“There’s two ways we can play this: the hard way or the easy way. Either way is good for me.”
The look on Chicho’s face was enough to tell Boyd that it was going to be the hard way again.
He got off three clean shots before what was left of Chicho’s head hit the floor. Hollow points meant that you didn’t have to go round digging bits of spent ordinance out of the walls, or the furniture, but they did leave some fucking mess.
However Boyd had been unusually sloppy: he’d got the third shot off when Chicho was in mid fall and, in truth, it was more of a neck shot than a head shot.
And neck shots were fucking messy.
It wasn’t just the extra blood and gack: you couldn’t guarantee that all of the ordinance would stay in situ.
Boyd’s ordinance was privately manufactured so there was little chance that, even if there was some stray shrapnel from the unplanned neck shot, it could be traced back.
Still he’d better let room service know just so they could go over the place with an extra fine toothcomb.
Debbie noticed the mess straight away.
There was no doubt about it: Boyd had fucked up big style.
There were at least two fragments from the round: one bedded into the wall and the other was lodged into the side of a sturdy looking thing that she believed was a welsh dresser.
She rang the cleaner straight way.
She liked Boyd but she knew her job like she knew his: if he was getting sloppy then it wasn’t going to come back on her toes.
“Cleaner: it’s Room Service: Boyd’s got Washday Blues.”