POP POP POP.
Frank woke up from a light sleep. Gunfire. Suppressed. He'd wager a Ruger Mk. II with a GemTech. Not subsonic rounds, though, or he wouldn't have
heard it at all, mixed with all the noise of the city. Still, it took a professional to hear it and register that it was gunfire. It was close, though. Down the street?
Frank headed over to the window.
Two men emerged from the alley next to the apartment complex across from Frank's. They were dragging a bloody body bag.
This was too close to home to be a coincidence, too professional to be random. Had the scum of the city found him? Were they taunting him, trying to aggravate him into making a stupid move?
The two thugs threw the body bag into the back of a van. One of them looked up at Frank's window, straight into Frank's eyes. A Russian. The man grinned.
Frank just glared back. No matter the situation, he refused to be intimidated. This was an invitation. A challenge.
He took down the plate number of the van as it pulled out of the alley and drove away, a difficult task.
They headed towards the Manhattan river. But they'd be back, Frank was sure of it. Unless he took the fight to them, as he planned to.
Frank would NOT let some scumbags dictate his tempo.
Frank didn't go back to sleep that night.