Page 41 of Disavowed

Unfortunately, thoughts of clothing had her thinking back to last night when Dom had managed—in the span of three minutes—to come a hair’s breadth from getting her completely out of her clothes.

Damn, damn, damn him to hell and back.

No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. But she had to, because Dominick Carew would always be a pig. One she was better off without in her life.

Chapter Eleven

Thursday afternoon, Dom waited on the roof of the ten-story building overlooking the bodega Jimmy Gonzalez frequented every afternoon to support his habit.

Strong winds buffeted the roof’s vent pipes that Dom stood between to conceal his location. He stepped over the sniper rifle resting in the open tuba case he’d purchased from a music store in Queens. He turned his face into the wind to gauge its speed and direction. Twenty miles an hour oblique with a right quartering crosswind.

Next he scanned the streets on either side of the bodega, noting how an American flag hanging in front of a nearby shop fluttered in the opposite direction, indicating a left quartering crosswind. Typical for a big city, with tall buildings creating a wind tunnel along the streets traveling in a completely different direction from the wind aloft.

Flexing his fingers, he looked over the edge of the concrete wall down to the storefront across the street. A green canopy hung over a glass door flanked on either side by large plate-glass windows. A few hundred yards was an easy shot. For him, anyway, but he’d taken extra care sighting in his scope just the same.

He glanced at the video camera on a nearby telephone pole. The city had hundreds of traffic cams and HD-streaming cameras, footage from which could be viewed from anyone’s personal computer. The one covering the intersection near the bodega was brand-new, having been placed there only recently at the discrete direction of the NYPD. The official excuse was an increase in speeders through that intersection. The real reason was to immortalize what was about to go down.

When a gust of wind blew in his face, he tugged off his New York Yankees ball cap and placed it backward on his head. A glance at his watch told him ten minutes to go before showtime. He let out a cynical laugh. Smith was a no-show. Seemed like the plan was working.

Thank you, Gray.

As if on cue, Dom’s cell phone vibrated. It was Smith. He grinned and took the call. Before he got in a single word, the other man’s voice bellowed in his ear.

“I can’t get there. Abort!” Smith was pissed. “Your fucking buddies pulled me over and made up some bullshit story about parking tickets and a bench warrant. I don’t have any parking tickets. Motherfuckers. It’s mistaken identity or some other shit. You’ll have to reschedule.”

Since getting Smith pulled over by the uniforms on the way to witness Dom’s hit was all part of Gray’s plan, he’d fully anticipated the last-minute call.

“No way. I’m doing the job. It’s not my fault you’re late. And they’re not my buddies. They fired my ass.” He held the phone from his ear as Smith let loose with a string of obscenities. He had to give the guy credit. Some of the shit coming from his mouth was truly poetic. “I’ve invested too much time in this already. You can verify through other channels.”

“Dammit, Carew. You are not doing this job. That’s an order!”

“I don’t take orders from you, asshole.” As he ended the call he could still hear Smith foaming at the mouth.

There was still a chance this plan would go south hard and fast. Smith was supposed to be loitering in the vicinity of the bodega, close enough to check Jimmy Gonzalez’s pulse after the hit. Instead, Gray had planted UCs in and around the shop to keep passersby from doing the same.

He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to go.

During the surveillance he’d done, he knew Gonzalez would be at the bodega every day at precisely four o’clock. He picked up the rifle, rested it on the concrete ledge, and aimed at the storefront.

Even though everything was going like clockwork, he felt his heart rate kick up a notch. In less than two hours, Jimmy Gonzalez would be escorted onto a plane destined for an all-expenses paid trip to the Bahamas, courtesy of the NYPD. But if he fucked this up, someone could still get hurt.

To make this look good he had to use real ammunition so witnesses would hear the shot. The undercovers were there not only to keep civilians from touching the body but to make sure no one else got in the way. And to plant a spent shot covered in blood somewhere in the vicinity of the body.

Centering the crosshairs of the rifle’s scope on the front door, Dom slowly blew out a breath and flicked off the safety. He moved his finger to the trigger.

The door opened. Jimmy Gonzalez stepped outside and, as choreographed, turned right and paused in front of the store window to light a cigarette. Dom squeezed the trigger.

The shot reverberated within the confines of the surrounding vent pipes. Gonzalez fell backward, slamming against the plate-glass window. A bright red splotch grew steadily on his chest, courtesy of a blood bag obtained from a nearby hospital.

Dom let out another breath, thankful no one had gotten hurt. He remained sighted in, watching the ensuing chaos for a minute to verify the scene developed as it should.

At first, people ran from the sidewalk. Some took cover behind nearby parked cars on the street. Others took off and kept going. The two men who’d been lingering nearby—the undercovers—approached the body and dragged it behind a blue mini-van parked at the curb.

Slowly, Dom eased the rifle from the ledge. He repacked the gun carefully in the tuba case, snapped the case shut, then went to the rooftop door he’d propped open with a two-by-four. He yanked open the door, kicked the piece of wood out of the way, and calmly took the stairs down to the main floor.

Minutes later, he was casually strolling—albeit with his telltale limp—back to the car he’d parked five blocks away. He’d already turned his ball cap around on his head and donned dark sunglasses. As he crossed the streets, sirens blared. Three police cars and an ambulance screeched to a stop in front of the bodega. Uniforms cordoned off the area, and medics jumped out of the bus carrying kits they deposited on the sidewalk next to Gonzalez’s still form.

Dom didn’t wait for them to drape a sheet over the body. He didn’t need to. He already knew the TOD—time of death. It would be somewhere around five o’clock. Time enough for the medics to load the body, transport it to the hospital, and have a doctor officially declare Gonzalez as dead.