To His Dying Breath
Mark was strong and lean. He knew how to fight, how to shoot, and how to make love. His world was small, full of small men. One of them, a mob guy by the name of Gus, was in his way.
“You can’t come in.” Gus said. He stood in front of the door to the Kit Kat Klub.
“I don’t think you can keep me out.” Mark shot back.
Gus crossed his arms. “No jokes—get out of here or else.”
Mark leaned in and growled, “No.”
“That’s it. I ain’t been in a fight in a while. Guess it’s time.”
“Guess it is.” Mark said.
Gus shrugged out of his coat. Mark didn’t wait. He hit him full in the face with a hard cross. The man’s head snapped back and Mark hit him with a jab from his left hand. The blows rained down in paired strikes. Eight hits and Gus fell to the ground in a heap. Blood trailed off his lips.
“Next time, just move. It hurts a lot less.” Mark stepped up to the door and pushed his way in. A hunch had led him this far. He would find Liz if it was the last thing he did. No one—not the Don, not God—would stop him.