Part 51 (2/2)
”I'm going, Pierce.”
I make a beeline for the door, glancing at the clock. I'll make it on time if I can get a taxi. Just as I'm about to open it, the doorbell rings, and then a gruff voice booms through the wood: ”Pierce Fletcher!”
I freeze, and look at Pierce. The voice sounds... off. It's bad, sounds like an order rather than a question.
”Who is that?” I whisper. ”You're expecting somebody? And you didn't tell me?”
He shakes his head, and already I can see his expression has changed. He very definitely wasn't expecting somebody.
”n.o.body knows where I live.”
”Well, obviously somebody does!”
Chapter Twenty Two.
Pierce's expression has lost all its buoyancy. He actually looks concerned, and it's freaking me out.
Quickly, he moves toward me, and guides me back from the door. He places his ear against it. The atmosphere has switched from awkward and argumentative to extremely tense in just two seconds flat.
Why doesn't the door in his place have a f.u.c.king peephole?
My heart is racing. Something very definitely feels wrong.
I shadow him, watch as he unlocks and opens the door. In the hallway outside are two men in suits. I don't fail to notice that they both sport the same tattoo on their necks, the left side just below the jawline. It's a symbol of some kind, but I can't make it out. One of them has his hands behind his back, and I see that they are beneath his jacket.
It dawns on me a second later: That man must be gripping onto a gun!
”Who the f.u.c.k are you?” Pierce asks, standing in the doorway. The men try to enter the apartment, but Pierce puts a hand out. ”Uh-uh. Talk here, or f.u.c.k off.”
The two men look at each other. One of them is about five-eight, bald, with the build of a 1920's Chicago gangster caricature, the other Pierce's height, skinnier, and with a scar running down the side of his face. It joins his eye to his chin.
I touch Pierce's elbow. These guys are definitely not door-to-door vacuum salesmen.
The stocky bald guy steps forward. ”We work for Lev Fallon. You know of him, I presume?”
”Yeah, I heard of him,” Pierce replies.
”He's setting up a fight.”
”First I've heard of it.”
”Next week, Friday. One fight only.”
”Against who?”
”Anton Vasilev.”
I see Pierce's fist clench. ”Never heard of him.”
”Fallon has arranged this fight in cooperation with the Mogilovich family. I take it you know who I refer to.”
Pierce's body stiffens a little. He obviously knows, but the name means nothing to me. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that these names are those of mobsters, though. Or the mafia... whatever they're called.
I don't like this one bit.
”Why me?” Pierce asks.
”He's been a long-time fan, mate.”
”I'm not interested.”
”You stand to earn two million bucks.”
Pierce, in the process of closing the door, opens it. ”Two mil? For one fight? You're s.h.i.+tting me.”
”Pierce!” I hiss, but he ignores me.
”That's right. Two percent of the forecasted winnings.”
”Don't tell me your boss is placing a fifty mil bet on me.”
”He represents a conglomerate.”
”Other fans,” Pierce sneers.
The stocky man straightens his tie. ”He believes you can win.”
There's a stony silence. The air between them turns thick as treacle.
”I won't talk to some f.u.c.king goon.” He waves them off with his hand. ”If your boss has something to ask me, then he can talk to me personally. Until then, you're wasting my time.”
The man with the scar pulls out a radio, and when he clicks the b.u.t.ton on the side, it bursts to life with a static hiss. ”Boss, he says he'll only talk to you.”
There's a pause. A voice comes through with a thick Australian accent. ”Be right up, mate.”
”He's here now?” I ask. I pull Pierce to the side, press the door shut, and shoot him an angry glare. ”Who is this guy that's coming up?”
”Lev Fallon, one of the local mob bosses.”
I blink. ”Pierce, you a.s.shole. You can't involve me in this. How the h.e.l.l did they get your address?”
But he doesn't reply. It's clear to me that he doesn't know. Suddenly, I'm feeling overwhelmingly disappointed.
”Jesus, Pierce! Are you listed anywhere?”