Epilogue
“Bendición, Abuela,” I greet my grandmother on our usual Sunday morning call.
She has been calling me after morning mass for as long as I can remember. I call it our coffee date. Today I’m actually outside on a surveillance job I couldn’t get out of, sitting in a plaza at one of those new swanky Chelsea cafes.
“Dios mio, bendiga,” I cross myself and kiss my fingers, accepting the only blessing on my soul I’ll ever need.
I may do some fucked up shit, but as long as this woman loves me, I’m a saved fucking man.
“How was church?” I ask in English because she’s been trying to learn.
It was her eighth birthday wish, and I will deny her nothing. It’s still very broken, but she gets her message across.
“Good, are you in New York?” I smile as I look around.
“Yes, Abeulita.” She snorts, and I mouth the words that always follow that question.
“Bad place. No good people there.” I roll my eyes as I sip my coffee.
This brew isn’t half bad. It’s not the cafecito Abeula would serve me, but it’ll do. God, I miss this woman.
“There are bad people everywhere. Did you get your present?” I spot my target across the cafe as he sits down with his Sunday Post.
A small popping sound has me on high alert and diving under the glass table. It’ll bring me absolutely no cover, but as the bullets whiz past me, I’ll take what little I can get.
I draw my own weapon as the crowd starts to scream, and I scan the street for anyone aiming my target’s way. We literally just took this protection detail two days ago for a CEO with death threats.
What did this man do to piss some off so badly that it only took two days to try and kill him?
Chaos gives me the cover I need to make my way over to his table. I grab his arm and drag him into the closest building.
“Head down. Don’t move until I say. Are you injured?” I glance at him as he shakes his head no.
I scan the street and frown when I see my phone on the ground surrounded by glass, napkins, broken ceramics, and bullets.
Shit, she’s going to be pissed that I hung up on her.
I can see the cracked screen from here. I glance down at myself next and feel the heat of a bullet that cut through my shirt sleeve, leaving a nice little graze burn on my ribs.
That’s gonna sting for days.
Frowning, I look at the table my target was sitting at. Other than his spilled drink and ruined paper, his area is fucking pristine.
Motherfucker.
He wasn’t the target.
I WAS.