19. Pick your poison
NINETEEN
PICK YOUR POISON
KYLIE
W hen the countdown on New Year’s Eve hits zero all over the world, balls drop, fireworks go off, and couples kiss to mark the new year coming.
In Springfield, I thought it was poetic to set off the C4 detonator at the exact moment the clock struck midnight.
Everything was planned to the last detail. Up until the moment that Devil himself pressed the button that made everything go boom , I was working with Tanner to make my plan work. As the mafia fixer, Rolls McIntyre got what we needed to build the explosive, why my twisted brain came up with the plan. Tanner built the bomb, and using his computer know-how, helped me create a video to send to Winter so that he knows I’m working on taking Lincoln Crewes out.
After being ‘missing’ for weeks, I wanted to show Winter that I was all about finishing my contract. Smart as he is, he should’ve realized something was up when I offered to create the spectacle at a discount. I think, at this point, he was just so eager to take over Springfield for once and for all that he would’ve believed anything if it meant that Devil was out of his way.
I don’t know why he targeted Devil. If Damien—and his assassin wife who I’m very interested in getting to know—were responsible for Jimmy Winter’s death, it would’ve made sense that he’d go after the Dragonflies first, especially when he was interested in both the drug and counterfeiting trade ruled by the Libellula Family. The only thing I can think is that it was Devil who embarrassed Johnny.
And not even the man himself. It was his Sinners.
Cross da Silva was taken because he was part of Devil’s inner circle. More importantly, though, he had a thing going with Genevieve Libellula even before they were held captive together. Getting to Damien by going through his baby sister was a stroke of genius—until Luca slipped in under Winter’s nose, helping facilitate the break-out.
It was Devil and his men who humiliated Johnny Winter. And it was Devil who needed to die.
Well, not really. He did sacrifice two rooms off the back of the large building that houses the Devil’s Playground, as well as the rest of the Sinners headquarters. While I worked with Rolls and Tanner, Luca and some of the other Sinners in the know snuck in through the back to remove anything essential before it blew. They packed the rooms surrounding it with insulation in a bid to eliminate any further damage, and blocked off the area out back, claiming they needed the space for a New Year’s Eve event.
At eleven-forty-four, Devil entered the back. On his arm, Savannah Libellula, wearing a coat with a hood that hid her face. I snapped pictures as they slipped in so that I would have the timestamp, hoping to pass them off as Mr. and Mrs. Crewes arriving at the Sinners HQ just before midnight.
The real Mrs. Crewes is under heavy protection at her penthouse apartment, along with the Crewes’s daughter. With Rolls on-site at the Playground, making sure nothing goes wrong, he made sure his own wife was waiting with Devil’s. Though my plan hinged on making it seem as if he was out for the night, celebrating with the missus, there was pure murder on his face when I suggested it. Message received. No way in hell was he letting the Hummingbird near his wife, and thankfully Damien’s offered to play the part.
Everything went off without a hitch. At midnight, Devil exploded his own empty offices, and I was watching from a distance to get proof. The rumor mill was working over time, both gangs working together to spread the word that there were two casualties: Lincoln and Ava Crewes. In reality, Savannah went home with Damien, Luca drove Devil back home to his wife, and I sat under Rolls’s scrutinizing gaze while I waited for him to return for me.
When it comes to baby-sitters, I definitely prefer Luca.
Officer Burns and Coleman handled the police report. The news picked it up, too, which only furthered my proof that I accomplished what I set out to do: take down the Devil of Springfield. Devil murmured the name ‘Lazarus’ when he realized that, in a couple of days, he’ll have to either stay under or let the rest of the city he rules know he’s alive.
That, coupled with the rosary tatted on his arm, made me finally understand why a man with as much religious trauma as Luca has so willingly follows one christened ‘Devil’.
For now, though, he’s ‘dead’. It’s two days since I ‘killed’ him, and I’m finally going to meet Johnny Winter to settle my contract.
At least, that’s what the dark-haired, dark-suited man in the corner of the coffeehouse thinks is going to happen. Me? Fucking plans. I’m full of them.
And it’s up to me to pull this one off on my own.
It had to happen this way. Luca tried to insist that he join me, but for the last two years, I made my rep on working alone. Winter would know something was up right away if I brought him with me, and I couldn’t even let him chauffeur me across state lines because I always rent a car and drive myself if I can.
Plus, we both agreed that I’d disappear for a couple of days if I manage to pull this off. That’s also pretty common for me, and especially now that I know Nicholas and Hunter Reed have figured out my identity, it’s probably for the best that I lie low before figuring out my next move… and I’m not fooling even myself because I already have a plan.
I usually do.
Today’s involved arriving at the coffeehouse, scoping out the car most likely to belong to Winter, slapping the C4 explosive to the underside, then meeting up with the man himself. I would pass over the thumb drive with all the proof I had that I finished off Devil Crewes, verify that I picked the right car, wait for him to drive off, and when I blew him up, that would be another round of poetic justice.
You know what the best thing about plans are? That they’re never set in stone.
When I arrive at the coffeehouse, I don’t check the parking lot. I head right in, glancing around the space. I pick out two buff guys on different sides of the crowded shop. One is wearing a football jersey and jeans. The other is more stylishly dress, clad in a turtleneck and khakis. Each one has a perfect vantage point toward the door, and the man sitting in front of an expensive laptop in the corner.
Johnny Winter and two of his goons, I’m betting.
Pretending that I didn’t see them, I bop along, listening to the nonexistent music in my headphones. Only pulling them off, resting them around the back of my neck, when the barista takes my order, I pay for my coffees and move toward the side counter to wait for them.
Out of the corner of my eye, Winter is watching me. I turn, giving him a quick wave, before paying attention for the barista to call out the fake name I offered her.
I ordered the coffees black. Accepting them from the girl at the counter, I mosied over to the spot where customers can doctor their own drinks. I do, leaving one alone while pouring a splash of cream and three sweet ‘n lows into the other. A quick touch-up with my lip gloss, and with a cheery smile tugging on my lips, I carry both of the coffees over to Johnny Winter.
Tucking my bag onto my lap, I slide into the booth before placing both of the coffees on the table top.
“Sorry about the wait. I needed a hit of caffeine and, well, you did tell me to meet you at a coffee shop.” I tap the lid on the left one. “This one’s black, no milk, no sugar.” I tap the right one. “This has some cream and two of those pink packets. Pick your poison.”
Winter purses his lips. “I prefer the one with cream, if you’re offering.”
That kind of surprises me. “Wow. Would’ve taken you for a black coffee drinker. Good thing I can drink every type of coffee. Here you go.” I push the right cup toward him.
Winter lifts the cup. Not surprisingly, the suspicious bastard lifts up the lid. He takes a sniff, then nods. It’s obviously the coffee with cream and sweetener, and after he replaces the lid, he takes a sip.
He waits expectantly.
I lift mine and swallow.
He drinks again, then lowers his cup. “Actually,” he says after a moment, “I do prefer a strong cup of coffee without anything added to it. However, I saw you pour something into the black coffee, and I thought it would be rude to refuse the offer of a free beverage from one of my employees.”
Because that’s what I’m supposed to be, right? A hired hitwoman.
The thumb drive of ‘evidence’ is in my bag. We’re not supposed to chat. I pass over the thumb drive, he checks the files on his computer, I get payment wired to my account.
Then again, I’ve never bought him coffee before.
I shrug. “Did I?”
“And, yet, you drink it.”
He thinks I did.
I use my fingernail to tap the side of his paper cup. “Did you see me doctor up this one?”
“Yes. The cream, as you said. And the fake sugar packets. Three of them, though. Not two.”
So he was watching.
Sitting up in my seat, I smile brightly at him. “Don’t forget the strychnine.”
Strychnine is odorless. He could sniff that coffee all he wants, and he’d never know I added anything other than what I said. The three sweet ‘n lows were meant to try to hide the bitter taste of the poison if that’s the cup he chose. I figured, if he went for the straight coffee, the bitter coffee itself could explain away the taste.
He took two sips. By my calculations, that should be enough.
Regular strychnine will show its effects in about fifteen to thirty minutes. Not everyone dies from a moderate dose, either. It won’t be pleasant, but they can survive it.
Which is why the liquid strychnine I keep in my lip gloss container is concentrated in a liquid form that will lead to death in less than a minute.
Does Winter know that? Maybe? I can see the sudden realization that he’s been poisoned in his dark eyes, in the way he reaches up, clutching his throat, and how his face starts to turn red.
I take that as my cue to go.
Taking my untouched, poisoned cup of coffee that I faked drinking with me so that I don’t inadvertently kill anyone else, I start scooting out of the booth.
His free hand clutches the table. His mouth opens, ready to shout for his two goons to stop me, maybe help him, but that’s when the choking starts.
I rise up from my seat.
Slapping the table now, Winter tries to push himself up.
Across the way, Football Jersey rises. I don’t know where Turtleneck is, but here’s hoping I can slip by him in the aftermath of what’s about to happen.
Walking with my cup, I start for the exit. At the same time, I hear a thud behind me. In the window’s reflection, I see Football Jersey racing for his boss, and Johnny Winter seizing on the ground, still choking though the sudden din in the room as others realizing that he’s having a medical episode drowns it out.
Turtleneck appears, stepping out of the bathroom, walking into a disaster. His eyes find me. With my free hand, I shove my headphones up over my ears, bump the door with my ass, and walk out into the cold.
After that, I walk leisurely toward my rental in the certainty that the second goon will rush over to check on Johnny Winter rather than follow me. They think they know who I am. They’ll think they can get help for their boss, then come after me.
But I’m the Hummingbird, and I don’t plan on being caught again. Besides, I have a flight to catch.
As I start the car, pulling out of the lot as I didn’t have a car in the world, I listen for the inevitable blare of an ambulance as I think about what I just did. Devil was meant to be a high-profile hit. In a way, it was. As far as Johnny Winter knows, the other mafia leader died in that explosion.
But he’s going to choke to death on poison in the middle of a retail coffee house in Hamilton.
Know what? Seems like a fitting end to me.