The Innocents by Nathan Senthil (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

far from the truth because Ryatt’s mind had spat the answer. Their expertise wasn’t what the Detroit Alliance needed. It was their expendability.

Shaking his head, Ryatt holstered his gun. “We did one job and that’s that. So our expertise can’t be the only reason.”

“Alright, you got me, Mr. Lolly.” Roman sighed and lifted his hands. “The truth is, all our guys are known to the cops. We need someone new.”

Wrong again. Roman was a good actor. He pretended to give credibility to ‘Mr. Lolly’ trying to feed Ryatt’s ego. He wanted Ryatt to believe he was both smart and needed. The real truth was, they needed Ryatt because he was disposable. No one gave a shit about three poor black kids who’d gone missing. That thought angered him.

However Ryatt decided he would play this game along, hoping to manipulate it to his advantage.

“Okay. Count me in. But what about the recon?” Ryatt acted all innocent, but he knew how Italians operated. There must be a snitch working undercover in the factory.

“We have a routine to infiltrate businesses like these,” Roman answered, confirming Ryatt’s suspicion. “Our guy has burrowed himself deep in the logistics side of MacSharp.” Roman’s eyes beamed. “We have a date and route.”

Ryatt matched the excitement in Roman’s eyes. “All we need to do now is just hijack the truck?”

“You got it.” Roman dared to reach out and grab hold of Ryatt’s shoulder. “And when you do, you will be well rewarded.” A warm smile stretched Roman’s lips.

Ryatt mirrored the dubious expression and crushed the candy with his teeth. “Then we’re in business.”

Chapter 9

December 24, 1981. 11:11. P.M.

 

Ryatt stood near the opening of a dead-end alley, safely tucked away from streetlights. Roman had dropped them off two minutes ago and given them masks. Bugsy’s gift, apparently.

Ryatt had received a green zombie design, a prosthetic wear big enough to cover his head and neck. Only thirty seconds had passed since he wore the mask but he disliked it already. It was stuffy, the breathing holes were disproportionate, and the most irritating thing was the rank of rubber, which was not doing wonders for Ryatt’s upper intestines; the acid and half-digested mash of the dinner he ate earlier was pushing up his esophagus. If some improvisation wasn’t done, history would repeat itself.

Fuck it. Ryatt removed the mask and inserted his hand into the opening. Grabbing hold of the lips from inside, he bit the soft rubber.

“Goddamn heathens.” A woman’s voice filled the alley.

Ryatt stopped his work and turned back. No one. Where did—

Then he looked up. An old woman was observing him with disinterest from her balcony, a cigarette dangling between her fingers.

“That new crack shit,” the old woman said. “It’s making y’all boys a bunch of looneys.”

Ryatt frowned. “What you talking about, Grandma?”

“The hell are you kissing that demon, boy?”

Kissing? What the fu—oh…

Ryatt couldn’t help but smile. “I ain’t kissing it, Grandma. I’m just putting a hole through it.”

“Hole? What for?”

“Because this mask had been too nosey.” Ryatt pulled his gun from the holster and pointed it at the head with ghostly hair. “Now you mind your goddamn business or I will put one through yours.”

The old woman’s eyes widened, but not as much as Ryatt would have liked. She was mildly anxious at best.

“That cute trinket supposed to scare me? Boy, let me tell you. When I served in the ANC, I was stationed in France during the Battle of Normandy. I treated the most horrible wounds. Wounds from tanks, bombshells, and .50s. Your little toy ain’t shit.”

“American Nurse Corp?” Ryatt put the toy back in, blushing. He wasn’t gonna shoot her anyway. Thought he would scare her away, but apparently, she had survived tougher terrains. He could relate. You didn’t threaten someone like that; you either killed them or moved on.

“You know what ANC is?” the old woman asked.

“I used to read a lot, ma’am.”

“You can put alphabets together?”

“The best in school, in a different life.”

“In a different life, he says,” she scoffed. “You must be what? Fifteen? You don’t have a different life, boy. You barely have one. Barely half!” She took a drag and spoke, smoke ejecting out in angry puffs. “What a good boy like you doing in an alley like this, fiddling with a mask and a gun?”

“Good question, ma’am.” A bout of goosebumps ran across Ryatt’s skin, his nostrils prickled, and eyes welled. “But you’re asking it to the wrong person. Ask it to the big man above. I’ve been asking it for as long as I can remember.”

“Oh then it’s gonna be a long wait, dear.” The old woman pinched the smoldering orange with her fingertips, making Ryatt wince. “When I saw what I’ve seen in the battlefields, I stopped going to church. I mean, what kind of a god lets a mean little man with a funny little mustache tear such a hideous scar in human history?”

“An indifferent god?” Ryatt said.

The old woman chuckled. “You’re bright, boy. I hope you know what business you’ve got yourself into.”

“I do, ma’am.”

“And the most important question you gotta ask yourself is,” the old woman stood straight. “Am I making my momma proud?”

That caught Ryatt’s tongue. Before he could contrive an answer, she disappeared into the house, shutting the window.

Ryatt looked down at the disfigured face in his hand. “No,” he whispered.

Taking in a huge breath, he tossed the candy into his mouth, wore the mask over it, and inserted the straw through the small nip he had just made on the mask’s mouth.

“What’s that about?” a voice enquired from the alley across the road.

“Tell you later.”

“Okay.”

Leo and Ryatt lay in wait on a lonely stretch in Livernois Avenue which was deserted at this time of night. The