Page 29 of Dirty Pool

He didn’t know these fucking alleys.

This wasn’t New York.

Nothing about this place was like his home.

Michel had never been more aware of that than as he turned a corner in the back, and came to a goddamn dead end. “Shit.”

“There’s the feckin’ cunt!”

Of course.

Of course, it was the Irish.

Michel turned around with the blade in his hand, but he came face to face with three assholes each holding guns.

“Hey, you’re the doc, aye?”

Michel swallowed hard. “That’s what they call me, anyway.”

Why lie?

“Grand. We got a feckin’ job for you.”

What?

• • •

“The boss can’t find out!”

“He won’t. That’s why we grabbed a doc, boyo.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Shut yer feckin’ face, huh?”

“A right wagon, you is.”

Michel ignored the arguing men behind him as they shoved him down the hall. Where the third asshole had gone, he wasn’t exactly sure. He figured now also wasn’t the time for him to worry about it. Not considering the other two still had guns, and one was digging hard into the spot right between his shoulder blades.

Was it a hair trigger?

Was the guy holding it drunk?

There were a lot of variables here.

None to his favor, either.

“Walk faster,” the guy at his back barked.

Michel tensed. “I don’t even know where I’m going.”

“The last door on the left.”

He eyed the dimly lit hallway. He certainly hadn’t driven around the city enough to know where exactly he was, but he suspected the shipping district only because they had brought him to a warehouse. Nothing good happened in warehouses.

Ever.

The last door on the left in the hallway was literally the only door on the left, but Michel didn’t think it was particularly important to point that out to the fucks behind him. He didn’t think it would work out well for him to explain their obvious stupidity all the way around the board, but he still had to resist the goddamn urge.