The Burning Man Read Free Page A

to explain to Tony that he was better than this, that he had ambition, and that it was Denise and her nagging and lack of faith in him that kept him down. But it didn’t seem like a good time. Better to just go grab the gun and get going.
    When Randy walked up to the porch, the door was closed.
    That’s weird, he thought. The door was never closed, not in this kind of heat. But he didn’t really think much about it as he pulled the screen door open and turned the knob on the wooden door behind it. He half expected it to be locked, but the handle turned easily.
    When he opened the door, he saw Denise’s older daughter standing there in the middle of the empty living room. Denise must have gone to lie down or something, because although she’d left behind a smeary mess of blood and snot on the wall and floor, she was nowhere to be seen.
    That’s when Randy noticed that the little girl had his gun.
    For a fleeting second, he thought she’d realized that he forgot it, and helpfully brought it out to give to him. But he didn’t remember telling the kid that he’d be needing it, and he’d never talk about that kind of stuff with a nine-year-old, anyway.
    Then she raised the gun and pointed it at him, and any thoughts along those lines swiftly evaporated.
    “Olivia, don’t!” he said, hands held out in supplication.
    The little bitch shot him.

2
    Tony was starting to regret having chosen Randall as his sacrificial lamb. You’d think it would be impossible to screw up such simple instructions. Clearly he’d overestimated his victim’s ability to distinguish his own sorry ass from a hole in the ground.
    Tony had orchestrated this exact same bait-and-switch set up half a dozen times before, cherry-picking some loser to take the blame for the murder of one of Tony’s myriad rivals and competitors. They would break into the target’s house, Tony would shoot both the target and the fall guy, and from there it was a cinch to doctor up the scene to make it look like they’d killed each other during a botched robbery.
    Should’ve been another no brainer.
    But in the past few months, Tony had been suffering through a tenacious streak of bad luck. Deals going south. Sure things that didn’t pan out. Worse, he’d been having these strange episodes of free-floating anxiety, combined with intense paranoia and an unshakeable conviction that very bad things were going on just outside the limits of his peripheral vision.
    He figured it was probably a side effect from doing too much blow, but it was starting to mess with his composure. Making him doubt himself. And given the kinds of animals he dealt with on a daily basis, you could never show a hint of weakness, or else they’d eat you alive.
    He lit a cigarette to calm himself as he watched Randall fumble around with the doorknob. This guy was really starting to get on Tony’s nerves. It was going to be a pleasure to kill him.
    Again, there was that icy twinge of paranoia as Tony glanced back down the street. He spotted a man standing beside the mailbox of a Pepto Bismol-colored house, on the other side of the street. He really didn’t want anyone to notice him, or wonder why a petty criminal like Randall was getting into a cop car on the day that would become known as his last.
    But that wasn’t the only reason the guy was making Tony nervous.
    By the glow of a nearby streetlight, he saw that the man was wearing a dark suit and tie, despite the sweltering heat. Also, his face—what could be seen of it—was icy pale under the rim of a black fedora. No tan—not even a hint. Clearly not a local. Some stiff from Internal Affairs?
    A Fed, maybe?
    Tony was starting to think that the best option was to cut his losses and drive away. He could always come back and silently execute Randall some other time. He was about to turn the ignition key when he heard the shot.
    Instinct had him out of the car with his gun drawn before he had a chance to think about what a bad idea it was