Chapter Fifteen: If He Only Had a Brain

Aaron Brody was a waste of breathable air. Nick had always thought so.

Smug, spoiled, sloppy and stupid, Brody had systematically tanked every assignment his father had ever given him. He tracked a trail of dog crap wherever he walked, and left the brown smears behind for other people to mop up.

It had never really bothered Nick, because it hadn't been his problem. Nick was a valued member of the organization. He cleaned up messes of a very different variety, and did it so well that he was nearing the status of indispensable.

And then, about eighteen months ago, it had happened: some kind of royal screw-up in the prostitution ring. The ring Brody was supposed to be in charge of. Nick didn't know all the details, but he knew there'd been arrests, and that some of the charges had not gone away.

That very same afternoon, Nick's phone had rung. An hour later, the former lone-wolf mercenary was meeting his brand-new partner, Aaron Brody.

Because the boss's son didn't get fired. The boss's son got "reassigned." Because Aaron Brody wasn't a complete idiot-drunk-on-moron-juice – no, he was just a "talented young man still looking for his niche."

"You're the best at what you do," the boss had told Nick. "Take him under your wing. Teach him."

And Nick had said, "You got it."

Because you didn't say "no" to the boss.

So now here Nick was, a year-and-a-half later, holding a bucket of soapy water in one hand, and a mop in the other.

The fact that Aaron Brody wouldn't be breathing air for very much longer was of little concern to Nick.

Having to tell Mason Brody that his son had been killed on the job? That would be a little more worrisome. But Nick figured that vivisecting the guy responsible for Brody's torching would win some points with the boss.

It was almost a shame. If Nick had a choice, he'd probably leave the guy alone. Any guy with the stones to burn another man's face off was all right in Nick's book.

Unfortunately, thanks to Brody's epic mishandling of the situation, not one but two witnesses had likely seen Nick's face while he was sitting out in the car. Letting them live wasn't an option.

How many times had he told Brody to be absolutely sure of who was in the house before taking action?

"She's alone," the idiot had boasted, "I called her myself. She told me she would be free this afternoon. Nobody there but her, and maybe the kid."

There had only been one car in the driveway when they'd pulled in. One car, one person home. It did stand to reason…

But it never hurt to be one hundred percent certain. If Nick had gone inside, he might've said to the wife, "Nice car."

And she might've said, "Oh, it's not mine."

A little subtle detective work, and they wouldn't be in this debacle. But Brody had wanted to go in alone, prove he was a big shot or something. Brody had insisted. And you didn't say "no" to the boss's son.

Nick had discovered the wife's actual car, a minivan with plates that read "SOCR MOM," during his fruitless search of the garage.

Now, as Nick was finishing his sweep of the house, he heard Brody's weak, raspy voice float down the stairwell:

"Ick? Icky…?"

Nick reluctantly tromped back up to the master bedroom. "I'm here, Brode."

Brody lay curled on the floor, next to the bed. He was breathing hard. Fluid leaked from one corner of his mouth. Nick couldn't tell if it was drool, or something else.

"I…hink I eed…ockter," Brody managed faintly. "I eed…go…hosstital…"

"I'm going to take you to the hospital," Nick told him, "Just as soon as I take care of the witnesses. It won't be much longer. Okay?"

"…Tay," Brody mumbled. He curled a little tighter on himself, wheezing through damaged airways, shivering from shock.

Nick turned away from the sight. He padded down the green carpet steps and out the front door, with no plans of returning.