“And if I refuse?”
“I strongly suggest you don’t,” Bishop mused contemplatively. “You really only have two choices. You can help us take down Giovanni De Marco willingly and avenging your sister’s death, or we take you and your entire crew and lock you up some place not even the ants can find you.”
“My crew’s already gone.”
“You don’t think we can find them? Your Chief Officer only just left.”
The bastard had him.
Even if Nicholas had managed to get to the docks in the last ten minutes, they would not be far enough away not to get surrounded.
“Also,” Bishop dug into the pocket of his blazer and removed a thin remote with a tiny, green blip blinking on the radar screen. “Your friend is carrying one of these on his person. It’s an almost microscopic tracker I personally planted on him when you were first brought in. With this, I can find him anywhere. The best part, so can a missile. Now.” He tucked the device away. “When should we expect your answer?”
“You son of a bitch!”
Fredrickson caught him around the shoulders when James lunged at the man seated across from him. He was surprisingly strong for someone so scrawny. James was forced back into his chair.
“Mr. Crow,” Bishop chided. “That is highly unnecessary. I am on your side. It might not seem so at the moment, but I assure you, I am.”
James threw off the hold on him and glowered at Bishop. “It’s Captain, you piece of shit. And if anything happens to my men, I’m not the only one who will have to worry about the fucking ants not finding them.”
Bishop nodded slowly. “Then I think we understand each other, Captain. There is no reason why this partnership should end badly if both sides cooperate. And why wouldn’t we? We both want the same thing—to rid the world of Giovanni De Marco. Tell me I’m wrong.”
It didn’t matter if he was or not. The fact remained the same no matter how the asshole dressed it up: the lives of his men were in his hands. Refusal was no longer an option.
“Fine.” James rolled his shoulders and straightened the collar of his coat. “But I have one condition. No matter what happens, my men and my ship are never to be touched.”
Bishop beamed and stuck out a pale hand across the table. “Deal.”
Chapter Two
Present...
“Well, hello hotness, how much for a shot of you?”
“You couldn’t afford me, Travis.” Cora laughed. “Now, how about we set you up with your usual?”
She didn’t wait for a response. It would have been some half-baked, sexist garble she’d one day kill him over anyway. Until then, she’d get him a whiskey sour, take his money, and then pour him into a cab at the end of the night. That had been the routine for the better part of six months and neither of them had deterred from that yet.
On the way to the bar, she gathered several empty glasses and scrubbed down the table for the next person. She took two more orders before regaining her usual place behind the tap.
“Still hanging in there, Freddy?” A frosted beer glass was held under the faucet and filled without a single glance away from the middle-aged man sulking into his warm soda. “Need a refill?”
Freddy blinked watery eyes and shook his head mutely.
She set the foamy mug down on a tray and reached over to touch one of the loosely balled fists on either side of the soft drink.
“She never deserved you, sweetie. You’ll find someone better.”
Freddy made no comment, and Cora didn’t push. She took the beer to its rightful table and returned to find Freddy’s stool vacant. His untouched Coke remained exactly where she’d placed it almost an hour before, ringed by a drying circle of condensation.
Cora sighed and cleared it away.
She knew Freddy wouldn’t be back. Like Travis, he was as predictable as the sunrise, right down to his luck with women. It was a shame really. Freddy was such a sweet guy, a bit shy, but he loved so deeply. And a little too quickly, which tended to scare the women when it happened after one date. Yet it never stopped him from trying again. Something she really admired.
“Serving wench!” Bruce waved her over from the other side of the room. “We need another round here.”
Inwardly, she groaned and wondered if it was too late to duck behind the counter. Outwardly, she smiled and poured a round of shots and a pitcher of beer. It was all placed on a tray and taken to the table by the window, the table crammed full of airhead morons with too much muscle and zero common sense. The lot of them packed in every night after six, shouting and swearing, and bullying anyone occupying their table. Then they’d stay there the entire night, drinking each other into a coma and making a world of noise.
Unfortunately, as much as she would have loved to ban them, they singlehandedly forked over enough money in a single week to cover rent for an entire month. That was a gift horse one did not question.
“Here we are.” She placed the pitcher down in the middle. Then the shots.
A few dove for the drinks the moment they hit the tabletop.
A few, gentlemanly enough, thanked her first.
Then there was Bruce.
“When are you going to stop playing hard to get and come home with me?”
The nauseating request was simultaneously followed by the swatting decent of his palm in the direction of her ass.
Cora dodged it before impact and nimbly skirted to safety. “I don’t date customers, Bruce. You know that.”
Built like a linebacker with arms the size of tree trunks and a head much too small for his massive body, Bruce smirked darkly, flashing a neat row of pearly whites that contrasted harshly with his tan complexion.
“Who said anything about dating, doll face?”
Ignoring the comment entirely, she turned to the rest of the table. “I’ll be back with your glasses.”
She left quickly, putting the length of the whole room between her and the creeps in the corner.
It was nights like that when she seriously contemplated hiring someone on. A second set of hands to handle the tables. But Femme Fatale didn’t get busy enough to cover the cost. She had her regulars and the occasional traveler passing by, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t man herself.
“You should look into hiring some muscle,” said the sultry brunette waiting for Cora at the bar. “It’s not safe for a single lady to run a bar alone.”
Not exactly a regular, but she’d seen the woman enough times to recognize her and her preferred drink—scotch. Neat.
Cora poured it while she mulled over the advice.
“Know anyone?” she teased instead, placing the woman’s drink before her.
The woman snorted. “To handle those juicers?” She barked a brittle laugh scratchy with years of smoking. “Not likely. But...” She took a swig of her drink. “There are security companies who hire ex-military guys for jobs like this. That’s what you need, black ops, ninja assassin killers to put those assholes in their place.”
Cora laughed. “I’ll be sure to put that in the ad.”
The woman clicked her tongue and went back to drinking, wordlessly dismissing Cora. But not before watering the seeds of uncertainty Cora had already been harvesting the last few months since Bruce found his way to her little hole in the wall.
A bouncer wasn’t a bad idea. But one wouldn’t be enough to handle the eight gorillas who pumped iron twelve hours a day. She’d need to hire a small army with tactical gear and rifles. Not possible on her budget.
Resigned, Cora returned to loading the dishwasher and scrubbing down tables. The night was closing in on midnight and only a handful of patrons remained slumped over their drinks, nursing away the week. By two am, Bruce’s party had dwindled down to four and those remaining seemed adamant to ignore her final calls.
“I could fuck your world,” Bruce slurred all the way to the door. “You’d never get a better cock.”
He emphasized his appendage by grabbing it through the rough
grain of his jeans. The hard length seemed about three inches shorter than most men. Maybe it only looked so small because his hand was too big. Whatever the cause, it never came close to changing her mind.
“Sleep it off, Bruce.”
Rather than compel him to comply as it usually did, he stopped on the threshold and faced her with watery, bloodshot eyes and lips curled back over clenched teeth. He swayed where he stood, but he seemed bigger, angrier. And for the first time, Cora was scared.
“You think you’re too good for me.” He staggered forward a step, forcing Cora to scramble back, but not before he had her wrist caught in a bruising vice so painful, she cried out. “You think you can do better or something.”
“Bruce, you’re drunk. You need to sleep—”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
She had a quick flash of the gun she kept behind the counter, and knew instinctively she’d never make it.
“Bruce...”
“Stupid bitch.” He straightened abruptly, causing his massive bulk to jerk back. The unsteady motion released her from his crushing grip. “Who needs your crusty cunt anyway?”
He turned and ambled out. Cora didn’t wait for him to clear the threshold when she slammed the door closed, putting all her weight behind it. The lock made a loud crack snapping into place. Then there was silence, except the deep, terrifying echo of her own heartbeat thundering between her ears. Its reverberating assault rolled along her limbs in tendrils of ice water, numbing their strength until she was slumped against the wood for support.
“It’s okay.” She shut her eyes and repeated the two comforting words until she could swallow without tasting bile. “You’re fine, for Christ sakes. Get a grip.”
Inhaling the familiar scent of her tiny world, a mixture of beer, sweat, lemon floor cleaner, and lingering perfume, Cora shoved off the door and straightened. She tugged down the hem of her tank over the waistband of her jeans, and her gaze dropped to the clear patch of purple and blue forming on her forearm in the exact shape of a man’s hand. There was a thick outline of fingers extending, curling around the delicate bone. The sight of it was a sickening reminder of just how close she’d come to God knew what. It was a reminder that Bruce could have done anything and she had left herself completely vulnerable.
“Stupid!”
Her uncle and her father would be furious if they ever found out. They would be appalled. Years of training her to never be the victim foiled in a single hour.
Christ.
Disgusted by her own stupidity, Cora threw herself into the task of closing for the night. The floors were swept and mopped. The chairs turned over onto the scrubbed table tops. She even stocked up the beer fridge, something she normally left for the morning. But it wasn’t enough to untangle the knot of anger and fear releasing electrical currents through her nerve endings every time she stopped moving. It was as if by doing housework at three in the morning, her mind forgot about the assault and she could breathe without wanting to kick something.
Ultimately, there was nothing left, except to turn in. She double, then triple checked all the windows and doors. She shut off the lights, and made her way through the kitchen to the backstairs leading up to her tiny apartment above.
That had been the selling point for her when the building had gone up for lease. That and nostalgia. Femme Fatale had been called the Fishing Hole back when she used to sneak in and get wasted with her friends. It was the only place in the city that forgot to check IDs for pretty girls. That was also the reason old man Danny had to close shop two years ago. Cora had been sad to see him go, but it had been the perfect opportunity to get a job after college without having to work for someone else. Granted, being a barkeep had come as a surprise even to her, but she loved doing it. She loved the pace and the people ... most days. Plus, it was a good way to put her business degree to work. She knew she wouldn’t want to do it for the rest of her life, but until something better came along, she enjoyed it.
Upstairs, the original, moldy, dusty, storage space had been converted into a single room loft separated by blocks of clear glass. The only thing remaining from the previous design was the massive windows overlooking the street and the tiny bar lights over the kitchen counters.
The idea had been to extend the bar to the second floor, but common sense—and budgeting—had prevailed at the last second and she settled on an apartment. The decision had wound up working for multiple reasons, like only having to pay one rent and never being late for work.
It was the best of both worlds. A fact her parents failed to see, even while her father was co-signing the loan with her. He’d done so with reluctance and a long speech about the dangers of a woman running a bar.
For the first three months after opening, he’d practically lived in one of the booths, casting deadly glowers at anyone who so much as glanced at her twice. It got to the point where it had scared away customers and she had to beg him to leave. But that was the pros and cons of having overindulgent, overprotective parents.
It helped that she was an only child. Growing up, it was just them doing everything together. Her friends at school never understood how she could pass up a chance to party with them for the chance to stay home and watch The Godfather marathon with her dad, or why she’d rather go shopping with her mom. Unlike their parents, hers hadn’t neglected her for work and too much Botox. She had absolutely no reason to be friends with anyone outside her cozy trio. They were her whole world and she couldn’t ask for better.
There was a text message from Elise when Cora checked her phone for the first time that evening. She opened it and grinned at the same two words she sent Cora every single night — call me.
Grinning, Cora hit talk and mashed the phone between her ear and shoulder.
Elise Harris answered on the third ring.
“Don’t you sleep?” Cora teased, making her way around the foot of the bed to the dresser.
“I was sleeping,” yet her rich and elegant purr of a voice bore not a scratch or rasp to back her statement.
“Then why do you keep asking me to call you so late?”
Cora pulled open the top drawer and rifled inside for a pair of comfortable boy shorts. Followed by a long t-shirt. She carried both into the bathroom.
“Because your idea of a profession terrifies me.” Silk sheets rustled on the other end, indicating her mother really had been sleeping, or at least lying there, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for her phone to ring. Cora put her money on the latter. “Honestly, darling, I’m too young to be so anxious. Cora,” Elise said to someone in the background. “Yes, I’ll tell her.” She returned with a discreet clearing of her throat. “Your father says three am is much too late to have strange men in your home. I have to agree.”
Cora laughed. “I’m fine. Really.” She ignored the thrum of pain from Bruce’s handprint and struggled to maintain her carefree tone as she spoke. “I’m about to take a shower, then get into bed.”
Elise made a quiet humming sound. “We’re still on for tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know.” Cora hissed dramatically through her teeth. “I have to talk to my secretary. I might be having lunch with the Prince of Spain.”
“Cora...”
“He’s a prince, Mom. I can’t stand up a prince.”
Elise’s exasperated sigh had Cora struggling not to break into a fit of giggles. “I don’t know what I did in my past lives to deserve such a sarcastic child.”
“You must have saved a ton of kittens from trees,” Cora decided solemnly. “Maybe you were a nun.”
“Goodnight, evil spawn,” her mother muttered, failing miserably to conceal her own amusement.
“Goodnight, saintly mother.”
Elise broke first. Her riotous laughter was the last thing Cora heard before the phone went dead.
Still grinning, she set her phone on the counter and stripped. Her beer infused clothing hit the hamper before she climbed into the standup stall for a scalding sho
wer. The jets beat against her aching muscles and rinsed the day from her skin. The only thing it didn’t do was erase the violent blossom encircling her arm. If anything, it seemed to have grown in color and size. The sight of it almost made her wish she’d had her gun on her.
It also made her contemplate telling her dad. It wasn’t entirely beneath her to tattle, especially if it meant ridding the world of someone capable of hurting a woman. One word to Giovanni De Marco and Bruce would cease to exist, except she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t in her to put an end to another person’s life through cowardice.
Only next time, she was going to be prepared.
Finished, she shut off the shower and climbed out. She dried and changed into her sleeping gear, and crawled straight into bed with wet hair, too exhausted to bother drying or brushing it. That too could wait until morning.
“He doesn’t look like a psychopath, does he?”
Cora followed the line of Deidra Donavan’s gaze to the bar and the tall, lanky frame keeping it in place. The dim lights shone in his thick helmet of hair. The color was something between an oil slick and an ink spill, and equally greasy. It hooked around his ears and over the collar of his busy silk shirt with its three opened buttons. He seemed to be searching for someone; his eyes kept darting over the room at the sophisticated, and slightly drunk, crowd and then away just as quickly, as if he might accidentally catch someone’s gaze. Long, spidery fingers sat curled around a half full tumbler of scotch that glowed faintly under the sharp illumination. But nothing outwardly said, psychopath. He looked like all the other bar crawlers stuffing up the VIP lounge.
“Is he supposed to?” Cora wondered.
“It would certainly make my job easier.” Deidra shifted in her seat, positioning her graceful limbs more comfortably on the crushed velvet. “He sure dresses like he is.”
Cora had never fully grasped Deidra’s sense of humor, and she’d known the woman for almost a decade. There was always something so morbid about it, some element of weird that always went straight over Cora’s head.
But maybe it was just how assassins talked. Maybe if she’d seen half as many dead people as Deidra did in a week, she’d be morbid and weird, too.
Blood Script Page 2