1
It was winter and the weather in New York had turned cold.
Tilda took a strong stance, brought up the Glock and aimed dead center at the target, firing off the six remaining rounds. When the clip was empty, she walked the length of the soundproofed basement to check her results. A smile spread across her face as she took the target down from the sandbags piled against the back wall. Five of the six shots were bullseyes in a tight grouping. The sixth shot hit the target right between the eyes. It pleased her that Ford and Neuland trusted her enough with the gun to let her shoot alone these days. After taking off her ear and eye protection, she hurried upstairs to show them how well she’d done.
The three of them lived in a decommissioned police station near Tompkins Square Park in Alphabet City. The place was a solid three-story concrete tomb set hard into the ground with its barred windows intact. Imposing. Impregnable. They called it the Bunker.
Upstairs, Tilda found Neuland in his lab, which was tucked into the back of the first floor where the cells used to be. He seldom talked about his experiments, so Tilda never asked about them, though she was fascinated by the array of chemicals and potions he had, the stacks of chemistry books and age-stained grimoires.
She walked around his worktable and silently held up the target. Neuland was carefully pouring gray, ground-up raven bones into a flask half filled with a thick yellow liquid, so it took him a moment to notice her. When he did, he removed his goggles and gloves, took the target and held it out at arm’s length.
“This is beautiful work. And you’ve only been shooting a couple of weeks. You’re a natural.”
She held up her hands and shot finger guns at him. “A natural born killer?”
Neuland chuckled and handed her back the target. “We’ll see. Make sure to show that to Ford. He’s having a rough day.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s calling our old contacts, trying to drum up business, but it’s not going well.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry.”
Neuland leaned on the worktable and said, “He doesn’t like us living off your inheritance. Neither do I.”
Tilda put a hand on his arm. “But it’s okay. I volunteered, remember? I can’t fight. I can barely shoot. Hell, I can’t even find my way around on the subway. Helping out with money is the one thing I can do right now. And you’ve both done so much for me.”
Neuland pursed his lips. “Thank you. But that target proves you can shoot, so don’t sell yourself short. And you’ll learn the city soon enough. Ford and I just need to get back on our feet so that this feels like an equal partnership for everyone.”
Rolling up the target, Tilda said, “You know, before I met you two no one ever encouraged me to learn things. I mean, not anything that wasn’t about my grandfather’s business. Nothing for me.”
“You’ll learn plenty now. Anything and everything you want.”
She glanced at his worktable. “Potion stuff too?”
Neuland looked down, thinking. “Maybe. But what I’m working on is dangerous for people like you.”
“You mean because I’m alive?”
certain dangerous chemicals.”
“You’re locked in here so serious ever since we got back from California. Will you tell me what you’re working on?”
“I thought it would be obvious.”
“Not to me.”
He picked up the flask and held it to the light. “I’m so tired of being dead. I’m trying to find out if I can do something about it.”
Tilda smiled at him. “That’s wonderful. Will the mixture help?”
Neuland shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried this approach before. We’ll just have to see.”
“Let me know if I can help?”
“Of course.”
She nodded once and said, “I should let you get back to work.”
“Don’t forget to show Ford the target.”
“I won’t.”
Tilda leaned up and kissed Neuland on his cold cheek. “Thank you for everything.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me. You’re one of us now. Part of the team. We do everything we can for each other.”
“You have no idea how happy that makes me. I’ll really let you get back to work now. Good luck with everything.”
Putting on his goggles, Neuland said, “Thanks.”
* * *
The enormous living room had been the squad center in the old days. Now it was full of comfortable mismatched sofas, easy chairs with reading lights, art from local galleries, and a long conference table where they ate their meals. Tilda loved it. Who would have thought you could turn a police station into something so eccentric and warm?
Ford sat at one end of the conference table looking grim. He held his phone in one hand and pecked at a laptop with the other. When Tilda approached him he eventually looked up and tried to smile, but it came out crooked and wrong.
“Neuland said you were having a hard time, so I wanted to check on you.”
“Thanks, T. That’s really sweet. I’m just kind of pissed at the world. I’m going through this address book, calling old clients and contacts trying to drum up some business. But no one wants to play.” He sat back and ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe coming back to New York was a mistake. Maybe we should have stayed out west and started over.”
“No,” said Tilda, dropping into one of the conference room chairs. “This is your home. It will work out. You’ve only been back a couple of weeks. Give it time.”
“Maybe,” said Ford. “But if things keep up like this, I’m going to have to learn how to ride a scooter so I can start delivering pizzas for five bucks an hour.”
Tilda slapped his wrist lightly. “Stop it. You and Neuland are the best at what you do and people know it. They’ll come back.”
Ford didn’t say anything for a while, then nodded to the rolled-up paper in her hand. “What have you got there?”
“A target. Want to see?”
Smiling for real this time he said, “Of course.”
As he unrolled it, Neuland came in.
“Damn,” said Ford. “That’s a nice grouping. What were you using?”
“The Glock G19 you gave me.”
“Nice, nice work.”
Neuland walked over to the table and said, “Maybe it’s time for you to try something with a little more kick.”
“Yeah,” said Ford. “Maybe a Sig?”
back to Tilda. “Tell me what you think.”
She snapped the flap that released the gun and held it out at arm’s length. It was a lot bulkier and heavier than the Glock. Holding it with both hands, she sighted down the room.
“I like it. A lot,” Tilda said.
Ford said, “It’s a Sig Sauer P220 .45 caliber.”
“It’s really heavy.”
“True, but the weight helps keep it from snapping back and smacking you in the face. Very embarrassing.”
Tilda sighted around the room with it. The gun’s bulk made it hard to hold steady at first, but it became easier.
Neuland said, “Some people consider a .45 to be overkill. But in some situations, it’s exactly what you want.”
“It’s what we call a put-down-stay-down gun,” said Ford. “You hit someone in the chest with a slug from that and—dead or alive—they’re not getting up.”
“That’s so… cool,” Tilda said.
“Want to try it on the range next?” said Neuland.
She grinned and nodded. “Hell yes.”
Neuland smiled at her. “We’ll try it out tomorrow.”
Ford leaned back in his chair and said, “I’m glad we’re all in here together, because I want to run something by you.”
Neuland sat down and Ford started up again.
“I’m leaving messages all over town and no one’s getting back to us. So, I’m thinking we pick out some creep—a real piece of shit—and take him out. No charge. A sort of freebie to reintroduce ourselves to high society.”
Neuland scratched his ear. “Who were you thinking of?”
“Benny the Bull?”
“That bastard.”
Tilda said, “Who’s Benny the Bull?”
Shaking his head, Neuland said. “He does the same work that we do, but he specializes in soft targets.”
“Civilians,” continued Ford. “Suburban moms and dads who step out of line. Stupid teenyboppers selling hash in the wrong neighborhood. Easy marks who can’t fight back.”
Tilda sat back on her chair. “That’s awful.”
“It is,” replied Neuland. “Everybody hates Benny. But he’s close with his cousin in the Bronson outfit.”
Ford raised his eyebrows. “Still?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“The pricks. How about that weird little guy everybody calls Igor?”
“The one who talks like Bela Lugosi?”
“That’s him. I don’t trust him around women or kids. Plus, he’s a rat who’ll sell you out for bus fare and everybody knows it.”
Neuland nodded. “Including the police, and they love him for it. God knows he deserves putting down, but it’s probably more trouble than it’s worth.”
Ford took a sip of the beer that was sitting on a coaster. “Man. It’s like you can’t assassinate anyone these days.”
Tilda raised her hand shyly and both men looked at her.
“You really don’t have to do that,” said Neuland.
She said, “Okay. But maybe we should do the opposite, ...
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