Deep Down Dead

by Steph Broadribb

He ignored my gaze. Shook his head as the bartender put his change on a small silver tray and pushed it across the bar to him. ‘Have one yourself.’

  I glanced around the room. ‘So what does this Scott look like?’

  JT took a sip of his coffee. He slid one of the whiskeys along the polished oak to sit alongside my soda. ‘Five-eight, about one hundred forty-five pounds, black hair, nerdy-looking. But he’s so into his spy shit he’ll probably have fixed himself some kind of disguise.’

  Oh great. That really helped. ‘Tell me as soon as you see him.’

  ‘Relax, will you. And stop scanning the room so obviously. If he thinks someone’s watching he’ll bolt.’ JT nodded to the bourbon. ‘And have a drink, for old time’s sake.’

  ‘The old times weren’t that great,’ I lied.

  JT shrugged. ‘Well just be cool, then. I’ve been doing this a long while. I reckon I know a thing or two about pulling off a bar bust.’

  He downed his whiskey in a single gulp. I left mine sitting on the bar and took a sip of my soda.

  JT stared at me from under the flop of his dirty-blond hair. The years hadn’t dimmed the vivid colour of his eyes; their blueness remained unnaturally bright. ‘So Florida, then, how’s that working out?’

  ‘Just fine.’ I answered the question he’d asked, not the one hidden beneath it. He wanted to know why I’d gone back there when I’d sworn that I never would. Tough.

  He nodded, put another five dollars on the bar. The bartender refilled his bourbon.

  ‘And you’re doing okay there?’

  ‘Sure.’ I’d done plenty of skip traces, catch and deliver, but that wasn’t really the question. He wanted to know how I had coped. If I’d ever forgotten that night. If I’d been able to forgive him, if I’d forgiven myself. Questions that I’d spent ten long years avoiding. Questions I did not want to have to think about. Not now, not ever.

  So I turned away, glanced around the room, searching for new faces. The bar area had filled up, standing-room only. Still, I saw no one fitting Scott’s description.

  JT was examining me. He raised an eyebrow. ‘You happy?’

  ‘I work for CF Bonds. I’ve got an eighty-nine percent clear rate, highest in Lake County. What’d you think?’

  He stared real pointed at my bourbon sitting on the counter. ‘Sounds like a fact.’

  ‘It is,’ I snapped. Didn’t like the judgement, the disapproval in his tone. He asked a question, I answered. On no account did I want to talk about how things had been, how I’d felt about him, and how he hadn’t felt about me. This was not the time for that conversation. In fact, I was pretty sure that there was no time for that conversation. Ever. It was history, done. ‘Didn’t you always tell me to focus on the facts?’

  JT nodded. ‘I guess I did.’

  The atmosphere between us had changed. Sure, he was pissed that I’d not drunk the bourbon, but it was way more than that. A single unclaimed measure of whiskey didn’t explain the vibes of anger I felt coming from him. He might have been sitting still, but his energy was bronking like an out-of-control horse. And out of control wasn’t an emotion I had ever associated with JT.

  What I wanted to do was ask him what it was that he really wanted to know. But I didn’t. Right now wasn’t about me or JT, or the history between us. It was about Dakota. I tried to act calm. Reminded myself again of rule number seven: Focus on the facts.

  I glanced at my watch: two minutes after ten. Scott was late; fact. I wondered what that meant. I looked back at JT, caught him off guard, gazing at his empty glass with unseeing eyes. The expression on his face looked like … what? Anger. Concern. Regret. Perhaps a combination of all three.

  He turned to face me, his expression neutral again. Damn. Who knew what was going on in that man’s head? Maybe it was nothing, or perhaps I was just projecting my own feelings on to him. I shook my head. I needed to stop that kind of thinking and focus on the task at hand.

  JT was a fugitive, just business. Scott was necessary to free Dakota. And I had a little rule of my own: Use whatever you’ve got to get the job done.

  Forcing a smile, I acted like the obedient pupil I’d once been and picked up my bourbon. I raised the glass, gave a little nod to JT, and downed the whiskey. Held his eye the whole time.

  He inhaled sharply.

  I licked my lips, set the glass back on the bar. ‘Is Scott usually tardy?’

  ‘Not in my—’

  I didn’t hear the rest. Because at that moment I felt the barrel of a gun press hard into my ribs.

  26

  I stayed real still. The guy with the gun was on the other side of me from JT, and was standing in my blind spot, just behind my left shoulder. My first thought was that it was Scott, but that didn’t fit right. There was no reason for him to threaten me. This guy was something else.

  He pressed himself closer to me, whispered in my ear, ‘Don’t scream, darlin’.’

  I didn’t recognise his voice, but I knew the tone; real serious with the menace to make good the threat. So I nodded, once. Glanced across at JT.

  He looked from me to the guy. Frowned, and, guessing something wasn’t right, stood up. ‘Hey, you want to step away from—’

  The dark-haired man sitting on a stool on JT’s other side reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You need to sit back down, buddy.’

  JT swung around to face him. Fists clenched, ready to act.

  The guy shook his head, his expression hard to read behind his shades. He gestured towards JT’s barstool. ‘Please, sit. Don’t make a scene. My friend has a gun at your girlfriend’s ribs; she’s dead unless you come quiet.’

  JT looked back at me. Now his face did betray his thoughts. He’d gotten this wrong. It was an extraction, if not an execution. Question was, who’d sent them: the mob? Emerson? And how fast could we get away? If Scott saw us with these men he’d bolt. I couldn’t let that happen.

  The man leaning close against me jabbed the gun harder into my ribs. I gasped. JT sat back down.

  ‘Good choice,’ said the man in the shades. ‘Now, put your hands on the bar where I can see them, nice and slow.’

  He waited until we’d both complied, then called over the bartender and ordered two Bud Lights. As the bartender fetched the beer, Shades leant closer to JT, nodded towards his empty glass. ‘Anything for you?’

  JT said nothing.

  Shades laughed. ‘No? Not thirsty, buddy? Suit yourself.’ He took a gulp of his beer, acted real relaxed, like we were all friends catching up on a night out. The guy with the gun didn’t touch his drink, kept the barrel against my ribs, stayed silent.

  JT looked at Shades. ‘So what’s the deal?’

  Shades grinned, raised his beer in a mock salute. ‘Just having a friendly drink.’

  I knew that wouldn’t last long. Using my peripheral vision, I checked out our options. Didn’t see many. The bar was crowded, the restaurant tables still full. Shades and his gunman friend acted serious enough. Chances were, they’d react real bad if we attempted to get loose. I noted the exits, seemed there were three: the main door where we’d come in; a glass door on the opposite side of the room, marked as an emergency exit but blocked by a table of four; and a swing door to the kitchen, which most likely had an exit out back.

  Shades set his beer down on the bar. ‘So let me tell you what happens next. Unless you want my friend here to put a nice big hole in your girlfriend, you’re going to come with us, Mr Tate. We’re going to finish up our drinks, and walk out of here all nice and civilised.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  Shades laughed again. Glanced at me, gave a rueful smile. ‘Well, if that happens, I guess it means he don’t love you, sweetheart.’

  No guessing was required – I was real sure JT never loved me – but I wasn’t going to be telling Shades that. Still, his threat told me this was an extraction, not a kill order, not yet anyways, but they wanted JT bad enough to be comfortable with a little collateral damage. That th
ey’d picked a public place like Thelma’s showed they had balls and confidence. Scooping us off the street where we’d parked up would have been a smarter, lower-risk move.

  That meant they more than likely hadn’t been following us; they hadn’t had to – they’d known we were coming here to meet Scott. Shit, if that were true, it meant these were Emerson’s men, and there was only one way they’d gotten the details of the meet: from Scott himself.

  ‘So I go quiet.’ JT nodded to me. ‘What about the girl?’

  Shades looked at me a moment, then said, ‘Comes with us, as insurance.’ He drained the last of his beer. Glanced at the gunman. ‘Let’s go.’

  The guy behind me prodded the gun into my side. ‘Stand up, slowly.’

  I did as he said, kept thinking. If they’d gotten to Scott, we’d never get the device, and if we didn’t get it, then I’d never get Dakota back.

  As my feet touched the ground, I half turned to the guy with the gun. He was younger than I’d expected – early twenties, bad skin, lean muscle rather than bulk. ‘Where’s my daughter?’

  He shrugged. ‘Ain’t seen no kid.’

  A lie, it had to be. ‘I know you’ve—’

  ‘Walk.’ Keeping the gun barrel pressed against my ribs, he gripped my elbow with his other hand and steered me out of the bar behind Shades and JT.

  Around us, folks just carried on as if nothing was wrong: a family to our left were laughing at something their youngest kid had said; an older couple to our right held hands over the table, gazing into each other’s eyes. Johnny Cash played through the speakers: ‘Walk the Line’. Felt like that was what we were doing.

  Up ahead, through the street-side windows, I glimpsed a large SUV parked right outside the main door. It shouldn’t have been there, the area was closed to traffic, letting only cop cars and taxis along the waterfront. The man in the driver’s seat was staring into Thelma’s. Shit. He was waiting for us.

  We had to break free, and it had to be soon. Once they’d gotten us outside and into that vehicle we’d be screwed. We’d already thwarted their plans back at the gas station in West Virginia; they’d not let it happen a second time. So our problem wasn’t just getting free, it was how these two gunmen might react. They opened fire in this bar and there’d be one hell of a lot of collateral damage. But I doubted that there was a thing I could do to prevent that.

  We were fifteen paces from the main door. Three more steps and JT would be directly level with the kitchen entrance on the far right of the room. I watched him real close, waiting for my cue.

  He kept walking beside Shades, and I kept watching. Nothing changed, not his speed or his body language. The guy with the gun was holding my elbow, the gun still pressed firm against my ribs. Still, I knew I had to be ready. So I kept walking, and with my free hand, the one carrying my purse, I felt for the fastener, and eased it open. Inside was my taser. I knew I’d need to get a hold of it fast.

  Another step and JT would be level with the kitchen door. I felt the gunman tense beside me, realised he’d clocked the exits too, that he was ready to react if we made a move. That narrowed our odds of success a whole lot.

  JT had passed the sweet-spot for the exit; he didn’t even look.

  The gunman relaxed his grip on my elbow a fraction. The gun didn’t seem so tight against my skin. Big mistake.

  Ten paces from the main door, JT made his move. It happened real quick. In one fluid movement, he stepped wide to his right, and swung his fist into Shades’ face, connecting hard. Shades dropped to his knees, but wasn’t out. Leaping up, he came back at JT with a punch to the stomach, then grappled beneath his jacket, going for his gun.

  I couldn’t help. I’d gotten problems of my own. A beat longer behind JT’s move than I’d intended, I twisted away from the gunman’s grasp, shoving him off balance as I grabbed for my taser.

  He lunged for my arm with his free hand. ‘Bitch, stop, or I’ll shoot.’

  ‘Me first.’ I raised the taser and fired. The electrodes hit his chest before he’d a chance to deflect. His eyes widened as the volts jolted through his body. He crumpled forward.

  I shoved him away. Dropping the gun, he fell back, sprawling on to the nearest table. Glasses and plates shattered on the floor, and diners leapt from their seats, shouting. He was flapping about like a landed fish. Worst five seconds of his life, I’d bet.

  That’s when the screaming started.

  27

  People screamed. Children cried. Glass and china shattered.

  I swung round, looking for JT. Spotted him six paces away, still fighting Shades. JT looked to be winning, but there was a bigger threat: the driver from the SUV was out of his vehicle and heading towards the main door, weapon in hand.

  ‘JT,’ I shouted. ‘We gotta go.’

  He planted a swift uppercut to Shades’ jaw, followed by a head-butt to send him down. Broken nose, concussion, and the man’s lights were out for the near future.

  People were on their feet, grabbing their things, rushing for the exits. There wasn’t much time, someone would’ve called 911. We had to get out.

  JT crouched beside Shades, pulled a Glock from the holster beneath the man’s jacket then headed my way. Behind JT, the SUV driver was coming through the main door, blocking our closest exit.

  ‘This way,’ I said, and sprinted towards the kitchen.

  We pushed through the mishmash of chairs, dodging round people: teenage girls with black mascara tears running down their faces; an elderly man with his glasses crooked across his face; parents carrying their children, whispering reassurances.

  We’d just made it to the other side of the room when I heard the gunshot.

  Bullets thudded into the polished oak behind us. I dived for cover behind the hostess station. JT followed, returning fire. Two shots.

  A little ways to my right I saw a middle-aged lady with a frizzy perm crouching beneath a table. Her shoulders were shaking, dark patches of sweat spreading beneath the armpits of her ‘I Savannah’ t-shirt. She stared at me, her eyes wide and terrified. I motioned for her to stay down.

  More shots fired. Two wall lights shattered above us. SUV guy’s aim was either real poor or real good. My thinking was his orders were to take us intact. The lady with the frizzy perm fainted.

  SUV guy shouted, his words slow and deliberate: ‘Robert Tate. You come nice, and no more of these good people need get hurt.’

  Son-of-a-bitch.

  Above the screams and cries of the people still trapped in the bar, I heard the wail of sirens in the distance, getting louder, closer. Turned to JT. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

  He nodded. Ejected the magazine from Shades’ Glock and checked the ammo. Almost out. ‘They’ve gotten to Scott. He gave me up.’

  More gunfire. The black-and-white pictures on the wall to our right shattered. The SUV guy spoke again, ‘There ain’t no place to run, Tate.’

  By my reckoning it’d take six paces to reach the kitchen door. We’d be exposed the whole time, no cover. Not good odds. ‘What about Dakota?’

  ‘They want me alive. Means they’re still looking for the device.’

  I peeped around the edge of the hostess station towards the front door. No way out that way, SUV guy was blocking our path. He raised his weapon, fired again. I ducked back out of sight. ‘I have to find her.’

  ‘We will, I promise.’

  Great. Another promise. The sirens were real loud. Blue-and-white lights strobed across the ceiling. ‘We gotta—’

  Glock raised, JT scooted to the edge of the hostess station. ‘Get out through the kitchen. I’ll be right behind you.’

  I shifted forward into a crouch, ready to run.

  As JT fired at SUV guy, I leapt to my feet, shoved my way through the swing door to the kitchen and sprinted to the exit.

  Didn’t look back.

  It was chaos on the river front. People milled around in all directions, the carnival atmosphere of earlier was gone, replaced with fear.
Head down, I stepped out of the narrow alley between Thelma’s and the sports bar, and tried to blend in with the crowd.

  Up ahead, cops were entering the bar, firearms drawn. I glanced back towards the alley, scanning the faces around me. No sign of JT. Shit. I couldn’t risk waiting much longer, but I didn’t know if he’d gotten out, or whether any of our would-be abductors had either.

  I moved with the crowd, letting myself drift with them across the cobbles, away from the bar. Surrounded by people, I couldn’t see the ground. I tripped, stumbled. A big guy pushed into me, stomping his foot on to my left sandal, pinning me to the spot. As he twisted away, I felt a sharp pain, then the strap around my foot snapped. My ankle began to throb.

  The crowd carried me with them, sliding along the uneven cobbles with one sandal flapping off my foot, useless. I needed to move quicker, or be able to stand my ground. I grabbed a lamppost, hung on with one hand as I tugged off my sandals with the other, dropped them right there in the street.

  That’s when I heard the shouting. Inside Thelma’s, the cops were yelling at a suspect, telling them they were surrounded by armed police and to put up their hands. I turned towards the sound, listened harder.

  There was a brief pause, then two shots. Fuck. JT? My heart banged against my chest. Had they gotten him cornered? Was he shot?

  The rubberneckers closest to the bar started screaming. The crowd surged away from the building, pulling me with it once again. I tried to turn back, wanted to see what was happening. Couldn’t. Felt crushed, my feet trampled. Jolted side-to-side, buffeted along, powerless to fight against the stampede.

  I was held captive in the sweaty embrace of the crowd for a hundred yards, maybe two, until the street widened and the herd began to thin. Wrestling free, I headed for the steps up to street level then tore across the cobbles, the stone warm beneath my feet.

  I felt my cell vibrate in my pocket. Couldn’t answer it, not right then. Whoever it was, I needed to get gone, and fast.

  So, I kept running, weaving through the streets of the historic district. The rules of this game had changed-up. Our plan was busted. The opposition had strengthened their hand with Scott and Dakota captive. And now they had JT too, maybe. At best he’d be lying low, waiting on a chance to get away unseen. At worse, he’d be dead. But I couldn’t think on that scenario, had to keep moving, back to the Mustang and back to the motel. And so, with the sirens fading into the distance behind me, and the gunshots echoing in my mind, I ran.