Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  Some things never change.

  According to the Harley clock above the bar, a mere ten minutes had elapsed. I’d forgotten my cigarettes and decided to chance buying a pack from the bartender in the back room, when I saw him.

  His back was to me, but I’d recognize that hair and those tattoos anywhere.

  No big surprise he wasn’t alone.

  Despite the blood pulsing in time to “Two Steps” blaring from the speakers, I inched forward. Tricky, acting in a stealthy manner without it seeming like that was my game.

  A mere twenty feet separated us. Fifteen. Ten. I switched the black case from my left pocket to my right. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a cell phone.

  Two rotund floozies at the table beside me brayed with drunken laughter.

  He twisted slightly, gauging if the disturbance required his attention.

  I latched onto the back of an empty barstool, acting part of the revelry, but kept my chin tucked to my chest so he couldn’t see my face.

  He twisted back around and adjusted his stance.

  Perfect. I made my move.

  Four steps. I tapped him on the right shoulder. Before he’d turned completely, I inhaled and sucker-punched him as hard as I could, in the jaw, just like in the movies.

  Caught unaware, he staggered back. In the split second it took to regain his equilibrium, I shoved him against the wall, and jammed the stun gun underneath his chin.

  “Don’t fucking move a muscle, Harvey, or I swear to God I will fucking blast you.”

  Harvey blinked, which I assumed meant he understood.

  I figured I had maybe a minute, tops, before the bouncers showed up.

  He said, “Long time no see.”

  “Shut up.” My hand ached from where I’d hit him but I pressed the stun gun deeper into his neck anyway. “I can’t fucking believe you had someone follow me.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play stupid, asshole.”

  “Ms. Collins. I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about. Put down the stun gun and I promise we’ll talk.” His voice stayed calm, Zen-like.

  Which just infuriated me. “Your promises aren’t worth shit.”

  “Fine. Back away and we’ll go talk to Martinez.”

  “His promises don’t mean dick, either.”

  “Then at least tell me what you want?”

  “I want to know why you put a hit on Donovan.”

  “Donovan?” he repeated.

  “Yeah, Donovan.” I brandished my left hand in his face like a red flag. “Want proof? See that blood? I’m covered in it. Does it make you happy? Did you get off thinking about Donovan’s blood splattered all over me, you sick fucking bastard?”

  “For the last time. What are you babbling about?”

  I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

  “Call off your fucking lapdogs, Harvey. Anyone touches me and I’ll keep blasting you with this until I can pull out my gun.”

  “Back off,” he said to whoever was behind me. His remote gaze never left mine. “What about Donovan?”

  “Want the gory details on how your hired assassin took him out?” My finger itched on the silver button. I scooted in until I smelled garlic on his breath. “First shot hit his shoulder, the second his leg. Oh, and then he fell backward and whacked his head on a steel barbecue grill.

  “But the best shot was the slug he took in the gut. That one bled like crazy. You wanna hear how I managed to keep his intestines inside with my bare hands until the fucking ambulance arrived? Or shall we skip that part?”

  His face finally showed emotion, not fear like I’d hoped, but something akin to surprise. “Contrary to what you think, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Rage erupted in me and I smashed the stun gun into his throat even harder. “You are a fucking liar.”

  “Julie.”

  Martinez’s voice. I didn’t dare look to see where it was coming from.

  “What? I’m a little busy right now.”

  “Julie, back off.”

  “Go away, Martinez. This is between me and Harvey.”

  “No. Put down the stunner.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Why not? You lied to me. You used me. I told you what would happen if you double-crossed me, Martinez.”

  “I know. But you’re wrong.”

  “Know what’s wrong? I’m wearing Donovan’s blood, that’s what’s wrong, amigo. So now I’m calling the shots and Harvey’s gonna pay.”

  “Listen to me. We didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  Martinez shuffled closer. I felt him. Hell, I smelled him.

  I waited, figuring he’d pile on flattery.

  He didn’t disappoint me.

  “Blondie, you know I’d never purposely put you in the line of fire. Ever.”

  Don’t fall for it.

  God, I wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t be wrong. Someone had to take the blame for what had happened tonight. Harvey was as good a candidate as anyone.

  “Think about it. If Harvey took out Donovan, how would he find Chloe?”

  Just like that, Martinez knew he had me.

  His voice took on a husky timbre. “Come on. Put it down.”

  Okay. So maybe my arm was tired. My knuckles hurt. Before I zapped Harvey just to see him flop around like a landed trout, my hand wilted.

  A heartbeat later I found myself flat on my back, staring at the air above me for the second time in so many hours.

  Harvey, that sneaky ninja bastard, had kicked my feet out the millisecond I’d given him the chance. An added benefit of knocking me on my ass; it’d knocked the wind out of me and rendered me unable to speak.

  Soon as I caught my breath, I would zap him. I didn’t give a rat’s ass what Martinez thought.

  Harvey leaned over me. The end of his braid brushed my nose.

  I flinched.

  His eyes were as dark and cold as a January night. “Don’t you ever come in here and threaten me in front of a bar full of customers. Try it again, Ms. Collins, and I will kill you.”

  No beating around the bush for Harvey.

  He straightened and barked orders at the bouncers. The back room emptied as people scattered past me.

  At least no one stuck around to watch the tough girl struggle to her feet.

  Except Martinez. And he didn’t offer a hand to help me up.

  I stood next to him, breathing hard, smelling bad, covered in dirt, blood, and God-knew-what sticky substance from the grungy bar floor. I just wanted to go home, end this awful day by drinking myself into oblivion.

  He picked up my ball cap and tossed it on the bar. “This is your disguise?”

  “It worked. I’m in here, aren’t I?”

  “I’d have recognized you.”

  I didn’t have a snappy response for that.

  “Come to my office. You need a drink.”

  My brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders and a valid excuse to decline his offer eluded me.

  Taking my silence as a yes, Martinez’s warm, rough hand circled my wrist. He unlocked a door between the bathrooms, which opened into a large storage area with three enormous walk-in coolers.

  We moved past floor-to-ceiling metal shelves filled with bar supplies, and stopped at another door—reinforced steel, marked “Private.”

  He ushered me inside.

  The space wasn’t what I’d expected. No posters of scantily clad chicks hawking beer. No neon bar signs. No big screen TV blaring ESPN. No greasy Harley parts strewn across the floor. It was nice. Neater than my house and a helluva lot cleaner than the bar.

  Gray tweed sofas were arranged around a square coffee table. A big black desk took up one entire wall. A small chrome cart packed with liquor bottles was shoved in the corner. It was bizarre to think we were in the middle of a busy biker hangout.

  He pointed to a wooden door off to the rig
ht. “Bathroom is through there if you wanna clean up.”

  “Does seeing me covered in Donovan’s blood bother you, Martinez?”

  “I thought it might bother you.”

  Just when I’d decided he was an asshole, he acted … well, less assholish. Without responding, I slipped down the short hallway.

  Holy crap. Not only was there a full size bathroom in here, there was a bedroom right next to it. His bedroom? Did he live here?

  I shut the bathroom door and paused in front of the black pedestal sink, taking a half-assed glance in the mirror.

  Oh yeah. I looked like shit. Felt like it too.

  I stripped off the raggedy sweatshirt. Scrubbed the blood and dirt from my hands, my arms, my face until my flesh stung. Some small cuts reopened and began to bleed. Scraped skin and a few bruises were trivial in comparison to Donovan’s wounds. I watched pink soap-suds swirl down the drain until the water ran clear.

  Martinez had his back to me when I returned to his office. A bottle of Don Julio sat on the coffee table. I was absurdly touched he’d remembered my drink of choice.

  He turned and gave my bloodstained tank top and jeans a once-over. “Is that all from Donovan?”

  I nodded, feeling oddly exposed, which naturally I hated, so I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.

  His gaze zoomed in on my scratched forearms. “Didn’t the EMTs check you out?”

  “They didn’t have time.”

  “I do.” He pointed to the loveseat. “Sit.”

  “Blood and dirt aside—”

  “Sit your ass on that couch, Julie. Now.”

  Grumbling, I perched on the edge of the cushion. I wasn’t giving in, I told myself. I’d just moved closer to the tequila.

  Martinez left, came back with a medical kit. He crouched in front of me. “Give me your hands.”

  I didn’t have the energy to act churlish and refuse.

  He inspected my palms, my forearms from elbow to wrist. When he finished, he poured me a shot and handed it over.

  I knocked it back. Before the first drop lined my stomach, I held out the glass for more.

  Martinez poured another slug for me, then one for himself.

  The silver liquid disappeared without the obligatory toast. After the third mouthful, I set the empty glass on the table.

  “More?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You sure? This might sting.” He ripped open an antiseptic cleansing pad.

  “Shit. I hate this part.”

  “You’ll hate it worse tomorrow if it’s not taken care of tonight.”

  I knew he was right. But why had he designated himself my personal first aid station?

  As he applied antibiotic cream to the cuts, he said, “Tell me what happened.”

  So I did. It distracted me from the too-tight feeling of my skin and Martinez’s surprising gentleness.

  When I finished, he said, “Why didn’t you start in Pine Ridge, like I told you?”

  “For the same reason you wouldn’t have.”

  Those deep brown eyes hooked mine.

  “Because following someone else’s plan drives you bat shit. I do things my way, Martinez, you knew that when you hired me.”

  “If you hadn’t met with Donovan—”

  “He’d be dead.” I signaled for more tequila. “I’m still not positive Harvey didn’t set this up without your knowledge. With Donovan out of the picture, Rondelle will keep full custody of Chloe. Which, quite frankly, after talking to Donovan, I’m not sure she deserves.”

  “Not your decision. Your job is to find Chloe, period.”

  I stalled, braced myself with a shot.

  “Even if Rondelle’s working for the Carlucci family?”

  As I expected, that got his attention.

  CHAPTER 6

  “DONOVAN WAS CONFUSED. RONDELLE DOESN’T WORK for the Carluccis,” Martinez said.

  “You know for sure? You’ve been up there lately? Seen her in action?”

  The tiniest bit of annoyance showed. “No. She’s a cocktail waitress at The Golden Boot. Bud Linderman owns it.”

  “Who’s Bud Linderman? A friend of yours?”

  “Hardly. A business acquaintance.”

  “Or business rival?”

  “No. He owns a couple of cowboy bars in Spearfish and Wyoming, but his main dealings are in real estate. Apartment complexes, retirement resorts, and nursing homes. Couple of car dealerships.” His gaze cut through me. “What else?”

  “According to Donovan, she hadn’t told Harvey she’d switched jobs because she knew he’d have a shit fit. He said she’s been working the cage at Trader Pete’s for a while.”

  He said nothing, just eased back onto his haunches, expecting an explanation.

  God. I needed a cigarette. I finished telling him the little bit I’d learned.

  Although his expression hadn’t changed, I sensed anger. Danger. His silence frightened me more than a burst of rage.

  “I’ll look into it,” he said, rising to his feet. “You’ll be at the office tomorrow?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. I’ll call you.” He extended his hand to help me up. “You’re exhausted. Go home, get some sleep.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For now.” Martinez walked to the door, fiddled with the locks. “You can go out the back.”

  Not that I wanted to saunter through the main bar. Raggedy appearance aside, it bothered me I’d been dismissed. Okay, it really bugged me that I wouldn’t get to stick around and see if Martinez ripped Harvey a new one.

  I glanced up; he’d already exited the room. I followed and watched him unlock about two hundred locks on another steel door at the back of the storage area.

  Once I’d stepped outside, I shivered from the chill in the night air. My tank top didn’t cover much skin and I’d accidentally left my sweatshirt on the bathroom floor. I spun back toward him.

  He reached out; a blunt fingertip softly tracked my profile from temple to chin.

  I shivered again.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow, blondie.”

  Then he shut the door in my face.

  I smoked all the way to Wendy’s. No comment on my horror movie escapee appearance from the chubby girl manning the drive-thru window. When she handed over my bacon cheeseburger combo with a genuine smile, I figured her as a new hire. Nobody gets that much joy from slinging burgers.

  Although, it beat the shit out of watching someone get shot.

  I ate while I drove home, wishing I had three hands so I could call Kevin. The strange twist in this case left me unsettled. Antsy. I needed Kevin’s opinion.

  Was it really Kevin’s expertise I needed? Or did I just want his attention? Either way, whatever advice he’d impart would have to wait until morning, or whenever the hell I saw him again. Depressed, I balled up the sandwich wrapper and chucked it on the floor mat.

  No lights burned inside my house. Good thing Kell wasn’t here. I had no desire to explain my bloody clothes or justify the brutality that creeps into my life when I least expect it.

  My reluctance went beyond client confidentiality. The one time I’d brought up my brother’s murder, he’d gotten a look of revulsion I’d rather forget.

  Right. I had baggage. Who didn’t?

  Kell didn’t, but he had principles in spades. Didn’t take any drugs, only ate organic food, and practiced random acts of kindness. In his shiny, happy bubble guns aren’t allowed, violence is a dirty word, and killing a chicken is as bad as killing a human.

  I’d begun to feel like a pin, waiting to pop his illusions.

  So far I’d managed not to get defensive with him. The hippie-type credo he lived by was good in theory; in reality, seemed one person got stuck paying more than their fair share of the bills while the other person touted their ideology.

  For now, he crashed here, more often on my couch than in my bed.

  I made a beeline for the shower and let the water beat on my head unt
il icicles practically dripped from my nose. The water only washed away the blood; it didn’t go through my skull and numb my brain.

  My bloody clothes on the fluffy pink bathroom rug sent my mind spinning. I needed something to help me wind down.

  Jumbo bottle of Excedrin, birth control pills, and Power-Puff girl band-aids stared at me from inside the medicine cabinet. Pretty pathetic selection of pharmaceuticals. Too much trouble to dig for the cough syrup stashed under the sink by the plunger. And I’d save my cache of Tylenol with codeine for serious injuries.

  I tossed my clothes in the garbage. My gaze landed on the bottle of tequila sitting on the kitchen counter. Granted, I’d had a few slugs with Martinez, but they didn’t count; I’d been under duress. Plus, the calming effects hadn’t lasted near long enough.

  Two substantial, no frills shots later, I’d relaxed. Drowsy, I slipped between my cool sheets. I’d start keeping a bottle of tequila in the bathroom for medicinal purposes.

  I woke alone when the alarm beeped at 4:30. Still sore, I stumbled out of bed. Coffee brewing, I half-dozed on the couch beneath my grandmother’s wedding ring quilt for ten minutes until the aroma beckoned me. Five cups went down the hatch as I made myself presentable. By 5:30, I was in my car, Godsmack blasting the last bit of sleep from my brain.

  First stop: Black Hills Bagels. Armed with two of everything—bagels, hummus, and onion flavored cream cheese—I pulled into the office parking lot.

  Bingo. Kevin’s car was still there.

  I nearly skipped inside. Juggling keys and Styrofoam to-go boxes, I unlocked the main door and decoded the alarm.

  Thoughtful, showing up early with Kevin’s favorite breakfast?

  Nope. Bribery, pure and simple. I’d need every advantage when I told him about Chloe and Donovan Black Dog. And Tony Martinez. And Harvey. And Rondelle. And the Carlucci angle.

  Crap. Maybe I should’ve bought cinnamon rolls from the Colonial House too.

  He’d left the door to his office cracked. No lights shone beyond the fingers of tangerine sun creeping through the blinds.

  I knocked softly. “Kevin?”

  A groan, then, “Jules?”

  I pushed on the door. “You decent?”