Allie Krycek (Book 4): Savior/Corruptor

by Sisavath, Sam

  Goddammit, Allie thought as she hurried across the bedroom.

  She’d been hoping Mickey would stick around, that Allie’s threats—and sincere promise to let her go after this—would be good enough to keep her from running off, but that was clearly not the case. Allie was not looking forward to chasing the bartender down. But she was going to have to, because she couldn’t afford to have Mickey roaming around out there knowing what she knew.

  Allie lunged outside, shotgun in hand, fully expecting Mickey to be gone and to have to run after the woman. Except the bartender was still there, standing next to the wide-open front door.

  Mickey’s face was frozen in terror because she wasn’t alone.

  There were two other figures inside the single-wide that hadn’t been there before, and both were wearing Devil’s Crew MC jackets. The biggest of the two stood behind Mickey, holding a pistol to the side of her temple.

  “Looky, looky, looky,” the one with the gun said. It was Mitch, the asshole from two nights ago. “Now ain’t this a small world!”

  Twenty-Four

  Mitch. The same asshole that had tried to rape Melissa outside the Don’t Stop In two nights ago. Mitch and his buddy, whose name Allie didn’t know. The buddy wasn’t here today, and in his place was a slightly overweight asshole with a bald head and greasy lips who didn’t entirely fit the pair of denim jeans he was wearing but did manage to fill out the Devil’s Crew MC jacket just fine. Well, maybe “just fine” was being generous. Allie could make out slabs of fat sticking out from odd angles.

  “Goddamn, that’s her, that’s the girl from the news,” Greasy Lips was saying even as Allie tried to figure a way out of this without both her and Mickey dying in the process. The other two, she couldn’t care less about.

  It was going to be tricky, and that was understating the situation. Especially since the shotgun she had aimed at Mitch and his new buddy was loaded with blank shells. But did the bikers know that? Had Mitch taken note when Pete fired off a warning shot two nights ago to send him scurrying off? No, probably not, or he wouldn’t have retreated.

  “What the fuck is she doing out of jail?” Greasy Lips continued.

  “Who gives a shit,” Mitch said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything else she did. This is the same bitch that fucked up Hillbilly and me’s party with that barely legal chick outside the Don’t Stop In.”

  “That’s her?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  Greasy Lips chuckled. “She’s a girl.”

  “No shit she’s a girl,” Mitch said.

  “You mean to tell me you let a girl stop you from bringing that fine piece of ass back to the club so we could run a train on her?”

  “She had a shotgun. It kinda looked like that one.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different,” Greasy Lips said, though he didn’t completely lose the smirk on his face.

  Allie didn’t bother correcting Mitch—it was Pete who had pulled out the shotgun, not her—because it didn’t matter. Right now, she needed the bikers to believe that the weapon in her hands was lethal.

  “What are you two jackasses doing here?” Allie asked.

  She hadn’t lowered the shotgun or moved it away from Mickey and Mitch. The biker didn’t seem all that concerned, but the same couldn’t be said for the bartender, who looked like she was caught somewhere between terrified and, well, even more terrified. Allie wasn’t sure if she was afraid of the shotgun or the silver-chromed semiautomatic 1911 Mitch had pressed against her temple. The pistol was so shiny that sunlight from the windows nearby gleamed off its smooth barrel. No doubt the blingy nature of it was the whole point. Allie wondered where Mitch had that gun two nights ago. Maybe he’d acquired it after being chased off by Pete’s shotgun, determined not to let it happen again.

  Not that the motivations mattered, because the biker had a gun that Allie was pretty sure—as in 100 percent sure—was loaded with real live bullets, while she was carrying around a piece that could only make very loud noises.

  But Mitch and Greasy Lips didn’t know that. Mickey probably did, but Allie hoped the other woman kept that bit of suspicion to herself. She had to know that was the only move they had left against the bikers. Or, at least, Allie hoped she did.

  Besides the 1911 pushing violently against a shaking Mickey’s temple, Mitch had his left forearm wrapped around her throat in a tight vise. Mickey’s face was starting to turn a little bit blue, but somehow the bartender kept what must have been a tornado of wild emotions bottled up inside.

  For now, anyway.

  “Why the fuck should I tell you?” Mitch was asking her. “Put down the shotgun, bitch.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Allie said.

  She took a quick step, then two more forward. Because shotguns had limited range and maybe Mitch and Greasy Lips knew that, this way she was increasing her chances of hitting them if she unloaded.

  Or that’s what she wanted them to think.

  “The fuck you doing, bitch?” Mitch said, slightly alarmed.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Allie said. “I can hit the both of you from here with one shell. If one doesn’t work, I have more that’ll do the trick.”

  That statement had the intended effect Allie was hoping for on Greasy Lips, and the biker glanced quickly over at the door just a few feet to his left before turning to Mitch. “The fuck, man, I don’t wanna get shotgunned to death.”

  “Relax, she’s not gonna shoot,” Mitch said. “Not with this little bitty in the way. Ain’t that right?”

  Allie didn’t bother responding.

  “What’s this bitch doing here, anyway?” Greasy Lips asked.

  “Why don’t you fucking ask her,” Mitch said.

  Greasy Lips turned to Allie. “So? What the fuck you doing here? Shouldn’t you be busy running from the cops or something?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” Allie said. “Same person as you, I’m guessing.”

  Telling the truth was a calculated move but one she was sure was the right approach. The bikers’ presence, coupled with Mitch and Greasy Lip’s surprise to see her in the trailer, told her they hadn’t expected her to be here. It was more likely they had come here for another reason that didn’t have anything to do with her: Pete.

  They were here for Pete. Why, was the question.

  “Pete?” Greasy Lips said, confirming her suspicion. “You looking for that fucker, too?”

  “That’s the one,” Allie said.

  Mitch chortled. “What do you want with him?”

  “I want to talk to him,” Allie said.

  “About what?”

  “Business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “The none of your goddamn business kind.”

  Mitch might have rolled his eyes; Allie couldn’t really tell because he was keeping half of his face hidden behind Mickey’s head. “Damn, you’ve got an attitude on you, you know that?”

  “So do you. Let the girl go.”

  “Fuck if that’s gonna happen. You drop the gun.”

  “And you really think that’s going to happen?”

  “You know how to use that shotgun?” Greasy Lips asked.

  “This is a Mossberg pump-action shotgun,” Allie said. “At this range, I can blow both of your heads off with one shot. Hell, this is probably overkill, but that’s all right. I got plenty of shells for the both of you.” Then, specifically to Greasy Lips, “Or three for you.”

  Mitch cackled and said to his buddy, “She means because you’re a fat fuck.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I knew what she meant, fucker,” Greasy Lips said. Then, to Allie, “So you want Pete, too, is that it? I’m assuming since you came outta there alone that he’s not here.”

  “Great deduction,” Allie said. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “None of your business,” Mitch said.

  “Let’s just say he owes us some money,” Greasy Lips said.

  “Yeah, P
ete tends to do that,” Allie said, recalling all those late payment bills in the bedroom behind her.

  She focused on Greasy Lips, who seemed not only more willing to talk but didn’t have a gun on him. Of course that didn’t mean he didn’t have one concealed, but Allie doubted it. He would have shown it by now if he did.

  “This isn’t going to get us anywhere,” Allie said. “We’re both looking for Pete, but the shithead isn’t here.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Greasy Lips asked.

  “You tell me.”

  The biker shrugged. “Way I see it, we don’t have any issues with you.”

  “The fuck we don’t,” Mitch said, and just to prove his point, tightened his grip around Mickey’s throat further until the bartender’s body seized up and her face got even more discolored.

  “You got issues with her,” Greasy Lips said. “Not us. The club got business with Pete, that’s it.” He looked over at Allie. “Besides, she’s bad news. I don’t know how she got out of jail, but they’ll be looking all over the county for her. We don’t need that kind of heat on us. Not now.”

  “I’m not letting her go,” Mitch said.

  Greasy Lips turned around until he was staring at Mitch. He might have been older, overweight, and didn’t look as if he could take Mitch in a fistfight, but the man apparently knew he had the upper hand.

  “What did Casper say?” Greasy Lips asked.

  Mitch didn’t answer.

  “Find Pete, that was the order,” Greasy Lips continued. “He didn’t say shit about getting involved with this bitch here. She’s bad news.” He glanced over at Allie, and with a smirk, added, “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Allie said.

  “Come on,” Greasy Lips said back at Mitch. “Let the girl go. Casper needs to know Pete’s flown the coop.”

  “Shit,” Mitch said.

  “Come on, man. We got jobs to do. You can take care of your personal shit later, when we’re done with everything.”

  “Shit,” Mitch said again, before relaxing his grip on Mickey and lowering his 1911.

  Mickey didn’t move, clearly too afraid to do anything besides stand perfectly still. But she did breathe easier, and color slowly returned to her cheeks.

  Mitch put his pistol away and snarled at Allie. “Next time, bitch.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Allie said, and lowered the shotgun. She fought the instinct to breathe a loud sigh of relief.

  Goddammit, I can’t believe that worked. Jesus Christ.

  Mitch walked over to the door while Greasy Lips turned to Allie. “You wanna tell me how you got out of jail but no one seems to know about it?”

  “Magic,” Allie said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Hey, believe what you—”

  The pop-pop-pop of a fully automatic rifle firing cut Allie off.

  The first few rounds tore through Mitch as he was about to take his first steps down the rickety wooden steps outside. His body was tossed back, and his now-lifeless hand let go of the door. It swung closed, not that that did anything to stop the barrage.

  More bullets cut through the flimsy material and the wall around and struck Greasy Lips as he was trying to recover from Mitch backpedaling into him. Bullets nearly sliced Greasy Lip’s right arm off at the shoulder while two more rounds found his face. He, too, dropped lifelessly to the floor next to Mitch’s already bullet-riddled body.

  “Get down!” Allie shouted at Mickey even as she lunged forward and down to the stained carpeted floor herself.

  The pop-pop-pop, which had stopped temporarily, came back to life, the renewed torrent of gunfire sending round after round into one side of the single-wide trailer and out the other. The cascade of shattering glass filled the house along with screams coming from somewhere in front of Allie.

  Mickey.

  Allie glanced up as pieces of furniture in the living room flitted across the air above her, raining chunks of foam, feathers, and fabric like dancing cobwebs. Allie couldn’t see Mickey anywhere in front of her, but the bartender was still screaming, her voice coming from somewhere inside the kitchen, behind the counters. Allie hoped whoever was out there doing the shooting didn’t decide to refocus their fire on Mickey’s screams.

  It didn’t go on for very long, but it seemed much, much longer. Ten seconds, tops, maybe even less than that. It had only lasted that long because the shooter had temporarily stopped firing after taking out the bikers in order to move his rifle to aim at the living room so he could pick her off. Allie hadn’t realized it before, but in the spot where she was standing, she would have been visible through the front windows.

  Once the last shot echoed, Allie scrambled up from the messy floor and crawled over behind a large oak bookshelf near the door. It was also close to Mitch and Greasy Lips’s bodies, the latter laying over the former in an almost T-shape.

  Allie grabbed Greasy Lips and rolled him off Mitch. It wasn’t easy given how much the biker weighed, but she managed to get him off his fellow Devil’s Crew member with some effort. It helped that adrenaline was rushing through her veins, giving her more strength than she normally had.

  Mitch was covered in blood, his face frozen in shock. She did her best to ignore his wide-open eyes staring up at the ceiling in order to grab the 1911 from his waist before hurrying back to cover behind the bookshelf. Not that she expected the oak furniture to completely protect her from another fusillade, but it was a better option than standing around in the open with only the paper-thin walls for protection.

  Mickey had stopped screaming by now and was chanting “Oh God, oh God, oh God” from somewhere in the kitchen. Allie still couldn’t see the other woman, but she must have gotten through the gunfire unscathed because she wasn’t screaming about a wound.

  Just to be sure, Allie said, “Are you okay? Mickey, are you okay?”

  Mickey stopped her chanting but didn’t reply. Maybe she was trying to decide if she should answer Allie.

  Or maybe she wasn’t capable?

  “Yes, yes, I’m okay, I’m okay,” Mickey finally said. She was somewhere behind the island counter near the back of the kitchen.

  “Stay where you are, and don’t come out.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mickey said. Or gasped. Then, with what sounded a lot like alarm, “Wait, wait. Where are you going? You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

  Allie had to grin at that. Apparently Mickey had either forgotten that Allie had taken her hostage or she’d decided Allie was the better option when confronted with a shooter that had just murdered two bikers in front of her eyes.

  She didn’t answer the bartender right away. Instead, she listened, hoping to hear something outside in case the shooter tried to come in to finish the job.

  But all she heard was silence, mingled with her own labored breathing, though it wasn’t nearly as loud as Mickey’s from all the way in the kitchen.

  Then, after about ten seconds of silence, the sound of a car engine turning on, followed by that same car speeding off on the loose gravel floor outside.

  Allie got up, her back against the bookshelf, and sifted through her options. She had only two choices that she could see: Stay where she was and make absolutely sure the shooter was gone, or take her chances out there.

  She would have preferred option number one. It was the safer choice, and right now, she could do with a little “safe” in her life. Except it was also the wrong one. One of Pete’s neighbors must have already called 911. If they weren’t already on their way, then the WCPD would be coming very soon.

  Allie flicked off the safety on Mitch’s 1911. She didn’t have to bother checking the magazine to know the gun was fully loaded; the weight gave it away. And she didn’t have to think very hard or long about whether the bullets were real. There would be no reason whatsoever for the biker to be running around out here with blanks.

  “Mickey,” Allie said.

  “Yes?” Mickey said. She still hadn’t come out from he
r hiding spot, and it was probably going to take the Jaws of Life to get her to do so. Allie didn’t really blame her after the morning the bartender had gone through.

  “Stay here until the cops show up.”

  “Okay,” Mickey said. Then, again with obvious alarm, “Wait. Are you leaving? Don’t leave!”

  “I have to.”

  “No, don’t leave!”

  “Sorry,” Allie said.

  She got up, stepped over Mitch and Greasy Lips’s bodies, and pushed the bullet-riddled door open. It was still hanging on its top two hinges but looked as if it might fall off at any second.

  Allie peered out, sunlight hitting her in the eyes.

  Mickey’s Jeep was still there, but there were no signs of the bikers’ motorcycles. She wondered if they’d parked it far away and then proceeded on foot so Pete wouldn’t hear their loud bikes coming. If so, then the two dead men were smarter than they looked. Not that that’d helped them, as it turned out.

  She had exposed herself for five seconds, and no one had fired a shot yet. If the shooter was still out there and he still had a loaded rifle, he would have already taken her head off by now.

  Except he hadn’t. That was all the motivation she needed to hurry down the steps.

  “Don’t leave me!” she heard Mickey shouting from inside the trailer home. “Don’t leave me in here!”

  Allie ignored her and dug out Mickey’s car keys. She was opening the Jeep’s driver-side door when sunlight glinted off something behind her. Allie glanced back.

  Brass casings on the gravel road, right where a pair of tires had been parked not very long ago.

  The shooter.

  Had the man shown up while she was engaged in the Mexican standoff with the bikers? Allie had been so engrossed with Mitch and Greasy Lips that the entire Wells City Police Department could have snuck up on the trailer and she wouldn’t have noticed until it was too late.

  Speaking of which…

  She could already hear police sirens in the background. They were getting louder.

  She climbed into the Jeep, put the key in the ignition, and turned it. For a second—just a split second—Allie was convinced the shooter would have also disabled the vehicle. She was in such a hurry that she hadn’t even taken the time to check if the tires were still in one piece.