Chapter 2 Sideways Mateo
Sideways
Mateo
There’s a ding from the kitchen.
Then another, louder this time.
Then two more in quick succession.
The head server’s eye twitches. She pivots sharply on her heel and strides to the kitchen. I glance in that direction just long enough to see a woman on the other side of the stainless-steel shelves, her face a study in barely restrained fury. My heart lurches, my fork paused halfway to my mouth.
She’s stunning. And very pissed off.
Her dark hair is pulled back from her delicate face, making her big, furious eyes seem even sharper. Whatever the server is saying to her is forcing a flush into her fair skin. She’s probably in her late twenties or early thirties, but she has a ferocity about her that seems immortal.
Instinct slices through me. I look down at my plate before I catch her gaze, and I nearly smile as I slide another forkful of karpatka onto my tongue.
I’m not sure what’s got her so upset, but I shouldn’t be worried about some woman I don’t know and will never meet.
One I wouldn’t have time for anyway, even if I could.
Sometimes I wonder what that would be like. A normal life.
My attention slithers back to the table to my right. Eight men are sitting around it, each wearing a holster beneath his suit jacket. Some have more than one. And the guy I’m most interested in? He’s got four, including a Beretta peeking out from his ankle where his trousers ride up.
This isn’t going to be easy, I think as I sink my fork into another piece of choux pastry.
Maybe this will be the last thing I ever eat. The last good meal. My final day on Earth.
I nearly laugh out loud. Doubtful.
There’s a reason I was hired for this job.
The server passes by my table with two main courses for a couple seated next to the windows, her smile tight as she glances down at my half-eaten dessert.
Maybe my plate was somehow the source of their disagreement?
I take another bite, but everything seems perfect, from the edible gold leaf to the Sto lat!
piped across the white porcelain. I’m not sure what it means, but it looks great.
I glance back toward the kitchen. The angry woman on the other side of the shelves is gone.
When I’ve dragged my fork through the final crumbs of karpatka, I ask for the bill.
The table of men next to me is just finishing their main courses.
Knowing Tomasz Nowak, they’ll be here for another forty-five minutes at least. It gives me the perfect amount of time to set up in the parking garage.
I know what Nowak is like—he’ll be suspicious of every person in the restaurant, even the couple in the corner who are celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary.
And I’m the most dubious of all. A man in his early thirties, dining on his own?
Yeah. I’ll be high on his suspicion list. I’ve felt his eyes on me all night.
But after I leave without a fuss, he’ll forget I even existed.
Until I shoot him in the head.
The server brings the bill. I give her a credit card that will link back to one of Nowak’s former bodyguards if anyone bothers to look. Fuck that guy for killing Carl Donnelly. He was a legend. I’ll never forget the time we played McNickels, and Donnelly was so drunk he swallowed the coin, and—
A sudden swirl of nausea coils through my stomach.
I shake my head and sign the receipt before I take a sip of water in the hope that the uncomfortable sensation will dissipate.
It doesn’t. That’s the trouble with some of these high-end places.
The food is too rich. When you eat a carefully controlled diet and spend four hours a day in the gym to stay in peak condition, indulgences like this can quickly take a toll.
I cover an uncomfortable burp with my fist and give the server a curt nod before leaving through the smoked-glass doors.
I’m alone in the elevator, taking it down to level P1, where my vehicle is parked.
My nausea is now accompanied by a headache pulsing behind my eyes.
But when I step out of the elevator, I quickly shove my physical discomfort to the back of my thoughts.
There are two bodyguards waiting by the door to enter the parking garage.
Another three I can see beyond the glass, roaming through the parked cars.
That means there will be even more guards upstairs on P2, where Nowak’s armored Mercedes G-Wagon will be waiting.
I do my best to look like an unthreatening bystander as I give the two men at the door a weak smile and a tip of my head that they don’t acknowledge. They’re young guys, probably just learning the ropes. Shame, since they’ll be dead within the hour.
I keep my head down, striding for the Tesla with blacked-out windows parked in a shadowed corner along the far wall.
Nausea swirls. The ground seems to tilt and I stumble a step, my hand flying to the pulse of pain in my brow. My fingers slide through a sheen of sweat as the fluorescent lights strobe overhead.
The fuck?
I shake my head. Focus. Nowak will disappear after tonight.
He won’t surface again until months from now when he’s due to meet with Anthony Baptiste in Madrid.
And even then, he’ll be virtually untouchable, surrounded by protection.
It will be much harder to attack him there, and I cannot delay.
Not with so many bounties already looming over my head.
This is my best shot.
But something is very wrong.
I make it to the Tesla, stumbling through the passenger door.
Barely. I should be pulling my weapons from the trunk and putting the dummy that’s in the duffel bag on the back seat into position in the driver’s seat.
It’s a simple setup. Grab the guns. Set the self-driving Tesla to steer itself out of the parking garage.
Stay low and avoid the guards. Keep the door to P2 in sight and take the shot. Kill anyone who gets in my way.
Except I can barely see straight.
The realization finally sinks in.
It’s not just the food. I’ve been fucking poisoned.
I’m about to reach for the duffel bag on the back seat and the emergency first aid kit hidden within when the driver’s side door opens.
And then I’m staring into the muzzle of a gun.