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DOYLE MADE A split-second decision and retreated to the small kitchen. He slid between the refrigerator and the wall. There was just enough room to fit and be completely out of sight from the entryway. He felt like he should hold his breath but gave up on that idea when the door opened and all he could hear was the booming voice of Oscar Tass.

The woman was much quieter.

Tass flipped the light switch. Nothing. He cursed, then wiggled the switch with no results.

The couple moved into the living room, still chatting in the dark. Doyle couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Doyle heard the couch creak. It had made the same noise earlier when he had sat on it. Doyle felt a wave of disappointment. He didn’t want to kill another female witness. There was no need for it. But he wondered how long he could stay hidden, crammed against the wall and the old humming refrigerator.

The conversation died off. The couch creaked some more. Doyle realized the couple was getting romantic. How long would this take? Would the woman leave afterward? He wasn’t certain how he would handle this. Doyle felt for the folding knife he kept in his pocket. The gun was a last resort due to the noise.

The knife wasn’t much better. God knew what kind of mess it would make and there was no guarantee it would be quiet. If he could slash Tass’s throat first, he might be able to keep the chaos in check. But he’d still leave traceable evidence. Possibly get injured himself.

Doyle started to squirm out from his hiding place. The room was dark, and the couple was still on the couch. He silently stepped toward the doorway of the kitchen. The knife was now open and in his hand, ready for action.

The woman let out a yelp. She sprang upright on the couch. She directed a string of curses at Tass in both English and Spanish. The old drug dealer started to laugh, then cackled at her.

Doyle stepped forward for a better look. He blended into the shadows of the dark room. Now he saw Tass’s pudgy figure next to the woman on the couch. He tried to caress her face, but the woman knocked his hand away. She was angry. This might work out.

Tass spoke in soothing tones. His Spanish had an accent that took Doyle a moment to recognize as actually from Spain. It might be considered a classy accent, but whatever he said didn’t soothe the pissed-off woman. She stood up, straightened her clothes, and marched out of the apartment with as much dignity as she could muster.

At the front door, the woman spat a few more insults at Tass before turning, slamming the flimsy door as she left.

Tass groaned from the couch.

Doyle now stood in the doorway to the kitchen—in full view if Tass looked up and there was a little more light. Doyle flipped on the switch in the kitchen, and the entire apartment lit up.

Oscar Tass’s head snapped up, but he didn’t say anything or reach for a weapon.

Doyle leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded. He didn’t know why he’d turned on the light and given himself away.

Tass settled back on the couch. He finally said, “So you’re the bastard who’s been picking off my associates one by one.”

“I tried to be efficient and get you and Rios at the same time.”

“Instead, you shot his little groupie. All she wanted to do was live the high life and work for us.”

“She had a gun. That makes her fair game.”

“No, you’re right, white boy. She was tough and passed our first initiation by killing a runner for another organization. Shot him right through the eye.” Tass shook his head. “Pretty little thing. Until you put a bullet through her face.” He moved on the couch. “What you got for me? A bullet?”

“Since we’re chatting, I’ll give you the option.”

“Okay. Leave and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

Doyle let out a snort of laughter. “You know that can’t happen.”

“Then tell me who sent you and why.”

“I can’t do that.”

Tass stood up from the couch and faced Doyle across the room. He started to reach behind his back.

Doyle lifted his shirt to show the butt of his Beretta.

Tass slowly removed his hand from his back to show Doyle he was holding a knife. A long, curved knife. Too fancy for most uses. “You’re going to have to shoot me and alert the whole building. And I got a lot of friends in this building.” He waved the knife to intimidate Doyle.

Doyle smiled. “You’re hoping to scare me into leaving quietly. Nice try.” He brought his hand up to reveal his own knife, which he’d been gripping by his thigh. He showed Tass the four-inch practical blade. This was at least more interesting than most of his hits. He stepped all the way into the living room, a few feet from Tass.

Tass charged him like a rhino. He was about as unwieldy as a rhino too. Doyle easily stepped to the side and arced his blade up, slicing the bigger man’s throat and severing part of his ear.

Then he wasted no time before turning and stabbing Tass in the lower back, away from any ribs. His arm moved like a piston. Two, three, four times, finally finishing after a dozen jabs. The blade disappeared to the hilt with each strike.

Tass collapsed without a sound. The thin, cheap carpet turned dark as blood flowed from all the wounds. His eyes and mouth were wide-open.

Doyle wiped his blade on Tass’s ruined plaid shirt. Then he took a moment to look around the room to make sure he hadn’t left anything that could be used to identify him. No bloody footprints. Nothing. He took a paper towel from the kitchen and wiped down anywhere he had touched.

He lingered at the front door, surveying the apartment. Nothing out of place except a giant lump of a useless human on the floor. Tass’s face had drained of blood, giving him a ghostly look.

That seemed fitting.