Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Katherine
I finish my pizza with glorious speed. I know I’m going to regret it later when the heartburn fueled by a thousand suns hits my gut and chest. I can’t find it within me to really give a shit, though. Good pizza sometimes results in heartburn, and if that’s my cross to bear, so be it. The pizza was so fucking delicious that it’s worth every bit of pain I’m guaranteed to have later.
As I wipe my hands, I keep my eyes locked on the man at the counter who continues to stand at the front longer than I’d expected him to. As I watch him, he hops from foot to foot, displacing his weight effortlessly. His subpar build doesn’t intimidate me and I’m grateful that he isn’t one of the six-foot-tall men that reside in one of the booths here. He doesn’t exude brutality like the others. But I know the truth.
He’s more brutal than most.
Gunning down teenagers.
Murdering a teenager.
I still don’t know how I managed not to get hit with one of the stray bullets.
It makes sense, though. He was shooting a rifle, not an automatic weapon. He wasn’t blasting off dozens of rounds toward us, he was aiming. Those bullets lodged in Rhett’s chest and never left.
I refocus on the man. His name is Whitman. Once I discovered his identity nearly six months ago, my plan truly began to come to life. I had the help of a hacker, thankfully, or I never would have found him.
About eight months ago, I was sitting on the living room floor, browsing sites I had no business browsing. I started chatting with a hacker, whose name I still don’t know, and one thing led to another. Eventually, I had the name: Whitman. The hacker didn’t want any payout or any credit for their work. It always seemed suspicious to me, but I took a random, albeit stupid, leap of faith and prayed it wouldn’t kick me in the ass later on.
It was probably, no, definitely , a bad idea, talking to an unnamed hacker who seemed to know more about the situation than I did, but at the time, I didn’t give a fuck. I still don’t, not really. I have one thing on my mind: revenge. I will harness that revenge if it’s the last thing I do.
Whitman leans against the front counter, his elbows against the wooden top with his head hanging between his shoulders. I wipe my mouth, pushing away the tray that once held the best pizza of my life, and cradle my chin in my hands as I lean against the table. He has to be leaving soon.
Finally , Whitman pushes against the front counter, letting himself rock back on his heels. He lets out a low whistle, probably pissed that the grandmother of the mafia didn’t fly out to take his order. He turns to leave. I smooth my jacket down my chest and subtly check the gun in my waistband. After making sure it’s still secure, I begin to scootch across the red leather seat, toward the aisle.
Before I stand fully, I quickly pull a crumpled twenty from my pocket, followed by two fives. I placed them under the rim of the large tray so the grandmother of the mafia can easily locate them. I don’t know the exact protocol for tipping someone of her nature, but surely a few extra bills won’t offend her.
Whitman exits. He’s outside, most likely rounding the building. I’ve scoped it out enough so that I can predict his patterns. He will turn left and head for the alley off the side of the street. While I haven’t interacted with Whitman at all since the fatal day of the shooting, I’ve been watching him.
With the help of my friendly hacker, I’ve been given access to cameras that are placed around the streets near the pizzeria. I can sit in the comfort of my own shitty apartment, headphones on, and laptop in my lap and just observe. Many times, the hacker friend will join me in a voice call and we chat. They use a voice app or something to synthesize their voice. I assume they’re a man, but I could be completely wrong. We’ve never video chatted or seen one another.
They’ve been a rock this entire time. Without them, I would have never found Whitman and I definitely wouldn’t have been able to garner access to the cameras.
Whitman most likely doesn’t even remember me, honestly.
He’ll know my name after tonight, though.