It's been a week since Noah and I went over the case files. He said he's going to get the files to the press, but he hasn't. Noah is starting to worry me; it's like he doesn't want to stop.
He's basically living with me now. It's nice, but it reminds me of what this could be if Noah wasn't being manipulated by a power-hungry mob boss. Things almost went normal, until Noah got a call, and he had to leave to go do his job. Whenever he left it was like a piece of me was also missing. We've known each other for such a short time, but we've already been through so much.
Tonight is a quiet night; Noah and I laying on the couch, watching bad T.V. Noah looks up at me from his spot on my chest, "Do you want anything to drink?"
I ponder this for a bit, it's a Friday, so I don't have to worry about being up early in the morning. Getting tipsy won't hurt me. "Yeah, I'd love a glass of whiskey," I murmured, Noah already getting up.
I can't believe I'm doing this. Should I even do it? I have to. I have to be the one that kills Pistol Pete. I know Jackson will try to stop me, so I have to stop him from stopping me.
I start preparing his drink, just like before. Only this time, I pull out a small vial and pour it into his drink. Just for a few hours, I'll be back soon. I hate this, but it's the only way I can keep Jackson out of trouble and out of my way. At least he'll be asleep for it. I have a bad taste in my mouth as I bring Jackson his drink. He sits up and smiles brightly as he takes his drink. I feel like I'm going to throw up. "Noah, are you okay? You're looking a little pale," he asks me, concern plastered on his face. He down the drink and I watch him.
I feel tears start to form, "I'm sorry, Jack. I'm so so sorry." Confusion flashes his face, but the drugs start to kick in. He puts his hand out to stop himself from falling, and I catch him. Betrayal is present in his face. I continue apologizing, tears rushing down my face. His body stills, and I lay him gently back on the couch. I cover him up and gently kiss his forehead. "I have to do this, Jack. There's no other way. I'll be back soon; I hope you can forgive me when you wake up. I have an automatic text ready if I don't return in 5 hours. It explains everything I'm doing tonight and my reasoning. I'll be back, I promise." And with that I'm out the door, ready to complete my mission.
About an hour later, I arrive at the penthouse Pistol Pete rented for the day. I have my gear on, and I'm ready for a battle. I usually don't kill people on my missions, but tonight I'm willing to make an exception.
Pistol Pete greets me like he's greeting his son, "Nice to see you this evening." I glance at him and offer him a smile. He looks the same, salt and pepper hair tied into a bun at the back of his head, dark chocolate eyes gleaming, a thick beard emphasizing his permanent sneer. I'm glad he didn't say my name, especially in front of all of the police officers. Jackson would be surprised at the number of officers here. I scold myself for thinking about him; I have to stay focused.
"Why are you in New York?" I ask him, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I have multiple operatives here in New York that I'd like to keep a closer eye on," he emphasized, staring at me pointedly. This silenced me, the questions buzzing through my head. I have no time for this, I need to get him by himself. There are only a few guards here, maybe I could ask to speak to him in private. That might just work.
"Sir, can I talk to you about new missions?" I ask, eyeing the police officers. This catches his attention and he dismisses the officers with a flick of his fingers. I try to hide my grin and remain stoic. He leans back in his chair and motions for me to continue. I take a step forward and begin, "Sir, I've been looking at other places to strike. I think we should go bigger." He raises an eyebrow but doesn't object. I take this as my cue to continue and start to inch forward, my heart beating rapidly. "I was thinking of museums and art galleries," I say getting closer, I'm almost there. "Think of all the money we could get by robbing the MOMA," I finish, an arm's length away from Pistol Pete.
He ponders this and I take this as my chance. I rush towards him, a knife in hand. He looks up at just the right time and manages to grab my arm. He snarls, "You think you could really get rid of me?" He thinks he has me, but I've practiced this move hundreds of times. I bring my left hand up and punch Pete, causing him to stumble and let go of my other arm. I back away from him, knife raised. He wipes his busted lip and raises his fists, his brass knuckles gleaming. I can do this, I have to.
He charges at me first and I almost laugh at how easily I dodged it. "You gotta be quicker than that, old man," I taunt and he charges again. This goes on for a while and I'm surprised guards haven't barged in. I watch the way he fights and dodge him accordingly. I manage to get a few slices in but nothing that could kill him.
I'm starting to tire and he notices. He charges at me one last time, only I don't block it in time. We crash to the ground and Pete starts landing blow after blow. "You thought you could get out that easily," he grunts, landing more punches. Blood flows out of my nose and crowds my mouth, my lips busted. He stops punching and leans closer to me, "I'm going to make sure you never betray me again. You'll be the perfect little soldier." What does that mean? He whistles and his goons come in, picking me up. "Take him to Dr. Catch, he'll know what to do." As they drag me out, my vision starts to fade. All I can think about is Jackson. I hope he forgives me.
YOU ARE READING
Cops and RobbersRomance
Jackson always thought his life was going to be normal. Aside from leaving his family in Cuba and being smuggled to the United States when he was young, his life was totally normal. That is until he finds a stranger slumped over in an alley and is...