Power and Empire

They’d no sooner left the truck than an old guy with a young blond wife who was way too hot for his fat gut whistled Moco over as he pushed the mower past. The fat guy wanted to know if he had time to take on a new customer. Gusano was already in killing mode and braced beside him, setting the fuel jug on the sidewalk. Moco gave a slight shake of his head, hoping the crazy assassin noticed. In any other circumstance, he would have flipped the guy off — or maybe even beat his ass for disrespecting him with a whistle. But Moco smiled instead and said he’d drop back by when he was done with his present job and set something up. The lady, who obviously had better sense than her asshole husband, kept tugging on his hand to try to get him to follow her inside. The old man finally relented, listening to his wife for a moment, and then said not to worry about it.

Moco watched them walk inside and made a mental note of the address. The couple had gotten a good long look at him. He’d have to think about coming back and tying up that loose end. Moco chuckled to himself as the blonde peeked out a crack in her door one last time to give him the eye. Yeah, he’d come back, all right. It would be fun.

Moco pushed the lawn mower up the sidewalk until they reached the FBI lady’s place. Gusano read the number on the mailbox. It was mottled red brick to match the house. “Twenty-three forty-eight.”

“This is it, then,” Moco said, feeling the tightness in his lungs that he felt before every hit.

A large ceramic frog squatted among neatly trimmed shrubs along the concrete porch. Fresh wood chips covered the manicured area under a newly planted pecan tree in the front yard. This lady cop had obviously already hired another company to take care of her yardwork. Moco felt a pang of professional jealousy, and then remembered he wasn’t there to do her lawn.

He’d expected to see an unmarked cop car out front, but the driveway was empty. The curtains moved a little, and he caught a sliver of light, so she had to be home. She’d probably just put the car in the garage. He studied the house as they approached. The gate to her backyard privacy fence stood open. Moco figured FBI agents probably traveled too much to have a dog, but the open gate calmed him nonetheless.

Gusano stopped on the sidewalk before they turned to walk to the front door. “Can I go first?”

Moco didn’t want to appear too eager. The Worm might mention it later and the boss might think he was a coward. But the truth was, he didn’t mind at all if Gusano was first at the door. Lady cops died just like everyone else, but this one was certain to try to shoot back. The curtains had moved, so for all Moco knew, she was sighted in on him with her finger on the trigger. Being a cop, she was probably paranoid enough to have a shotgun by the front door. Hell, Moco wasn’t even a cop and he had a shotgun by his front door.

“If you really want to go first,” he said, “I guess that’s okay.”

Gusano hefted the Weed Eater in a salute of gratitude and turned to walk quickly toward the door. Moco followed, standing off to the side toward the garage, clear of the line of fire in case the lady cop decided to go all Rambo on them.

Gusano set the fuel jug on the concrete porch between them and then reached down to flip the hasps, lifting the handle to reveal the guns inside. He made sure the TEC-9s were clear of the other weapons, butts pointed up, and then rang the doorbell.

A few moments later, there was a shuffle of movement inside. The door opened a crack.

“Lawn service—” Gusano said, throwing his weight against the door at the same moment he came up with the TEC-9. A shadowy figure fell away under the assault. There was a short, yelping scream as Gusano rushed in, hitting the door with such force that it rebounded off the wall and slammed shut behind him, leaving Moco standing outside on the porch.

Three quick pops followed, muffled by the heavy door. Moco threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The sprinkler across the street still hissed. Kids still played soccer in the nearby field.

With his own gun tucked in close to his waist, shielding it from view of passersby, Moco reached for the door handle. Gusano opened it first, sticking his head out through the crack as if he wanted to spare Moco a look inside.

“Hey,” he said. “I think we might have a problem.”

“What?”

“Éste es un hombre rubio,” he said.

Moco groaned and shouldered his way into the house. Sure enough, Gusano, the Worm, had just shot a man with blond hair.

“Is anyone else in the house?”

“Right.” Gusano grimaced. “We should check.”

Moco thought about killing the idiot right then and there — but then there wouldn’t be anyone to blame when they told the boss. Instead he stepped over the dead man and the two would-be hitmen searched the rest of the house. The blond man turned out to live alone.