by Jon F. Merz
Nothing.
Shit.
I looked up in time to see three bouncers closing in one me. One of them grabbed me around the upper right arm and another went for the same grip on my left. But they hadn’t moved in unison, giving me valuable seconds to elbow the one on my right and drive him off. He floundered but came right back. This time I drove my elbow into his diaphragm and he backed off. But there were two more.
The second one flew in for a tackle around my waist and I dropped both elbows on to the top of his back, driving him down into my bent knees. He slid off, out cold.
The third one hesitated, having seen me deal with his two much bigger co-workers with apparent ease. Instead of trying to deal with me alone, he reached for his radio.
Time to go.
I sprinted for the fire exit near the back of the club on the ground floor. As I ran, one of the patrons raised his champagne flute in my direction. A shock of brown hair topping a set of piercing blue eyes. Prominent cheekbones narrowing to a fine nib at the chin. He smiled in the darkness, catching one of the blue lasers across his gleaming perfectly capped teeth. And four elongated incisors.
Cosgrove.
I stopped short – already reaching for my pistol – but at that moment I caught another flying tackle around the waist that sent both me and my attacker into the alleyway behind the club, toppling over trash cans, beer bottles and garbage. Amid the smell of dank urine and week-old garbage, I knew instantly who had rushed me out of the club.
"Simbik!"
He got to his feet. "Allah karetsin, Lawson! You trying to get me fired? People saw us talking, man. You can’t pull this kind of shit here. Even for you, I gotta draw the line."
I brushed myself off. "I would have handled it much quieter if the big lug upstairs hadn’t tried to prove himself."
"Your mistake, your problem," said Simbik. "Aren’t you supposed to be a professional, man? Shit, I know fourteen year olds who woulda pulled a hit cleaner than that."
"I told you I didn’t know what my mark looked like. I had to be sure."
"So you go hassling everyone else? Forget about it, man. You can do better than that."
I started for the door. "All right, all right, it won’t happen again-"
Simbik’s hand on my chest stopped me. "Hold it, paisan."
"What’s the problem?" I pulled his hand off of me.
"You know I can’t let you back in there."
"You have to. Cosgrove’s in there."
"You mean the guy you’re after?"
"Yeah."
Simbik frowned. "If he’s in there, why’d you go after the other guy?"
"I didn’t know he was in there at that point. I just saw him as you graciously escorted me out."
"It’s dark in there, man. Maybe you just thought it was him. The shadows and lighting can really mess with your vision. Trust me. I go home with a headache at least twice a week."
"I saw him. You have to believe me."
Simbik sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I do." He frowned. "But I can’t let you back in. I’m sorry."
I knew it was no good arguing. If history taught me anything, it was that Turks stuck to their decisions. Especially Turks named Simbik. I wasn’t getting back inside.
"Okay, but watch that guy. He’s the one by the door at the exit here. He’s dangerous."
"Yeah, I heard you the first time." Simbik turned back to the club door. "Be good Lawson."
I watched him knock on the door and then disappear into the club. Back into the pulsating darkness. And the danger within.
Parallax
Copyright © 2011 Jon F. Merz
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.