Walking along the patchy sidewalk past brick and cement facades, Dane watched without watching and spotted several candidates who might be neighborhood spies. Maybe they were all spies. He pulled Shana roughly to his side and grabbed her hair.
“What the hell, Dane?”
“We’re a rough couple, remember?”
“What’s our plan beyond that?
“We order drinks and look around, size up the patrons. We find the man most likely to be in charge and then stage a fight. You’re jealous over this girl and you start yelling her name and asking people where she is.”
“They won’t tell me if I’m threatening.”
“No—ten to one they won’t tell us no matter what we do. But after I calm you down from your hissy fit and you go to the ladies’ room—and you need to be very careful—I talk to whoever looks most like an informant after I observe everyone’s reaction to your fit. I’ll beg to find out where she is—I’ll also mention the man’s name. Maybe if we’re lucky we’ll have a real name for him or at least his street name by then.” He paused. She looked unimpressed. They both knew it was a long shot that they’d come away with a name. “Okay. We’re sending a message, possibly setting ourselves up as targets.”
“You mean bait. This plan is going to get us beat up.”
“They can try.”
“We’ll be separated.”
“That’s a flaw—but only for a minute—you get back out of there right away—don’t even go in if there’s anyone who seems dangerous inside. Don’t go in at all. Just stand outside a few seconds out of sight and come back. I’ll make my conversation quick and surreptitious-like.”
“Surreptitious-like?”
“I’ll pretend to be pretending I’m talking about something else.”
“If anyone makes a move?”
“We pair up and hit the panic button.”
“Call David?”
“He promised backup if we need it. He knows where we are.”
“Will they be at the club?”
“Not sure—so be prepared to exit fast. We’ll make sure we know the landscape before we start our fight.”
She nodded, then said, “What if they check us for weapons?”
He thought for a second, almost losing himself in the promise of her magical green eyes. “We abort. No way we’re going in unarmed. We can regroup and call David for close backup and a way to identify them.”
“That’ll take time and we don’t have time. We need to get back to the island.”
“Don’t worry.”
“That’s what she said just before the bed broke,” Shana deadpanned.
He laughed and pulled her in again for another rough squeeze. She didn’t seem to mind as much this time.
Dane slowed and took a careful look around at three late-model sedans of various high-end makes, all with tinted windows. No telling if anyone was inside. That was the point. The three cars were triangulated around the front entrance of the Garage Club in Allston on the fringe of Boston. It looked like a converted garage tacked onto a relatively upscale restaurant called The Prism.
“How the hell did Father Donahue find this joint?” Shana whispered. He figured it was a rhetorical question.
“We’re on stage already. May as well head into the limelight inside,” Dane said. He lowered his hand along her bottom in a possessive, obnoxious, showy move. Shana held steady—not even a microscopic flinch. She threw an arm around his back and slid it low to return the favor. If they didn’t watch out they might win an Oscar for their part as a sleazy couple.
Dane steered them into a wide doorway where a few women and men and another couple stood ahead of them in line. The doorman lasered his stare at Shana within a millisecond and nodded to Dane to step forward.
“There’s a dress code. But,” he paused and looked Shana up and down. “I might be persuaded to overlook it for you—since you’re with her.” He raised his chin in Shana’s direction. He didn’t smile. He spoke with a heavy accent. His pal, the shorter and apparently wiser of the two, didn’t speak at all, but did run his beady eyes over them both.
Dane said nothing, but carefully pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket for just such an occasion. Shana watched him hand it over and step forward. The two men smiled and let them through the door. The minute they stepped inside the dimly lit loud space, Shana said under her breath, into his ear so close that her breath raised goose bumps down his neck, “There’s no damn dress code here.”
“I know. It’s code for bribe required for strangers and newcomers.”
The crowd was dressed in everything from tatters to glitz. Most of them were younger than Dane, but that didn’t bother him nearly as much as the number of men-in-black types he figured for bouncers or security or hired henchmen or whatever they were. He counted eight of them and they hadn’t even gone more than five steps inside.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“This is going to be trickier than I thought.”
“No it’s not. I’ve got our target straight ahead. Follow me.” Shana sauntered toward the large circular bar in the middle of the room and a smallish, well-dressed, wiry gentleman sitting on a stool with empty seats beside him. His clothing was imported from Italy and he wore a ring and a watch that could have bought a small condo. He was the anomaly in the room. Dane smiled. His girl Shana knew her stuff.
They sat on the two leather barstools next to the quiet anomaly who, in spite of his understated appearance, watched them closely while Shana gave him a big smile and made a show of hopping on the stool. They ordered drinks and Dane pulled out another hundred-dollar bill and laid it on the bar. They spoke, quietly at first, and then raised their voices, throwing out the key woman’s name until Shana threw her drink at Dane. He moved aside so it hit their target square in the face. That was one way to engage the locals.
The quiet man stayed true to form and didn’t flinch, didn’t say a word for a couple of beats while Shana jumped off her stool and made even more commotion.
“It was his fault. You have that cheating bastard to blame.” She looked the man up and down and he returned the favor. She didn’t sound apologetic. Dane kept a hand on her arm in possessive protection and kept a steady warning gaze on the man. When the man still said nothing, but paid close attention, she continued.
“I’m going to find the bitch he cheated on me with, Lara. She’ll be sorry—”
“That won’t be necessary.” The man spoke in a deep, raspy voice with a serious Russian accent that Dane recognized with a chill. That accent would haunt him forever. He’d spent some time and a couple of close missions in Russia and Afghanistan. All missions were close, he supposed, but his last mission in Russia was memorably close. Close enough so he couldn’t plan to go back there. Ever.
Maybe that was why he’d decided to stay on Martha’s Vineyard. His options for world travel had shrunk every time he had a close mission and became notorious in yet another country.
He said to the man, “What the hell are you talking about? It’s none of your business.” He tugged on Shana’s arm to draw her back to him. As planned she pulled away and yanked her arm free with convincing force. He let her go. If he hadn’t wanted her arm free of his grip, she’d have never gotten it free. Hopefully this quiet Russian guy didn’t realize that.
“I don’t care what either of you dicks think. I’m going to the john.” She swung away from them. Dane watched, nerves steeled, to see if the Russian anomaly would try and stop her. He didn’t.
Shana stomped in the direction where she’d seen the last woman head—where she hoped was the ladies’ room or whatever passed for it. The place wasn’t supposed to be a dive, but it made her skin crawl anyway. Resisting looking back over her shoulder and keeping the determined scowl on her face, she rounded a corner and disappeared behind a wall into a back hall that led to the restrooms—and other rooms as well, but she decided not to wander that far down the dark smoky hallway—not just yet.
Another woman, a slight older woman with a thick blond ponytail and almost theatrical makeup had followed her. If it weren’t for the woman’s slight frame and lack of an Adam’s apple she would have pegged her for a transvestite.
“You like to live dangerously,” the stranger with the ponytail said.
Shana didn’t bother turning around as she pushed through the door into the outer lounge area of the women’s room. It was lined with upholstered benches that had once been lush but were presently littered with various young women smoking cigarettes, popping pills, and one woman shooting something into her arm.
Shana tamped down on the Sydney cop still inside her that urged her to whip out a set of handcuffs and a badge and gun and arrest them all.
Instead she whipped around to face the woman, with a hard, curious look planted on her face that was no act, and said, “What’s it to you?”
The woman shrugged a shoulder and stepped past her toward the mirror.
“It’s your skinny ass on the line. Suit yourself.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Spill it.”
“Spill it?” The woman looked puzzled. Shana stared her down, hands on her hips, standing close and towering over her by a half a foot. No one else in the room said anything. In fact the room’s buzz quieted and she knew she was on stage. Unsure whether it was a good thing or bad, she decided it was good. The more people who knew she was in a jealous rage, looking for Lara, the better. She might find a sympathetic sister—a jealous girlfriend to tip her off. So she went with the high profile.
“I’m in no mood for games. That bitch went with my man knowing he was my man and she is not going to get away with it.”
“Look, Debbie, I don’t give a crap,” ponytail lady said. “I only saw you throw a drink in Ivany’s face and that either took balls or you are crazy.”
“I don’t know Ivany and don’t care. The drink was meant for my cheating bastard boyfriend’s face. He got in the way. Serves him right.”
“Guess you really don’t know him or you would be worried. He’s bad and he’s in charge. Of everyone. Including your bitch.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Ivany?”
Some of the women snickered at this, some shook their heads no. Shana was starting to get a bad feeling.
“What do you mean he’s in charge? In charge of what?”
“Everything,” another woman said, stepping into the lounge from the inside door. She was younger and pretty with sleek, dark hair, clearly not Russian with a very slight Hispanic accent. “I’m not going to tell you where Lara is, but I will tell you she’s in trouble. You don’t need to worry about taking out your revenge.” The dark-haired woman stepped through the room like she was working her way through a minefield of shit and pushed her way out the hallway door without elaborating or looking back.
“Hey, wait a minute—” Shana said as the door closed behind her.
“Don’t mind her. She’s bitter.”
“About what?”
“Never mind. You should leave.” Ponytail lady looked her up and down and said, “You should never come back unless you want to stay forever.” Then she returned to the mirror with a closed, final look that told Shana the conversation was done. None of the other women bothered to meet her eyes, and they returned to their business of drugging themselves up for the night.
Shana wondered if every woman in this place was a prostitute owned by “Ivany”. She was determined to find out as she picked her way out of the room like the raven-haired woman had. She headed back for Dane, resuming her scowl as she went.
Shana hadn’t realized that one of the women, a small, skinny, mousey-brown-haired lady had followed her out until the woman grabbed her arm with a claw-like grip sporting long orange-painted nails. Shana turned and the woman rasped in a low, urgent voice.
“Your man is a daddy. But don’t worry—he’ll never see the baby. No one will.” She gave Shana a sickly smile filled with regret and quiet outrage covered by a veneer of cynicism. Then she let Shana’s arm go and disappeared back down the hall. Shana was torn for a moment about whether to follow the woman to find out more or whether to get back to Dane. But Shana’s instincts told her her partner might need backup and Dane came first. Always.
Dane half watched Shana disappear around a corner, presumably headed for the ladies’ room. The other half of him kept alert to the cool stranger who took an unmistakable interest in him—even more than in Shana. That was a dead giveaway that something was amiss and he might have to defend himself shortly. He preempted. His favorite defensive tactic.
Standing abruptly, he stepped in close, putting his right hand on the man’s left shoulder with a paralyzing grip, and spoke into the man’s ear.
“What kind of operation you have going on here, Mr. Cool?”
“I’ll give you five seconds to get your hand off me. I don’t care if you are law enforcement.” The man ground out the words, sounding more like a broken gearbox than a human voice. It was likely due to the pain Dane was inflicting.
His use of the term law enforcement rather than cops or police told Dane that whatever the man was into, it was bigger than local. With his left hand he pressed the button on his phone that would allow David Young’s people to listen in. They wouldn’t jump to back Dane and Shana on the spot, but they wouldn’t let things get out of hand either.
“You know something about Lara. Where is she?”
“That ship has sailed, buddy—besides you’re not even the father.” The man signaled with a slight gesture of his hand and two men who’d been watching—large bald men dressed in black T-shirts with the club logo, presumably bouncers—moved forward. Their scarred faces and arms and misaligned noses told Dane they were either very seasoned bouncers, former wrestlers, or street thugs. He went with option “c” as most likely. At the same time, Dane puzzled over what to say to get more information from this guy. He knew about the baby and the father.
“Who is the father?” Dane asked for his ears only. The men got within fifteen feet and were pushing people aside as they came. Anyone who hadn’t been aware of Dane’s grip on the man in charge was now beginning to become aware. The music still blared. Some people still talked, danced, and sipped their drinks. More and more people put their drinks down, stopped talking, and turned his way to stare.
Dane gripped tighter and dug his thumb in until he saw the man’s eyes water with the effort not to cry out. He admired the guy’s determination to play it cool. And his understanding of the grip Dane had on him. Another man, one uneducated in defense tactics and the finer art of hand-to-hand combat, would have tried to lash out or wriggle away, but this man knew better. He knew Dane would cause him to instantly black out. And this man did not want to black out in the middle of this crowd because he was the man in charge.
“Tell your men to stay where they are. No closer.”
Dane watched a stream of sweat make its way down the man’s temple to his jaw line, watched the strain in his jaw as he gritted his teeth and tried to talk at the same time. The men were within ten feet now and still moving. Contemplating his chances of making it out if he dropped the guy now, Dane pressed one increment harder, feeling the hard bone under the pad of his thumb as it caused the man’s flesh to give. He was doing serious damage now and knew he was a hairsbreadth away from causing the man’s knees to buckle. He felt the man waiver in his grip involuntarily.
“Stop,” he said in a strangled rasp as if Dane had him by the throat.
This was the critical juncture. The two men were six feet away. Dane calculated his next move carefully and knew he’d have to drop the guy and avoid the henchmen as he made his move. It was doable. He’d toss their Mr. Cool in front of the henchmen’s path and escape out the back. He knew there was a backdoor. They’d checked on that ahead of time. There was only one problem with this plan.
Shana. Where the hell was Shana?
Careful not to give himself away,
he turned so that he could see the entrance to the back hall in his peripheral vision and said, “Which one of you boys wants to carry your man out?” The key was to buy time.
They looked at each other and Dane saw Shana round the corner. Then she stopped short—for just a beat and if he’d had an x-ray machine he’d have seen the gears of her mind go into overdrive sizing up the situation by glancing at Dane’s hand on the guy’s shoulder, then to the two men standing poised and puzzled six feet away, and perceiving the unusual hush in the room as people watched and murmured under the overshadowing pulse of the music. An imperceptible second later, not noticeable for the average onlooker, she moved forward and past Dane and walked headlong into the two thugs.
That, Dane figured, was his cue to act.
With Shana as a distraction, he twisted his wrist for leverage and pressed his thumb deeper while he swept his other arm around and pulled the Glock from the back waist of his pants. By the time he’d stepped in, shoving Shana aside, and leveled the gun at bald man number one’s midsection, keeping the gun hidden by the man’s jacket, Mr. Cool had dropped in a heap to the floor and there were a few murmurs and expressions of concern going up. Dane shouted above the din, “Someone call an ambulance—help this man—I think he’s having an attack of some kind.”
Shana, no slouch, had her small pistol embedded in the second bald man’s rib cage and with a great big smile she said, “Please show us to the door.”
Dane gave a shove of encouragement and with people pooling in behind them to help the poor man who’d mysteriously collapsed, as if Shana and Dane were no more than rocks temporarily disturbing the flow of a river, they pushed toward the door with their reluctant escorts.
Dane’s head buzzed with a plan for departure once they hit the street, knowing there were several others waiting. He decided Shana should leave first and he would stand guard for a few seconds, keeping these two inside while she distracted the doormen and made her way around some corner. Then he might have a chance to slip out. Once he got close enough, he studied the door’s lock mechanism and saw what he needed to slow the men down for a couple steps. Hopefully that would be all he needed.
Beachcomber Baby (Beachcomber Investigations Book 3) Page 8