Madman by WS Greer

Author:WS Greer [Greer, WS]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Madman
Publisher: WS Greer
Published: 2018-02-02T18:30:00+00:00

I WANT HIM found. I want him dead.

After the heist-gone-wrong yesterday, the crew split up and went their separate ways—Donny and Ricky going back to boosting cars like they were doing the day we contacted them to meet us at Club Aslyum, Rock went back to who-the-hell-knows, and Marcell went back to being the evil genius he is, probably in some lab computing ways to hack the online bank accounts of the closest major corporation. Nix and me, however, we’re on to a different job—finding Tim Sandusky and the people responsible for taking our money. My money.

As I pace around my loft, I can’t get the image of the heist being stolen from me out of my head. I can still see myself standing behind Hyperion Bank with my mouth wide open, jaw nearly touching the ground as I stood in awe of the robbery being carried out right in the middle of Girard Avenue by a crew of at least ten, wearing all-black and aiming AR-15s at passersby like they didn’t have a care in the world, as if everyone around them was totally irrelevant—and that ‘everyone’ included me. This is the kind of thing that can never be allowed to happen. This is not how kings are treated, and I’m a king. I’m the king. Whoever did this is going to pay, and there’s going to be a ton of interest on that payment that’ll come in the form of someone’s life, starting with Tim Sandusky!

I manage to raise a foot from the place it seemed cemented to in front of the enormous window overlooking downtown Philly, and walk over the dark hardwood flooring, past the red couch and loveseat and into the kitchen. I walk past the red barstools that are tucked under the bar counter and open a dark gray, custom-made cabinet next to the stainless steel refrigerator where I keep all of my liquor. I stare at the glass bottles displayed in front of me as if they’re my best friends in the whole world, but I’m disappointed that I have to choose one over the others. I eye them all, bypassing the row of Italian liquors, although the Fernet Branca and Amaretto call out to me. I scan over the row of Russian vodkas and decide I’m not in the mood for anything like that, and decide to go with a big boy drink on the top row of the four-shelf cabinet. After a deep breath, I reach for the decorative glass bottle of Bowmore 1957. It’s not every day a man decides to drink from a one-hundred-sixty-five-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch, but tonight is a special night, because I’m a special kind of pissed off. I grab a short glass from the cupboard, drop in two cubes of ice, and let the expensive scotch pour over the cubes, my mouth already watering from the look of it. I pour in two fingers worth and immediately knock it back, letting the liquid burn my throat so good all the way down, and I already feel a little calmer.

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