house is dark when I approach, cutting off Luna’s engine a few doors down to silently walk her to his driveway. There’s no need to wake up his wife and have her be in fear for her husband. It’s best if she wakes up and it’s already done.

“Damien.” Gustapo says as I put the kickstand down and park the bike behind his black Land Rover, walking around it, finding him sitting on the front steps of his perfect little home, with a half-burned cigarette in his hand.

It’s a house like I would like to have someday, quaint and calm in a sea of crime. I can’t do what I need to do here.

“Yeah man.” I sigh, walking up to him and sitting next to his side on the pale blue, painted, wooden steps that creak under my added weight.

“It’s come to this, huh?” He sighs, reaching in his shirt pocket for his pack of smokes, pulling one out and handing it to me.

“Why’d you do it?” I ask him, taking off my helmet, setting it by my hip, and lighting the Marlboro.

“Needed the money. Christine had a stroke a couple months back. She can’t work anymore, and the family wouldn’t give me a raise.” He answers me, looking down at his feet and everywhere else but at me, hiding his shame.

“Fuck, you should have called. Will she be okay without you? Is there anyone to take care of her?”

“Becky, our daughter will. I already called her.”

There’s nothing I can say to my white-haired friend as we silently put another nail in our respective coffins with the cigarettes.

What do you even say? I’m sorry I have to kill you? I wish I didn’t have to? How do you want to die? Do you need me to watch your family for you after I murder you? Do I give him the same choice I give everyone else?

I watch him carefully place what’s left of his smoke down on the sidewalk under our feet, then grind it out completely with his shoe. It’s metaphoric, the snuffing out of a once bright flame into nothing but ruined ash and waste.

“Ready?”

“Let’s get this over with.” He says, standing up and turning to face me, offering me his hand which I take graciously.

His hands have softened over the years from when he used to do my type of work, and his dark brown eyes have lost that edge too. I can see he’s tired, almost like he’s already given up as I let him pull me up onto my feet.

We walk hand in hand to Luna in a solemn silence, then he stays next to me as I push the bike down the street, getting far enough away from the house before we get on her. I strap on my helmet and he sits behind me, his arms around my middle, his hands on the gas tank as I fire her up.

Motherfucker.

I can feel the tenseness in him as we ride far away from his home.

He’s stiff against my back, and his arms shake at every stop when he does his best to push back.

As we drive though, I feel him loosen up.

He’s already accepted his fate, and when we pull into an abandoned parking lot he makes peace with it and melts into me with a sigh I can feel but not hear.

The air is thick, like the earth knows what’s coming, and the minimal glow from the single light overhead casts shadows that play on us as we get off the bike and stand next to her, facing each other in utter stillness. You could cut the tension in the air with a dull knife.

We stare at each other for what feels like hours, even though I know it’s barely a few minutes.

Normally I would leave the helmet on, to protect my face from the victim fighting back and the splatter of blood, but I can’t with him.

I want him to see the regret in my eyes as the light drains from his.

“Do you want the choice?” I finally ask him, feeling against my back the two weapons I always have when I’m ready for a job.

In the sheath is the knife, and in my back pocket is the syringe filled with poison that will end him in seconds.

I touch both, hoping he chooses the easy and clean way.

I don’t want to make a mess with my friend.

We’ve been through too much together. He’s the man who taught me the restraint I use daily, the one who I learned most of my skills from.

As I wait for him to answer, I can see the times we worked side by side, taking lives like no one’s business. He was ruthless at one point in his life, and I owe pretty much all of my successes to him.

“I can’t go out like a pussy.” He says on a deep sigh, his head dropping down, his gaze at the blacktop below. “The family wants a lesson made of me. So do what I taught you to do.”

“Gustapo.” I say, staring him down, furrowing my brows at him for making me do this. “Think of Christine, of Becky, of the grandbabies.”

“Damien. You know how we lived. I need to die the same way. For my legacy.”

“Fuck your legacy, man.”

“Do it. Make a mess. Show no mercy.”

“No. I’m making the choice for you.” I all but squeak as I wrap my fingers around the syringe and squeeze it.

“If you don’t make a goddamned fucking disaster of me, and let me go out like a damned king, I’ll haunt you forever.” He says, lighting another smoke, leaning against Luna, staring me down with the conviction of a man that has made up his mind for the final time.

Fuck.