I shouldn’t still be in Chicago. I should be back in New York City beating Zotov Stepanov into a f*****g pulp.
But nothing has gone according to plan.
For six long weeks, I’ve plagued this city like a ghost. I’ve cornered and beaten down every low-level mob f**k I can find. Looking for clues. Looking for answers. Looking for a way to get to the man I’m supposed to kill.
And it’s all been for f*****g nothing.
Apparently, The Butcher is goddamn untouchable.
The man I’m supposed to kill changes safehouses monthly. Never hangs out at the same place two nights in a row. He cycles through bodyguards relentlessly, a fresh crop of them every week. His security is airtight. I haven’t gotten so much as a look at the bastard.
All I have is a bullet with his name on it and nowhere to fire.
It’s
