Page 53 of Dark Breaker

She breaks from the pack to park outside a clothing store of some sort. I double-park farther down and wait. I scan the street, looking for Tunisians or other troublemakers, but see only casual passersby.

She finally emerges with a smug expression on her face. She’s carrying a bag. I can see the outline of an outfit inside. No doubt she’s picked up another leather jumpsuit.

I growl. Well, you have to choose your battles. This hill isn’t worth dying on. I can see her buying a new jumpsuit every day until she gets her way.

Breaking her is going to be a lot harder than I thought. Especially considering how easily I lose control around her. I have to be careful… it won’t take much for our roles to reverse. I’ll be the one wrapped around her finger, rather than the other way around. Maybe I already am.

I chuckle at that.

Nope. Not going to happen.

Then again, what am I doing out here following her, when I should be working?

She hops on her bike and resumes her ride.

I stay well behind her, and think I notice another car following her now: a red Alfa Romeo I recognize from the busy intersection earlier, before she stopped at the clothing store. When Rosa takes a right, it takes one, too.

Definitely suspicious.

When she stops outside a cafe the red Alfa Romeo double-parks a short distance down from her. I pass them, keeping an eye on my rearview mirror, but the occupants of the vehicle remain inside while Rosa waltzes into the cafe. She carries the bag with her.

I quickly circle the block and double-park well behind the Vespa and the Alfa Romeo.

I open the glove box and fetch the pistol I keep stowed there. I shove it into the waistband of my jeans, resting it against the small of my back, and lower the hem of my dress shirt over it. Next I grab the fedora from the seat beside me, pull it low, and get out.

Keeping my head bowed, I pass the cafe in time to spot Rosa as she emerges from the bathroom. Sure enough, she’s wearing the new leather outfit she purchased. As I walk by, I vaguely wonder why she didn’t change in the store. Probably because it’s one of those places where they don’t let you try on the clothes before you buy. Usually those places don’t even have a proper change area.

She sits down at a table where another girl is waiting. I recognize her. The girl I saw her kissing in the Snapchat story. Michela. Her best friend, I’m starting to realize.

I cross to the other side of the street so that the occupants of the Alfa Romeo hopefully don’t see me coming. I keep low, moving almost at a crouch, using the vehicles parked on this side for cover.

When I’m directly across from the Alfa Romeo I peer past the hood of the closest car.

I see two Tunisians. They’re looking over their shoulders, keeping an eye on the cafe. Watching her.

The sight of those fuckers pisses me off. Immensely. I’m not going to stand for this.

I leave cover and walk over to them, keeping my head bowed, pretending I’m merely strolling by. Their driver-side window is open. When I pass in front of it, I reach inside and wrap my fingers around the driver’s neck. I pull the surprised dude right out of the vehicle and slam him onto the pavement. I make sure he hits his head nice and hard.

The other dude gets out and pulls a gun on me in broad daylight. Someone screams nearby.

I duck behind the hood of the car before he can fire and draw my own handgun. I move at a crouch toward the rear of the vehicle. I circle around to the trunk and bend down to peer past the undercarriage.

I see his sneakers, and watch as he stalks past the front of the vehicle, heading toward the driver side.

I hurry around to the passenger side and pause next to the open door to peer past the undercarriage once more.

The Tunisian springs from cover, thinking he’s got the jump on me. Smiling, I lay flat and aim at those cheap sneakers. I squeeze the trigger and he screams, collapsing.

Fucking wimp.

I hear more people scream: some above me, watching from their balconies.

I pull myself up, leap onto the armrest of the open door, and then onto the hood. I make not a sound as I do it, courtesy of my own padded sneakers.

Holding my pistol in front of me, I quietly advance until the two Tunisians are in view. The dude I just shot is breathing hard, and aiming his pistol beneath the undercarriage, looking for me.

“Drop it,” I tell him.