The Bad Ass Brigade: Bad Guys Beware. The Good Guys Are on the Prowl (A Taylor Lee Sizzling Romantic Suspense Collection)

by Taylor Lee

  Without hesitation, Ah Lam replied, “I want to study medicine. In New York City.”

  Bai studied her for a moment. A knowing expression crossed his face. He selected a slender Bolivian cigar from the humidor on his desk. She watched as he meticulously trimmed it, cut the end. He puffed on it until it was drawing well, then blew the aromatic smoke in the air. Leaning back in his chair he gazed at her from half lidded eyes. He nodded. “I see. Then you shall.” He added, “Dr. Wong at the New York Infirmary for Women and Children is a friend of mine. The train leaves in two days.”

  * * *

  New York City

  Fall, 1906

  Walking through the rain back to her dorm, she heard a voice call her name. Without looking, she knew it was him.

  “Ah Lam! Wait. Ah Lam. I’ve been hunting for you. Thank God, I found you. It’s me, Gabe.”

  She turned to see the tall young man dashing toward her. To her surprise, he grasped her under her arms, picked her up, and whirled her in a dizzying circle.

  She shrieked, laughingly admonishing him. “Put me down, Gabe. You’re making me dizzy.”

  They sat huddled at a table in the back corner of a smoky tavern. Gabe interrogated her like a long lost friend, his eyes bright with excitement. Plying her with question after question he insisted she tell him everything she had done in the past three years. Ah Lam smiled at his eagerness and talked more than she had since leaving the compound. She surprised herself by how often she laughed.

  After his third glass of ale, Gabe’s eyes darkened. A soft frown creased his brow. “You didn’t say good-by, Ah Lam.” When she didn’t respond, he chided, “One morning we sparred like we always did, the next morning you were gone.” He hesitated and she saw the hurt in his eyes. “Why, Ah Lam? I thought we were … we were …”

  She interrupted him. “I was done there. I got what I needed. There was nothing more to say, to do.” Ignoring the surprise on his face, she jumped to her feet and turned to leave. When he started after her, she held up her hand, stopping him. “No, Gabe. I need to go. I … it was good to see you.” She hurried toward the door, and said over her shoulder, “Good-by, Gabe.”

  Sprinting to catch the train, she shoved aside the rush of emotions threatening to swamp her. She’d spent five years of her life planning the next two weeks. She wouldn’t allow anything to stop her now.

  The next evening, she was surprised by a knock on her door. She opened it to find Gabe standing in the doorway. He brushed by her, ignoring her frown.

  “Sorry, Ah Lam. I tracked you down. I talked to that nosy biddy at the medical library. She told me where you live. I … I hoped we could have dinner.” His eyes twinkled. “I know a good Chinese restaurant nearby.”

  She couldn’t suppress a laugh. Before she knew it they were sitting together in a tiny booth, eating, laughing, and talking. Without intending it, she found herself relaxing, enjoying herself—and him.

  As they walked back to her dorm, he stopped and put his arms around her. She choked back her surprise and pushed against his chest, preparing to run. He shook his head and held her closer.

  “Uh-uh, Ah Lam. I need to tell you how I feel. I know you won’t believe this, but every day for three years I have thought about you. I finally wrangled out of my uncle where you were. He agreed it was time. Don’t push me away, Ah Lam. I … Ah Lam, you were a lovely girl. Now you are a beautiful, desirable woman.”

  Ah Lam struggled to free herself. “Thank you, Gabe. But I … I can never have a … a man in my life.”

  His arms were steel bands encircling her. “Why not?”

  She twisted away; her voice was fierce, harsh. “It’s not up for discussion, Gabe. My future was set long ago.”

  Ignoring her struggles, he pulled her close. He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Ah Lam, will you allow me to show you something? Will you let me show you it doesn’t have to hurt?”

  Before she could stop him, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. His kiss was soft, gentle. He licked her bottom lip, then sucked it into his mouth, lightly nipping at the corner. The longing in his eyes stole her breath. When he slid his tongue between her teeth and stroked her tongue with his, she shocked herself by kissing him back.

  A deep male rumble shook his chest. Groaning, he clasped her tighter. Whispering incoherent, loving words, he praised her body, her taste, her exotic scent. His hands were everywhere, lighting fiery tingles on her breasts, her hips, her thighs. He pressed kisses, tiny bites on the sensitive place below her ear, then down the long column of her neck, to the lush swell of her breasts. The smell of his skin, his arousal, wafted over her, showering her with waves of erotic sensations. He cupped her bottom in his large hands. With a harsh groan he spread her legs with his muscled thigh and pressed his hard arousal up against her. Astonished, she realized the whimpering moans, the passionate gasps, and the musky odor was hers. She knew more than anything in the world, she didn’t want him to stop. Just as fiercely, she knew that he must.

  Wrenching away, pushing his hands down, she cried out: “No! No, Gabe. I can’t. Don’t you understand? I cannot do this! I can’t! I want you to leave me alone! Go. Please go!” Running, darting between startled pedestrians, she caught backward glimpses of anguish streaking his face. He stood silent, watching her run. His face was grey, his hands helpless at his sides. The need in his dark eyes was as pure as the pain. It underscored why she could never see him again.

  * * *

  The next day Ah Lam packed her belongings and moved to an apartment close to her target. A week later she circled the house for the last time. It was large, imposing, with many levels, many rooms. It was astonishingly ugly. No flowers or trees grew on the rocky grounds. It was as though anything that spoke to the lushness of life couldn’t survive. She smiled, remembering how she had thought it was a castle and that she was a beautiful princess. Until she was awakened—not by a prince, but by a monster.

  She knew the floor plan, the pattern of the guards. The Tuesday night poker game at the pub left only three men guarding the house. She clutched her leather case, remembering Gabe’s dismay at her fascination with knives. Reluctantly he had taught her to wield a variety of instruments. The massive Bowie, the pointed stiletto, and, ultimately, the kama blade—the Chinese weapon of death. From her studies, she had added scalpels to her arsenal. She found them charming. They were fine, astonishingly sharp, fit for the most delicate work.

  Inserting the blade in the lock with a quick twist, the back door swung open, and she slipped inside. She had rehearsed every step, every breath a thousand times. The first man was precisely where he was supposed to be. The expert twist of her garrote left him dead at her feet, his surprised gasp the only sound. The man dozing on the next level didn’t see her until she was at his side. Driving a practiced knee to his jaw, she thrust the Bowie blade between his ribs and jerked up hard. With a burbling sound he slid down the wall, his eyes at first astonished, then empty. The final man didn’t hear her approach, just stiffened when she shoved her pistol at the base of his skull.

  “Call him, Luciano,” she said. “Make him come to the door. If you warn him, I will kill you.”

  She heard Massimo’s angry mutterings as he lumbered to the door. The key rasped in the lock. He threw the door open with a snarl. “What the goddamn fuck …?”

  His eyes flared wide. He stumbled back, a shock of recognition draining his face. Before he could reach for a weapon, she shot twice, shattering each of his kneecaps. He crumpled to the floor, a writhing, screaming heap.

  Ignoring Massimo’s terrified screams, she pressed her gun harder against Luciano’s neck. Her voice was calm, sure: “Get him on the rack. Do exactly as I say.”

  Minutes later, Massimo hung on the infamous apparatus, snugly tied in multiple places. Luciano sat at a short distance, secured to the chair by Ah Lam’s tight ropes. He sobbed bitterly, shaking his head from side to side and splattering blood from where his ear had been.

/>   Spreading her knives across the table, Ah Lam added several of Massimo’s prized wrenches and pliers to her collection. For the next hour she worked systematically, carefully. The basin at Massimo’s feet soon filled with various bony pieces: ears, fingers, toes, and the like. Her blade work was expert, his screams piercing. She patiently held back when he slipped into unconsciousness, prodding him at knifepoint until he roused again. As she began the laborious, exacting task of removing his skin, she marveled at the large pieces she was able to extract without a tear. She thought, with a slight grin, that those long nights practicing on tomatoes had served her well.

  At the sound of Luciano’s horrified groans, she glanced at him and recognized the dread on his face. She had seen that level of terror many times in this room. On the faces of young girls, of children.

  Standing back to view her handiwork, she drew her kama blade for the coup de grace. With a quick flick of the blade she removed Massimo’s most offensive organ, stuffing it into his gaping mouth. She thought with a wry grimace if more women had their way there would be a significant increase in the eunuch population.

  She wiped off each of her tools, put them back in her leather case, and slung the case over her shoulder. Eyeing Luciano, she allowed herself to remember him handing Massimo the knife that had killed her mother, the countless girls he had fastened to the rack in preparation for his master’s evil.

  She brandished her kama. Ignoring his terrorized pleas, she said, “You don’t deserve a painless death, Luciano.” Nodding to the man hanging on the rack, she added with an ironic grin, “But as you can see, I am feeling merciful tonight.” She quickly slit his throat and walked to the door.

  Turning to the dying man on the rack, bleeding from every orifice, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. With a satisfied nod, she said, “Good night. And, good-by, Father.”

  * * *

  The rain pouring from the skies was a good thing. It fell in sheets washing over her hair, her soiled clothing, her hands. After several blocks the puddles in her wake were clear, no longer crimson streaked. She walked quickly toward the train station. Her timing, as always, was impeccable. She had precisely enough time to catch the next train.

  She felt a sense of peace, of accomplishment, knowing she had rid the world of a monster. Surprisingly, her thoughts turned to Gabriel. With a sigh she remembered his kiss. His strong arms, his hard body, his clean, male smell, his musk. Her core clenched, ached. With a painful effort, she pushed aside her desire.

  Gabriel was a warrior, he understood battle. But, she reminded herself with a grim smile, given his reverence for family, the honor he paid his ancestors, it was doubtful he’d condone patricide.

  Hurrying to the station, she heard footsteps behind her. And then: his voice.

  “Ah Lam, wait. Wait for me.”

  She slowed. Steeled her resolve. Sped up.

  His voice was insistent. His footsteps increased, came faster. Then he stopped. His voice was firm. “Ah Lam. Stop. Please, stop … Let me hold you.”

  Wavering for a moment, she turned toward him. For the first time she saw the man, not the boy. His eyes were less innocent than she remembered. They were more like the Avenger’s. Like a man who knew good and abhorred evil.

  His face was stern, but his eyes gleamed with compassion.

  “Ah Lam. Come to me.”

  She hesitated. The thousand reasons she couldn’t—wouldn’t—flashed through her mind. Yet she found it impossible to turn away. It was wonderful and terrifying, both at once. She knew that regardless of the possibilities, good or bad, she really only had one option.

  She mustered her courage and started toward him.

  # # #

  ACES WILD

  Prologue

  “I hear you work for Chinks, Angel.”

  Gabe smiled at the taunt from the fat little man across the table. It was an obvious tell. Shamus must not have made his straight. Damn, you’d think the fucker would learn. But then Shamus never learned. Hell, the last time they played, he almost pissed his pants in excitement and bet the pot on a four flush. He lost that time, too. Gabe took him for nearly a grand on that hand alone.

  Gabe raised a brow and grinned at the red-faced man scowling down at his cards. “Think you heard wrong, Shamus. We work for any man wealthy enough to pay our fee.”

  Shamus glared at Gabe, confirming that his hand had busted. “Even if they’re Chinks?”

  Gabe chuckled. “Hell, Shamus, we even work for Micks. Although it’s hard to find many that can afford us.”

  Shamus’s florid face flushed a darker shade of red. His voice was hard, threatening. “That’s no way to talk about your people, Angel. What would your father say if he heard you talkin’ like that?”

  Gabe smiled as he turned over his three nines, any one of which would have made Shamus’s straight. He scooped up the pot from the middle of the table and shrugged. “Probably that nothing I said or did would surprise him.”

  Ignoring the disgusted grunt from the red-faced Irishman, Gabe turned to Finn with a look of false apology.

  “Hell, Finn, that was impolite of me. Should have let you show me your pair of threes before I took the pot.”

  Finn’s eyes widened. He peered down at his cards and then back up at Gabe, a look of wonder spreading across his face.

  “Damn, Angel. You got eyes in the back of your head or somethin?” He looked again at his crap hand and shook his head, tossing down the pair of threes. “Hell, I ain’t never seen anything like it.”

  Gabe threw Gunnar a surreptitious warning, not that it was necessary. He knew his partner could see the fury smoldering in Shamus’s eyes. They both knew the volatile Irishman wasn’t far from blowing. Gunnar tugged at the leather cord tying back his sun-streaked shoulder-length hair, and acknowledged the danger with an almost imperceptible nod.

  Picking up the bottle of whisky beside him, Gunnar’s dark blue eyes gleamed. “Anybody need a refill?” He filled his glass to the brim and held up the bottle to the guy sitting beside him.

  A resounding series of grunts from the men at the table, enviously eying the impressive pile of chips in front of Gabe, confirmed that whisky was a welcome distraction.

  For the next several hands, the only sounds were muttered expletives and disgusted grunts when another bad hand hit the table.

  Gabe glanced around the room, thinking how familiar it was. Hell, they were half a decade away from the end of the century and within riding distance to San Francisco. Even so, every few miles, a pitiful little town like this sprang up — as if to claim a piece of the West before it was gone. Gabe knew these enclaves well. It didn’t matter if fifteen people or a hundred called it home. The same establishments anchored the dirt and provided a minimal sense of community: There was the church, the saloon, and in the bigger better towns, a brothel above the saloon. The crap ones had a bunny hutch out the side door. The patrons were lucky if it had more than one room. The only thing you could count on were a few iron cots with dirty mattresses offering the facade of comfort. Of course, there was the graveyard. Inevitably, the graveyard had more inhabitants than the town.

  Knowing that Shamus was smarting from losing a small fortune to him ten days ago, it had been easy for Gabe to engineer a rematch with the swaggering little rooster. Gabe looked forward to taking Shamus’s money. Plus, Gabe had a message to deliver to Shamus’s boss. He hoped this time Rory Flannigan had the sense God gave fleas, and would listen up.

  Typical that Shamus would pick a joint like this, Gabe thought with disgust. It was as shabby and repugnant as the man himself. But then what could you expect? In any joint owned by Rory Flannigan you could count on three things: filth, smells that made you glad you hadn’teaten that day, and cheap booze. Despicable bastard that he was, Rory always watered his booze. You could only hope he had the decency to take the water from the pump — not the horse trough or some animal piss he dredged up.

  But, hell, Gabe had to admit, all he needed f
or his work was a deck of cards, a relatively honest dealer, and a splashy pot to lure the suckers. And all three of them were at the table in front of him.

  Gabe watched as Shamus drained the last of the whisky and tossed the bottle over his shoulder. It landed with a crash inches away from the trembling woman behind him. He heaved his bulk up in his chair and jerked toward her.

  “Don’t just stand there, woman. Get your useless ass over there and bring me another bottle of booze.”

  The thin woman, likely no more than twenty although she looked twice that, hugged her arms protectively across her chest and scurried to the cabinet. Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, she slid the unopened bottle in front of him, then darted back to rest against the wall. The dirt on her shabby dress echoed the streaks on her face. Her stringy hair completed the dismal picture.

  Shamus popped open the bottle and filled his glass, splashing the excess on the table. He looked over his shoulder and glared at the pale woman. Turning back to the men at the table, he said, his voice thick with revulsion. “Can you believe this whore was once a decent lookin’ woman?”

  Silence met his ugly words. Aiming to goad Gabe, he persisted. “How about it, Angel? I hear there ain’t a woman across the state that hasn’t warmed your sheets. And that you and your big Swede friend here don’t mind a bit, sharin’ their honey pots. Hell, I hear you even share with this Injun pal of yours. He threw a disgusted look at Eagle standing several feet behind Gunnar’s chair. The cocky little Irishman missed the potent danger radiating from the enormous brown–skinned man. Gabe almost felt sorry for him. Eagle could squeeze the life out of Shamus with one hand. Hell, Gabe had seen him do it — on more than one occasion — to men less offensive than Shamus.