“The first one’s a freebie,” I stated. “I show off my skills, which you already know about anyway, as well as my intentions. I’ll take him out, and I won’t even use a sniper rifle so it won’t be obvious that it’s me—not until I’m on your payroll officially. After that, it will be your call.”
Greco raised an eyebrow and gave a slight nod. It sounded completely reasonable, and he didn’t have to know that my Barrett was still in the hands of the cops.
“After that, you pay me my going rate—fifty G’s per, seventy-five if I need to take care of it out of town.”
“That’s pretty steep,” Greco said, his grin becoming somewhat incredulous.
“It’s my rate,” I said definitively. “I’m flexible when we’re talking about a quick, easy hit, like you telling me to kill the dude in your office as I’m standing there, and he’s being an asshole. I’m already there; he’s there; no recon work for me. Bang! It’s done. You’d get a discount for that one.”
“I’d pay to see that,” Micah snickered.
Andrey glanced over his shoulder, silencing the younger man.
“You’d probably be the one with the barrel end pointed at him,” Greco remarked as he also looked pointedly at Micah. He turned back to me. “That’s still a steep rate, and it’s not like you are all that careful about who sees you.”
“Consider it added insurance,” I told him. “If I’m seen, it just means I get the heat, not you.”
“That’s how you see it, huh?”
“Pretty much.” I watched Greco as he considered what I was saying and found him lacking. I wasn’t even sure he was actually thinking about anything but just trying to give the impression that he was. The more I talked to h
im, the less impressed I was.
I also knew better than to underestimate him. Even stupid people can surprise you, and being surprised usually meant death.
Or worse.
“You do this for me,” Greco said. “You take out this man, and we’ll talk afterwards.”
I nodded slowly.
“There are just a couple of things I’ll need up front,” I informed him. I palmed the tip of my cigarette and took another pull off of it. The smoke trailed up between my fingers.
Greco raised an eyebrow, and Micah folded his arms across his chest.
“Told you,” the Russian muttered.
“Keep your trap shut,” Greco ordered. “What is it you think you need from me?”
I pulled a small piece of paper out of my pocket, the motion setting both Micah and Flannigan reaching for their guns, and slid it across the low table. Greco reached out and spun the paper around so he could read it.
“Weapons, a base of operations, and ten Gs,” he muttered. “Find your own damn weapons—you have the contacts.”
“Contacts under the employ of Moretti,” I said. “Do you want them so easily traced back to me? I told you I wouldn’t be sniping, so I’ll need something a little different.”
He huffed through his nose.
“What kind of base of operations?” Greco asked.
“Nothing big or fancy,” I clarified. “Someplace on the border of your territory and Moretti’s. Somewhere right around here would be fine—I need to be able to work from a place near downtown. Moretti owns my apartment—I can’t use that place and consider it secure.”
He didn’t like it, which was obvious, but he also couldn’t deny the logic of either of the first two requests.
Greco glared, turned the paper toward his guard, and looked up at him as he tapped the list of rifles and handguns I required. The guard nodded.
“Not a problem,” he said.
“And a secure location?” I asked.