Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [100]
You probably go for the gun at your head. By now, the dude’s arm might be getting tired from holding it up that long.
Besides, he was no help to Yasmine if he was dead.
“I’m serious,” Gabe goaded him. “Look him up.” He spelled the last name. The sun was rising in the sky and it was getting close to seven, the appointed hour of the bus’s arrival. The park was still empty, but it wouldn’t be long before people came to walk their dogs and do other shit. Dylan had to realize that as well, so Gabe knew he had very little time. They were walking through a maze of trees, still somewhat hidden.
One of the dudes with short spiked hair and a weak chin had pulled out an iPhone. Out loud he said, “Christopher Whitman Donatti.”
“That’s the man.”
He read, “Adopted son of the late Mafioso boss Joey Donatti, head of the Charino gang in New York and Chicago—”
“Guess who took his place when Joey died,” Gabe said.
Weak Chin’s voice stammered for a second before he read on. “Served six months in Piedmont Penitentiary for the murder of Cheryl Diggs when he was eighteen, released six months later when new information was brought to light.”
“That is true.”
“Arrested twice in connection with the deaths of Leon Graciano and Paul ‘the Pick’ Lorelli. First charge he was acquitted, last charge ended in a mistrial due to the death of a state witness and lack of evidence.”
Thank you, Dad, for being a psycho.
Dylan’s eyes were flitting from object to object. The dude was definitely on something, but he could still understand the enormity of what Weak Chin was telling him. Gabe could see Dylan faltering, hesitant about going up against the son of a real, live bad guy.
“Donatti now owns publishing houses and numerous real estate concerns in New York and Nevada.” Weak Chin swallowed and said, “Doesn’t say anything about owning whorehouses.”
Gabe’s sigh was exasperated. “Are you a real dumb fuck or are you just playing the part? My dad’s a fucking felon, dude. He can’t own things like that. All his casinos and whorehouses are in my mom’s name. Teresa McLaughlin Donatti. She’s in there somewhere, right?”
The kid didn’t answer.
“And guess what. My name really isn’t Chris. It’s Gabriel. Gabriel Matthew Whitman. And I know I’m in there, too, because I’ve googled my dad like a million times. Now are there any other questions I can answer about my family?”
No one said anything, and now was the time.
Abruptly he stopped walking and ducked, causing the guy behind him to overstep and trip, the gun in his hand now safely over Gabe’s head. In a swift fluid motion, Gabe grabbed the dude’s hand and in a single twisting motion, wrested a Luger 9 mm semi from his grip. He looked up just in time to see the barrel of Dylan’s piece aimed at his chest. He heard a scream and thought it might be his own. Yasmine had whipped around once the gun was off her back, her elbow knocking into Dylan’s hand a fraction of a second before the gun exploded.
A bullet whizzing past his body.
Which didn’t faze him much except that it was a loud motherfucker.
The noise and kickback caused Dylan to jump backward, giving Gabe just enough leeway space. Within a beat, he was in perfect position, behind Dylan with the semi in his right hand pushed into the nape of his neck, digging deep into the skin, pointed upward into his cranium. With the boots, Gabe was a good four inches taller than Dylan. “You move, dude, you’re a fucking corpse.”
Before Dylan could process, Gabe grabbed the .22 with his left hand, then immediately switched guns, feeling more comfortable with the .22 on Dylan and the 9 mm in his free left hand. It simply had more rounds, in case he had to use it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guy with long hair and acne guy reach into his pocket. With his left hand, Gabe shot at him, the bullet narrowly missing his arm. The .22 in his right hand was still on Dylan’s neck.
To the dude with long hair, Gabe said, “Did I give