I no longer had any time to wait. They were coming for me next. I felt around Frankie’s body and my hand twisted up in the material of his suit jacket, but I didn’t receive any electric shocks. Frankie’s eyes were closed as he lay on the floor in a crumbled mess.
I patted his sides, going up his shirt and trying to find where he hid a gun until I found a small handheld pistol in the pocket of his jacket perfectly concealed. I ripped the weapon out, tearing a piece of his fabric, and flinched.
The three men charged into the kitchen, not caring I had a gun. I shot once and the sound ricocheted over the metal and stone kitchen, but the bullet took a chunk of the door trim rather than a man’s face. One man, someone I’d never seen before, lunged at me. They had to be the men from the destroyed black van—the assholes sent from Chicago by Greg. Only he hated me enough to go to these extremes to kill me.