Revenant

Chapter 8

Everyone who was capable of remaining still did so.

Diavolo was regarding me with an expression that was a cross between surprise and puzzlement, displaying no fear whatsoever as he sat at the table, perfectly still. The woman to his right, the librarian, was studying me carefully, eyes flitting about the room while the rest of her remained absolutely still. The guy I'd shot in the shoulder was standing in place, cradling his injured arm, looking at me with a mix of fear and concern, and was holding himself very still. Shoe was on his knees, facing away from me, his bleeding fingers curled against the boron carbide-coated high-tensile Vectran thread that was looped tightly around his throat. Despite his ragged breathing and the occasional cough, he was doing his desperate best to remain extremely still.

Shoe's companion was on the floor, lying very, very still . . . likely the result of a slight case of death.

Actually killing one of Diavolo's employees was a bit of a risk, I will admit, but my experience has taught me that it's sometimes the only option available to you. Yes, there might be some hard feelings now, and yes, I might find myself having to depart from Baltimore in a bit of a hurry. I may even be finding it difficult to leave this room in one piece all of a sudden. After all, the guy I'd just killed could have been a heavy hitter within the Diavolo organization.

Then again, if you were stupid enough to try to push around a professional assassin, you probably weren't in charge of anything important.

Besides, if I'd just allowed a couple of mafia toughs to shove me around like that, I'd be as good as dead anyways. Word of that sort of thing always got around, and when people began questioning your reputation or started to wonder if you're really as dangerous as people say, well, that's when the real problems start. Your reputation was your business card, but it was also your primary means of protection.

I learned that lesson the hard way . . .

Time passed, everyone remaining still and silent. After about twenty seconds or so it actually got quite awkward.

It was Diavolo who spoke first.

"I assure you, we can work something out," he said in a quiet, confident voice, holding his hands up in a disarming fashion. "So, let's all calm down for a minute, and-"

"Oh, I'm calm. Good to meet you Mister Diavolo, sir," I said conversationally, and gave a head-toss to indicate the dead guy on the floor. "I'm very sorry about killing your guy over there."

"Don't be . . . he was an idiot. There were days I considered killing him myself. Uhm," he furrowed his brow at me, "I'm sorry, but . . . I really wasn't expecting this. Maybe I'm not understanding something. Have I been unfortunate enough to have upset you?"

I was impressed. I'd heard he was a cool customer, but there's stories, and then there's stories. Most tough-talking guys who bragged non-stop about some life-threatening situation they survived, or how they'd faced down death with great aplomb, well, they were usually the first to fall to pieces when you waved a gun in their face. Genuine calm in the face of danger was actually quite rare, even when it came to people in the dangerous business of organized crime.

He wasn't the one with the gun, however. Really, I had a responsibility to act at least as cool as him, didn't I?

I sent him an easy smile.

"Well, not you exactly. Or, at least, I'm assuming you weren't responsible. This man," I said, pressing Shoe's Glock a little harder against his temple, "doesn't like my shoes."

Heh. Some days, I'm just amusing as hell.

There was a profound silence.

"Sorry," Diavolo said, twisting a pinkie in his ear as though to clean it, "but that explosion must still be affecting my hearing - I don't quite think I heard that right."