Page 55 of Down & Dirty: Reaper

Her pussy clenched and she winked at him. “I like how you think, Devil Dog.”

“You like me for more than my smarts. Now pants down and bend over the desk.”

“You know, picking locks was one of the first skills we were taught as kids by the OGs.”

Without hesitation, Reaper dragged the seat he’d been sitting in over to the door and jammed it under the doorknob.

“Well, look at you, MacGyver.”

“Knowing Indie, I’d prefer she doesn’t crash the party to record us so she can use it as blackmail.”

“Don’t worry. I have plenty of my own footage to use against her if she tries.”

Reaper barked out a laugh and shook his head as he reached for his belt buckle. “I can’t imagine what it was like growing up in your family.”

“None of us have any shame.”

“No fucking shit.”

Chapter Eleven

With his rifle case flung over his back, Reaper climbed the fire escape of the closed community center. The building was a lot closer to his target than he’d like but it was the only location he could find for a direct hit.

At least at this distance he wouldn’t miss. Unless something interfered with his shot, like a large delivery truck passing at the wrong moment.

Once he reached the top, he scanned the roof to make sure there were no surprises. He set his rifle case down on the flat roof, then looked over the edge to get a feel of the area from the ground up. The crowds, the traffic, anything stationary that might block a clear shot. Also for any potential witnesses.

And, of course, security cameras.

While the team had most cameras in the area mapped out, Reaper would never assume that list was all-encompassing.

Life had taught him that situations could change in a split second. To never make assumptions. Go with facts, while also listening to gut feelings.

Basically, if something felt off, it probably was.

As always when he came to Pittsburgh, anything identifiable about him was covered by wearing a thin, black jacket with the hood pulled up over his plain, black baseball cap, black cargo pants, mirrored sunglasses, and a black surgical mask to cover his beard.

But as he bent down to unlatch his rifle case, something stung him in the ass.

What the fuck was⁠—

For fuck’s sake.

He survived years as an active Marine, but the fucking Mafia managed to get one up on him? How the fuck did that happen?

Like normal, he had checked out the goddamn roof to make sure no one had been on it.

Was he slipping? Getting sloppy?

How fucking humiliating.

Even more so if he died at the hands of the Sicilians. If they ever recovered enough of his body to bury his ass, his tombstone would say⁠—

Who fucking cared? He should be concentrating on how to get out of this clusterfuck instead of doom-scrolling in his head.

It had to be a setup. La Cosa Nostra must have finally figured out that any new location mentioned in communications within the organization was being intercepted and that was where the next hit would be.

That was the only reasonable explanation on why they’d been waiting for him. And he stepped right into the trap like an inexperienced grunt.