by Unknown
Tables dotted the carpeted main floor, and there was a balcony level, with box seats like that of an old-timey theatre. Hanging signs pointed the way upstairs, where there were also, apparently, private party rooms and—merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—a VIP lounge.
His drink finally came. The exhausted bartender apparently had had to look it up in a book to figure out it was half lemonade and half iced tea, no alcohol, and it must’ve been hard to read in the dim light. Ian paid for it, leaving a hefty tip for her future-eyeglasses fund or maybe her buy-a-shirt campaign, then wandered toward those stairs. “Ground floor is mostly one main room—bathrooms behind the bar, and of course, there’s gotta be an extensive backstage area, but that’s probably moot,” he said into his drink, hoping those expensive mics were picking him up. “I’ll walk the perimeter in a sec, but I’m going upstairs while I have the chance.”
His route up was blocked by a dark red velvet rope with dull brass ends that hooked it to the wall on both sides of the staircase. Apparently, the upper section wasn’t open to the public at this time of day.
But the bartender was settling in for a siesta, and the bouncer by the front door was still checking his Twitter feed, head down as he peered at his phone. So Ian and his high-heat-radiating chest quickly went past the rope. The packet was on the verge of burning him, and he pulled the fabric of his shirt slightly away from his chest. “Row, row, row your boat, gently up the stairs …”
Black-framed daguerreotype reproductions of stony-faced cowboys, outlaws, and tight-lipped pioneer women covered the red-painted walls. Their grim scowls and accusatory eyes seemed an odd choice for the route to the “private party rooms”—unless the thrill of getting a lap dance or maybe even a hand job in an Americana-themed museum was on more men’s bucket lists than Ian had previously imagined.
Cast-iron handrails stretched up, on both sides, and even though the red-and-gold-patterned carpeting was showing its age, the management had installed rubber guards on the edge of each step—to make it slightly harder for drunk clientele to fall and destroy what few shreds remained of their dignity.
There were a lot of steps. What should have been two complete flights led to a half turn. Whatever was beyond that Ian couldn’t see. But before he got to that turn, he stopped—and stopped singing—because someone was coming. There must’ve been a door at the very top of the stairs, because he heard it open, heard someone grunting as he or she—he, had to be—came through. Whoever he was, he was either grossly overweight, or maybe he was carrying something heavy.
There was a murmur as he spoke.
It was possible he was carrying someone.
He spoke again—in that same deep voice, his words indiscernible. Even the language being spoken was questionable—Ian didn’t think it was English, but the coaxing tone was unmistakably clear. Just a little bit farther, almost there. Please don’t puke on my shoes.…
But then there was a stumbling sound, and Ian quickly transferred the hand warmer from his shirt to the back pocket of his jeans, and put his drink on the back edge of the nearest step, since a collision with whoever was coming down the stairs seemed imminent. He went up, ready to help catch whoever was falling.
But the man who was conscious—capable of walking and talking—didn’t need help as he used the triangular landing at the turn in the stairs to anchor the man he was supporting against the wall. His back was to Ian as he staggered slightly beneath his drunk companion’s weight.
At least one of the two was definitely skunked. His eyes were closed and his balding head lolled on a thick neck as his buddy kept him from tumbling down the stairs. He was short but stout and clearly heavy—with a dark mustache and almost comically bushy eyebrows.
The other man—the conscious one—was taller, with sun-streaked brown hair and broad shoulders beneath a dark, well-cut business suit.
There was something familiar about him—about the way he was standing or moving or …
That taller man lifted his head as he turned, suddenly aware that he and his barrel-shaped friend were not alone in the stairwell.
And because Ian had moved closer to assist, he and the tall man were face to face. He. Was now. Face to face.
With Georg Vanderzee.
AKA the Dutchman.
Ian froze, and Vanderzee did, too. And Ian knew that, like the Dutchman, he, too, failed to hide the spark of surprised recognition in his eyes.
In truth, Ian was more than surprised—he was shocked. Last thing he’d expected was to run into this man, here and now. But he was good enough at thinking on his feet to recognize that surprise—and even shock—was absolutely the correct expression for this situation, so he didn’t make the mistake of trying to hide it. He let it all hang out.
He even hammered it home, simultaneously letting Yashi know what had happened. Provided he and the others had the surveillance mics up and running—and working correctly. Although, shit. Martell was supposed to come inside to bring Ian a phone. Hopefully this information would stop him. “My old friend from Holland.” He didn’t want to use Vanderzee’s name, and potentially blow the man’s cover. “No freaking way,” he added.
But then Ian went on the offense, hard, and looked at the man sideways, letting suspicion and accusation into his voice. “Who the fuck told you I was in Miami?”
* * *
“Holy shit,” Martell said, as the van he was riding in with Deb moved another four feet forward before coming to a complete stop in the bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Yashi and Phoebe were parked behind a Dunkin’ Donuts—it abutted the strip club’s back lot. They were successfully using their high-tech super-spy microphones to follow Ian as he moved about the club. Yashi had set up some kind of scrambled radio signal so that Deb and Martell could listen, too.
And they’d all just heard Ian make contact with the Dutchman.
“No one told me you were in Miami,” said the voice that had to be Vanderzee’s. “I had absolutely no idea you were even in the States.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Ian came at him. “You and whoever the fuck this is, showing up here on the exact same day I’m supposed to be meeting … Well, you probably know who I’m meeting, right, because I sure as shit don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Okay,” Deb said, as she inched the van another few feet forward. She’d washed the deep-space black from her hair and now it was just a nondescript light brown. She couldn’t do anything about those ultra short bangs, though, and they gave her a quirky European look that Martell found appealing. “So now we know the Dutchman is with another person.”
Martell’s phone rang, and he quickly silenced the ring, even as he looked down to see … “Francine,” he said, “ ’Sup, baby?” and Deb shot him a look, one eyebrow raised.
“Is Ian with you?” Francine demanded, without verbally slapping him upside his head for that unauthorized baby, which should have been his first clue that something major was wrong. “Tell me Ian’s with you, back from scoping out the club, and then get out of there—fast.”
“No, I’m in van two with Deb,” he said, lowering his voice and turning away because now Deb was giving him an I can’t hear Ian look. “We’re stopped on the expressway. There’s been some big-ass accident up ahead—must’ve just happened. We’re in the breakdown lane, but that’s not moving either. Ian’s inside Henrietta’s, where he just made unplanned contact with our man.”
“Are you kidding me?” she asked. “Shit. That must be why he’s not answering his phone.”
“No, he’s not answering because he left his phone back at the house,” Martell said. From what he could tell, Ian was continuing on upstairs while the Dutchman and the other guy staggered down to the main floor, where Dutch was going to put his mysterious friend into a cab. At which point Vanderzee would join Ian back upstairs. Or so he’d promised. That was either a really good thing or a really bad thing. “I was supposed to go in there and bring him mine when we arrived, but we’ve be
en twenty minutes away for the past half hour now. What’s going on?”
“Where’s van one?” she demanded. “With, what? Yashi and what’s-her-name? Phoebe? Are they near the club?”
“Did you hear me when I said he’s made contact?”
“Yes,” she said. “Fuck. Martell, put me on speaker, so that both Deb and Yashi can hear me.”
“Yeah, I don’t think—”
“PUT. ME. ON. SPEAKER!”
Ow. It was possible he was now deaf in his right ear. Martell cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to have to interrupt this incredibly important life-risking mission. But here’s Francine. On speaker. Go ahead.”
“I got an email from Berto,” she said, speaking loudly and clearly. “And I just called him back to verify the following: Davio Dellarosa knows that Ian’s in Henrietta’s, and he’s just sent a four-man kill squad out to delete him, ETA ten minutes.”
* * *
Beep. Beep. Beep-a-beep! Bee-bee-beep, bee-bee-beep, bee-bee-beep, bee-bee-beep …
“It’s brilliant,” Phoebe told Yashi, who was hitting the van’s horn to the pattern of the lyrics in “Row Your Boat.” “You’re brilliant. You really are. But Ian can’t hear you from where he is, inside the club. You have to let me go in there to warn him.”
“I can’t,” Yashi said.
“And I can’t let you not let me do it,” she countered. “Someone’s got to go. If it’s you, the mission’s scrubbed.” He’d just told her that if an FBI agent, i.e. himself, got that close to the Dutchman, they’d have to assume Ian’s cover was blown. “I, however, am not an FBI agent,” she reminded him.
He held out his left hand. “Mission scrubbed,” he said, counterweighing it with his right hand. “Dunn kills me for putting you in danger.…”
“I won’t be in danger,” she told him. “Ian’ll be right there. He’ll keep me safe.”
“From the Dutchman?” Yashi asked. “Or from Dellarosa’s four-man kill squad?”
“Just fucking let her go.” Francine sounded distorted. Her voice was coming through the speaker of Martell’s phone, and then through the scrambled connection between the two vans. “Shelly called Henrietta’s but went straight to a recorded message. There’s no reaching Eee that way.”
“Van two is too far away,” Deb’s voice announced. “Even if Martell could run five-minute miles he wouldn’t get to the club in time.”
“If I could run five-minute miles, I wouldn’t be here,” Martell pointed out. “I’d be practicing for the Olympics.”
“If this mission is scrubbed,” Phoebe asked, “what happens to those kidnapped kids?”
A whole lot of silence answered her—both from the van she was sitting in, and the one stuck in traffic.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Phoebe said, and got out of van one.
“ETA seven and a half minutes,” Yashi shouted after her as she ran. Across the parking lot to the back door of the club. Seven and a half minutes before four men with guns came looking for Ian, to kill him.
She yanked open the door and stepped from the brightness of the afternoon into dim, musty darkness.
A gigantic man was standing there—all big biceps and shiny shaved head. Little goatee. Tats escaping out the collar of his shirt and up his no-neck. Phoebe blinked at him—he must’ve been a bouncer—as she tried to get her bearing. Ian had reported that he’d gone upstairs.
The man blinked back at her but thankfully didn’t ask to see her ID—she’d left it on that yacht, back on Monday night, which was the last time men with guns had tried to kill Ian.
“You one of the new girls?” the bouncer said instead.
So she said, “Yes. Why, yes, I am,” as she looked around the room. When she’d left the van, the Dutchman hadn’t yet joined Ian upstairs. But she didn’t see anyone even remotely Dutch-looking over by the front doors. Which, of course, didn’t mean anything. He might’ve been outside. He might’ve run away. He might’ve returned and gone upstairs while she was running through the parking lot. He might not even look Dutch—which meant what, anyway? He was carrying tulips?
“You’re supposed to come in the stage door,” the bouncer chastised her. “Every time. No exceptions. Not even for picking up a paycheck.”
“Will you let it slide, this time?” she said in her best Marilyn Monroe, adding breathy exclamation points to her words. “I was called in for an emergency private party! I’m supposed to go right upstairs! Don’t want to get Mr. Mrrph-Rff mad at me! Please!”
And there it was—an arrow pointing to the stairs that Phoebe then pointed to with both hands, like a stripper version of a car-show model. The bouncer hesitated and that was all she needed.
“Thank you!” She bolted, crossing the lobby and ducking under the decorative barricade that was intended to deny access to the second level. She took the stairs two at a time, pulling herself up by the banister, turning a corner, and bursting out the door into a long, narrow hallway that had three separate closed doors leading off of it. What had once been an upper lobby had been cheaply renovated into the club’s so-called private party rooms. And Ian was in one of them.
Phoebe had no idea what exactly went on in the private party room of a strip club, although she could certainly guess. That rope at the bottom of the stairs gave her hope that two out of three rooms were empty. Although logic dictated that if one room was being used, all three could just as well be occupied.
But the clock was ticking as she went to the first door and leaned close to listen.
She heard nothing.
The second door, too, revealed only silence, and she realized that the rooms might have been intentionally soundproofed. But then she looked at the construction—shoddily slapped-up dry-wall and door frames that were not quite square—and she rejected that theory, moving toward the third door.
Which was where she heard him. “… gently down the stream …”
Phoebe grabbed and turned the doorknob, opening it even as she knocked lightly on the hollow door.
And there was Ian, alone in a room that defied the western theme by being filled with a 1990s man-cave-appropriate dark fake-leather sectional sofa that made up three sides of a square. A wet bar was along one wall, and next to it, the far corner of the room had been claimed for a half bath, with a toilet and sink. Phoebe double-checked, but the door was open and the little room was empty. The Dutchman hadn’t yet made it back upstairs.
Ian was standing near a window that was glazed over, not just for privacy, but because it faced the extremely unglamorous back parking lot. The look of shock on his face would’ve been funny had the message she’d come to deliver not include the words kill squad.
“Bad timing,” he said. “Bad, bad—”
She spoke over him, realizing that for all he knew, the equipment had malfunctioned, and she had no idea that he’d made contact with Vanderzee. “We know,” she said. “We all know. We’ve been listening. They’re listening still.”
“Shh!” he said, and she realized that her instincts had been right—these rooms weren’t soundproofed. And the Dutchman could well be on his way back up.
“But here’s the SNAFU,” she continued, closing the door, lowering her voice and moving closer to him. “A four-man kill squad’s ETA is five minutes. Four. Better bank on four. Three to be safe.”
Ian was just standing there, as dumbstruck as she’d ever seen him. It was a lot to process, so she elaborated, giving him as much information as she knew. “Berto emailed Francine with the warning that someone recognized you when you walked into this place, and whoever they were, they called Davio. Francine called Berto to confirm, and he told her Davio hired four men to come here and kill you, from someplace called Oakland Park—”
Oakland Park was apparently the right amount of detail to convince him, because he finally moved. Toward her, saying, “Shit. Shit! You promised you’d stay in the van.”
That was what he was upset about …?
“We didn’t have a
lot of options, considering you forgot your phone, and Martell and Deb are still stuck in traffic. It was me or Yashi, and it couldn’t be Yashi.”
He grabbed her by the arm. “You need to go back downstairs, get back into the van, and get the hell out of here—”
“Drive away and leave you?” she asked as he pulled her toward the door. “Did you not hear what I just—”
“I’ll use this,” Ian countered. “I will. It’s actually perfect. But I can’t have you here.” He opened the door and peered out, looking both ways down the corridor before he pulled her out of the room with him. “There’s gotta be a back stairway. And you’re going to take it and go.”
“And leave you on foot, unarmed, against four killers in a car? Ian—”
“Phoebe. Think. If I don’t connect with Vanderzee here and now, it’s not going to happen. Because from here on out, Davio’s going to be watching for me. Not just in Henrietta’s, but every-fricking-where in Miami.”
“He already is,” she told him as he dragged her with him, toward a left turn at the end of the hall. But that led to the dead end of a balcony, and to what looked like a series of boxes with special seating.
“Jesus. This place is a freaking fire hazard. How can there not be a second set of stairs?” Ian pulled her back the way they’d come. “Okay, look. I’m going to go wait in that room, but you just keep on walking. Down the same stairs that you came up, and right out the door. Do you understand? Don’t stop to talk to anyone. In fact, burst into tears and run if anyone says anything to you.”
Burst into …? “You must think I’m a really good actor.”
“I know you are. Don’t argue with me. Just do it. Go.” They’d reached the open door to the party room in which she’d found him, and he let go of her arm, but she stopped, too.
“Please,” Phoebe begged. And it wasn’t all that hard to imagine being able to conjure up a full-scale, noisy tear-burst if she needed it. In fact, she could feel her eyes already starting to fill.