“It hurts, but not too bad,” he finally replies. “I expected as much.”
“You didn’t ask me to stop. That’s pretty good for someone who’s never had a guy ride his ass before.”
“I’ve used… toys… in the past….”
I chuckle and close my eyes.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
Thank you? I laugh to myself even more. I’ve never been thanked for riding a guy. Miles continues to amuse me. “There’s no need to thank me.”
He doesn’t reply. Or maybe I just don’t hear him. The sounds of the city outside the window are a lullaby I can’t ignore. Sleep takes hold of me before I even know it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I JERK awake, haunted by nightmares that linger in my thoughts.
Death.
All I can remember is death. People getting shot, living in fear, running from danger, fighting for my life, dying without a purpose…. God, it’s so bleak I feel like I need a stiff drink. I glance around looking for Miles, yearning for his presence, though I can’t articulate why.
The room sits quiet and dark. The window is aglow with twilight. It’s dusk.
I fumble to the nightstand and switch on the lamp. Light assaults my eyes, and it takes me a few moments to adjust. I’m alone—Miles is nowhere to be seen. To my surprise there’s a granola bar and bottle of water waiting for me next to the bed. I’m famished and I rip open the food without delay.
In a blur I pull myself from the bed and shamble into the bathroom. I’m in the shower and washing with barely any memory of doing anything in between. I stumble out, dry off, and dress myself all while reviewing my nightmares. My mind can’t get over the shootout in the Crystal Floor Nightclub. My time is coming. I can feel it in my bones. I won’t be lucky forever.
The brown-themed room is still empty when I exit the bathroom. I walk out into the hall and turn to Guinevere’s door. I knock, but no one answers. I knock louder. Nothing. I slam my fist on the door. The neighboring room opens, and a scraggly man in boxers gives me a confused look.
“Mind your own business,” I say.
He continues to watch.
I rear back and kick the door with enough force to shatter the wooden doorframe around the lock. The man down the hall ducks back into his room. Smart move.
Furious, I storm inside and see Guinevere’s room is also empty. Panic overtakes my anger. Where are they? I silently curse myself for not checking my phone before breaking into the room. What if they left me a message?
I pull out my cell phone and see twenty-two missed calls, all of which are from Anita Vice. She left several voice mails. I listen to those first.
“Pierce,” it begins, her voice so sharp it could cut skin. “Where’re my children? Have you taken them out of the city? My husband is asking for you, but don’t show your face at our home until you’ve secured Rodger, Guinevere, and Jeremy, understand?”
I don’t even bother listening to the others. Anita has always been high-strung, especially when it comes to mollycoddling her adult children. I’m working on her assignments—all I need is more time.
No other calls or messages. Not from Guinevere. Not from Miles. Panic turns to dread as I wonder where they could have gone to. What if the Cobras came into the hotel while I was sleeping? What if Guinevere and Miles are gettin’ their knees broken right now while I’m just standing around staring at the walls?
I rush out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door of the hotel. The streets of Noimore sing with activity, though it’s low and subdued compared to Friday and Saturday. Sunday night isn’t the liveliest.
My bad eye doesn’t help me search the crowds of people on the streets. I push my way through them, glancing back and forth in an ever-desperate attempt to catch sight of anything I recognize. I stop at the corner and catch sight of Miles down the street. I jog over, a mix of relief and rage coursing through my body.
I take him by the arm, and he turns to me. “What do you think you’re doing?” I growl.
“Pierce,” he says with a sigh. “I know why you’re upset, but I can explain.”
I wait, my grip tightening on his bicep.
He continues, “I know you said I shouldn’t be around Guinevere because of what people might think but…. Look, she wanted to go out, and I didn’t think it was a good idea. She said she was in charge and went, so I followed to keep her out of trouble. I figured it was what you wanted, but you were sleeping and—”
“You didn’t think to call me? Or leave a message?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
I find it hard to argue with his logic, but still. He could’ve left a physical note. I loosen my grip. “Tsk. Fine. I’ll correct that.”
As the paranoia leaves my system, I examine Miles. He’s still got hints of damage from his beating a while back, but now the base of his neck is raw with bite marks and bruises. He’s “hidden” them by propping up his collar and angling his head down, but anyone who knows what they’re looking for would spot them in a heartbeat. A twinge of guilt strikes me. I’m a fucked-up guy sometimes.
He notices me staring and covers the injuries with one of his hands. “Hey, aren’t you here for Guinevere?”
Guinevere? Oh, right.
“Where is she?” I ask.
Miles points. I follow the gesture to the door of a card club. If Miles hadn’t been pointing, I wouldn’t have known the woman by the door is Guinevere Vice. She leans against the outside of the building in slack jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap, her long hair tucked away and out of sight. Slung over her shoulder is a sports duffel bag. She spots us and saunters over, her high-heels the only indication she might not be what she’s presenting.
“Ah, Pierce,” Guinevere says. “I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve been watching our marks like a hawk.”
“You weren’t to leave the hotel room,” I snap. “What’re you doing out here?”
“Well, sometime before sunset those thugs left the hotel. I couldn’t let them get away! I followed them out here, after getting a disguise, of course, and saw them enter that establishment over there. They’re in there right now.”
“All right. Let’s get back and—”
“They’re the only ones in there,” Guinevere interjects. “The tattooed guy, four bruisers, one of which I assume is our mole, and some old guy I think that runs the place. That’s it! Six guys! Now’s our chance! Before they open!”
I grab her and shove her into the nearest alley, whipping my head from side to side to see if anyone noticed. “Keep it down,” I say, my voice on the verge of full-blown anger. “We’re in the middle of Cobras territory. What if they heard you? Common sense. Use it.”
Guinevere exhales and narrows her eyes into a glare. “Very well. What should we do?”
The front sign on the card club indicates they’re closed. If it really is run by the Cobras, it’ll be opening any moment for the “night rush” of criminals who scour the streets once the sun sets. I turn to Miles. “Watch her while I investigate.”
He nods but stops me when I go to leave. “Wait. Don’t you want some backup? I can watch your six.”
Can I really trust him to in a fight? I don’t know. And I’m not about to risk it. “I said wait here.”
“All right.” He lowers his voice. “The… mole… looks just like me, okay? You’ll know him when you see him.”
“Good to know.”
I pull my jacket tight and zip it up, leaving the alley as inconspicuously as possible. I realize the weight of my gun is less than normal. Of course—I shot it at the Crystal Floor Nightclub and haven’t replaced or reloaded the magazine. I check the clip, keeping the weapon inside my jacket, and count three bullets. Perfect. Not even one per hostile. Just my luck.
The card club sits between buildings much larger than it. The club must’ve been built some time ago, and it sits awkwardly on its lot, giving plenty of space on all four sides. I slink into the darkness of the alley and
crane my head around the corner, scoping out the back of the building before turning. The back door is open and an older man, hair white as snow, leans against the wall with a slumped posture. No one else is around.
I turn the corner and walk toward the guy, hunching over and avoiding eye contact. The guy gets nervous and straightens himself, but he doesn’t go inside. When I get close I give him a reverse nod, jutting my chin up and offering a one-sided smile.
“Got a smoke?” I ask.
The man is displeased. He sneers and waves his hands. “Get outta here, ya freeloader.”
“C’mon. Ya gotta have a spare. Help a guy out.”
After a moment of glowering the man shakes his head and, with arthritis-ridden hands, searches the pockets of his sweatshirt. I see the bulge of a gun at his waistline. Just as he’s found his smokes, I lunge forward, pulling my own handgun and slamming the man against the wall in one swift motion. I jam the barrel of my weapon under his chin.
“You one of the Cobras?” I ask.
He reaches for his weapon, but I grab his arm and twist it against his body, pinning him to the wall. He grunts in pain, and I loosen my hold, but only by a small amount.
“Answer me.”
“I just let them use the club,” he spits. “I’m not part of them.”
Just as I thought. These thugs in the Cobras do this shit all the time. Unlike Nick, who builds his businesses and shady hideaways, the Cobras impose themselves on the denizens of Noimore. We’re all bad guys, but at least Big Man Vice has a little dignity about it.
I pull my wallet and slip a hundred dollar bill into the man’s pants pocket. “You were out gettin’ supplies,” I say. “That’s what you tell the thugs when they come asking about what happened here. Got it?”
The man nods.
I reach into the waistline of his pants and draw his gun. “This is mine now.”
Again, he nods.
“Now get outta here.”
I release him and he stumbles away, shaken. He glances back several times as he jogs out of the back alley, bewildered by my mercy, no doubt. The Cobras wouldn’t have been so generous, but I stand by my advice to Miles. I don’t kill hardworking innocents. Gangbangers, on the other hand….
I check the old man’s handgun—a .22, weaker than my .45—but at least it has a full clip. I tuck it into my own waistband and creep into the card club through the back door.
The place is dim and uninviting. Perfect for sneaking around. I stay to the shadows and keep my back to the wall as I make my way deeper into the building. Card tables, playing chips, and classic fifty-two card decks are stacked around the place, making it easy to shift from one position of cover to the next. The light under the bathroom door catches my eye. I slink over, straining my ears to pick up even the slightest of noises.
The sound of water hitting water echoes in the bathroom. I crack open the door and steal a glance. There’s a man—dressed in leathers, a cobra tattooed on his upper arm—standing in front of a urinal, his piss coming out in short spurts. He groans and fidgets, his attention consumed by his arduous ordeal.
I walk in, but he doesn’t look up.
“Caesar,” he grunts. “It’s happenin’ again. It hurts every time I go, man. Every time.”
I restrain a laugh as I cross the room and, without answering, wrap my arm around his neck and yank back, trapping him against me and preventing him from yelling. He gurgles something, half flailing to pull up his pants and half clawing at my arm to remove it. I grab my wrist and wrench my arm harder, cutting off his air and blood flow. The man kicks forward, slamming his boots on the wall—calling for help—but I pull him away after only a few strikes.
Through the twisting and the thrashing, I struggle to maintain my hold until, finally, the bastard loses consciousness and goes limp in my arms. I hold him a few seconds longer, determined to make sure he’s really out, before hauling his body to a nearby stall and throwing him in. I probably should just kill these guys, but they’re not why I’m here. I came for Miles’s brother and some asshole with a tits tattoo on his neck. That’s it.
I hear someone walking up to the bathroom, and I hide in an empty stall, crouching on the toilet seat. My shoulder and arm hurt from fighting with the last guy. I pull my belt out of its loops and hold it taut in my hands.
“Rio?” a man asks, his smoker’s voice echoing off the tiles of the bathroom. “Was that you I heard bangin’ round in here? Jeez, man. You need to stop fuckin’ chicks with bumps. That’s your problem, right there.”
He takes a few steps in and stops. “Rio?”
Silence.
“Rio?”
I hear him strain to bend over and, I assume, spot his buddy’s feet in the stall over.
“What’re you doin’, Rio?”
Poor bastard makes the wrong decision and walks farther into the bathroom, straight to the body-occupied stall. He slams on the door, and I leap from my hiding place, catching the thug off guard and wrapping my belt tight around his throat. I loop the strap in the buckle before he has a chance to slip his fingers underneath, and I yank back.
“Arg—!”
The guy, quick as a whip, pulls a knife from his pocket. I grab his arm and wrestle with him, struggling to take the knife without getting cut. The man chokes out barks and grunts, the belt preventing him from swallowing any of the saliva building in his mouth.
In the chaos the guy slices through my jacket, down to my forearm, but I knee him in the side, right in the soft spot. He doubles over, clutching his side and unable to breathe. Blue in the face, he collapses to the floor, drool running from his mouth in rivulets. After a few moments, I remove my belt.
I glance down at my arm. The cut is superficial, but it bleeds everywhere nonetheless. I wrap my belt around my forearm, tightening it place to prevent any more blood loss. I’ll deal with it later.
The fight with the two men leaves my blood pumping fast. I rotate my head and stretch out my sore arm, trying to calm my excitement. Probably best Miles didn’t join me—the last fling I took on assignments only slowed me down at times like these. Then again, nothing beats post-fighting-for-your-life sex. Those are some good times.
While I fantasize about conquests long past, I pull the belts from the two guys lying around on the bathroom floor. Just in case they wake early, I tie them to the bathroom sink, their arms behind their backs. Good enough. I need to get this over with.
I slip from the bathroom, pull the gun from my waistband, and head for the main room. I see light underneath the door, just like with the bathroom, and I sneak up to it. Right as I place my hand on the handle, I hear someone else in the hall behind me.
“Who are—”
I turn on my heel and spot the monster I’ve been dreading—the muscled bruiser Stella warned me about—fists like hams and a slick bald head. The hulk of a man widens his eyes in surprise. Moving on instinct, I fire… and miss. Fuckin’ lack of depth perception—he’s only ten feet from me! I fire again, grazing the beast in the shoulder as he barrels down the hall. He slams into me, sending us both through the door and tumbling into the main card room. I hit the floor hard, my back flaring in pain, and I feel my grip on my gun fail. The weapon slides off, just out of reach.
“What the fuck?”
“Santiago, what’s goin’ on?”
The two new voices inform me that I’m now in a fight with three men instead of one. Fuck me. Santiago, the man with muscles in places most men don’t even have places, straddles me and punches down. His knuckles are jagged—a single punch opens a gash across my face—and for a second I see nothing but black.
I pull my personal gun from its hostler and fire, slamming a bullet through the man’s right bicep, crippling his dominant arm. The harsh bang of a powerful handgun fills the room, drowning out Santiago’s shout of pain. I slide out from under him and jump to my feet, the room spinning with my dizziness.
Someone else fires a gun and sharp agony floods my upper arm. I throw myse
lf behind a table, desperate to get my bearings straight.
Santiago, despite the gaping bullet wound, gets to his feet and charges, flipping card tables out of his way like they are made of paper. I fire again, miss, and fire again only to hear the click of an empty clip. That’s it. No more bullets.
I throw the gun at his face, and he lifts his functioning arm to shield his eyes. I go for the punch, striking him hard in the gut. He stumbles back and kicks, slamming me in the stomach and sending me back, reeling. Jesus Christ. I’m definitely going to lose at this rate.
I hear another round of shots and glance over. The two other guys—the man with the tits tattoo and Miles’s brother—are by the back wall, Miles’s brother the one with the blasted gun. The tattooed guy grabs the gun and yanks it away. “You’ll hit Santiago!” he shouts.
Santiago lunges forward, telegraphing a swing from his left arm. I duck, just barely, and stumble back, watching as Santiago crashes into a nearby table. I pick up a chair and swing, battering Santiago across the spine and splintering the wooden furniture. Taking deep breaths, I step away and, to my horror, the other man shrugs off the attack. He’s not even breaking a sweat—only the bullet hole seems to be causing him any trouble.
Rage in his eyes, Santiago rushes me with a football tackle. I fall back right as he hits me—allowing his momentum to carry him over top—and I plant a foot in his chest, kicking up and sending him headfirst into the wall. Unfortunately for me, he shrugs that off as well, jumping to his feet long before I do and then kicking me midstand.
I fall forward and feel an organ-crushing stomp crunch down on my back. I’d yell if I had any breath. Instead I writhe, helpless and unable to recover from the shock in time to stand. I’ve gritted my teeth, preparing for the worst, when I hear the door slam open.
Santiago glances up and gets a solid punch to the face from Miles. The larger man winds up to return the favor when Miles, using his off hand, jabs forward with a knife, burying the blade deep into Santiago’s right side before he can finish his swing. Miles twists and slams Santiago with his shoulder, sending him back into the wall. Santiago shudders and falls to one knee, his shaky hands holding the injury.
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