Trevor nodded. “I agree. Besides, I’m really liking Tokyo. Some nice booze and ass around here.” He chuckled.
Connor turned to the women. “Sabine, Hisa?”
The first woman sighed. “I don’t like jetlag, and I’m patient. Let Brownstone come to us. I need to collect a few more souls anyway.” A hungry gleam appeared in her eyes.
Hisa gave a faint nod. “The oni will seek vengeance, as he has before. I will wait for him to come and make a mistake. Then I will kill him.”
John pushed himself up. “Well, I have a flight to catch. Don’t cry to me when you don’t get any money later.” He sauntered for the door, arrogance in every step.
Trevor smirked.
Thanks for wearing Brownstone down for us, John.
Tyler downed a shot of vodka on the rocks. He needed to be drunk to handle the self-loathing threatening to swallow him whole.
I can’t do this shit. It’s not like before. The fucker wants me to do it. He suggested the damned betting pool when I said I wasn’t going to do another one.
The bartender poured himself another shot. Brownstone’s plan had intrigued him at first, but the implications had set in after the bounty hunter departed. If Tyler worked with the man he could make a lot of money, but that meant Brownstone would also make a bunch. He’d be helping Brownstone, and not just with a minor tip on a level-one bounty.
The destruction of the bounty hunter’s home had proved that the man wasn’t a god, but his defeat of the hitmen who were after him and his annihilation of the Harriken had only fed his legend.
He’s just an asshole who likes to hurt people and uses bounty hunting as an excuse, and people act like I’m the criminal who should be despised?
“Fuck you, Brownstone,” Tyler spat. “Fuck your sanctimonious self-righteous bullshit. Fuck your threats. Fuck your ugly face and your meathead muscles.”
The bartender rubbed his neck, remembering the humiliation of gasping for breath in his own place.
I’ve hated the smug prick for so long. He was bad enough before, strutting around like the fucking Prince of Los Angeles, and now he’s so damned cocky he thinks he can fix the betting pool against his own assassination. He’s getting high on his own supply.
“Damn you, Brownstone,” Tyler hissed. “Why couldn’t you have just done me a solid and fucking died the last time? The money’s nice, but you dying would have been better.”
Tyler had spent most of his life trying to make money by the spreading and manipulation of information. It wasn’t just about making a living, but proving a point to smug thugs like Brownstone—men who thought the best way to solve a problem was to punch and kick it until it went away.
Brownstone wandered around town shooting people or smashing them to the ground. They called him a bounty hunter, but he wasn’t much better than a rabid animal.
Tyler, in contrast, was an evolved specimen; a man of intellect who could turn any situation to his advantage without ever threatening violence. He didn’t need his fists or a gun like a certain rhino pretending to be a man.
I’m better than you, asshole. Way better than you. Smarter than you. Better-looking than you. More fashionable than you.
Tyler downed the second shot of vodka. The pleasant buzz from the first was already settling in his head.
“I am the fucking master of information,” Tyler yelled to his empty bar. “And making money with gambling is all about understanding information. I’m not betraying myself by helping Brownstone with this shit. I’m using him. He’s the fucking tool here, not me.” He slammed the shot glass down.
I should have been doing bookmaking for a while. This will be the start of it. This will cement my reputation. I won’t need Brownstone after this.
The bartender started laughing. In the end, it’d be Brownstone who regretted making Tyler so much money. For now, he had a lot of planning to do. People wouldn’t ignore the possibility of Brownstone surviving this time, which meant Tyler needed more categories; more ways to skim profits off the gamblers.
“I’ll win, Brownstone. I always fucking win in the end.”
13
The next morning, Tyler rubbed his chin as he looked over the chalkboard and the wonderful variety of betting categories he’d thought up. He wondered if he should have invested in a wall-sized display instead of the board and set up everything electronically, but there was something satisfying about the old-fashioned approach.
He had yet to put out a major call for bettors, even if Brownstone had already sweetened the pot with his infusion of cash betting on his own survival. This round of gambling was going to make the previous event look like stupid kindergarteners trading their candy money.
Maybe I should have left the info game a long time ago and just become a bookie.
Tyler shook his head after a few seconds. Gambling didn’t interest him all that much. It was the sweet rush of combining making money with the threat of James Brownstone’s death that entertained him.
As if the mere thought of the man had summoned him, the bounty hunter stepped through the door and glanced around the empty bar for a moment before walking over to Tyler with a faint look of disdain.
I don’t like you either, asshole, but business is business.
“Hey, Brownstone,” Tyler forced out.
“I’ve got something for you.”
Brownstone reached into his jacket and Tyler stiffened.
Fuck. I don’t have a damned bounty on me. This is bullshit.
Brownstone didn’t pull out his gun, but instead a small piece of paper covered in careful and neat handwriting; some sort of list. He handed it to Tyler.
“I figured this might help you set up expectations,” the bounty hunter rumbled.
The bartender looked down at the paper. Five names were listed, and he read them aloud. “Trevor Moses, John Candle, Connor Malley, Hisa the Kunoichi, and Sabine Haas.” Tyler whistled. “I’m impressed. I recognize most of the names on this list well enough to know the Harriken really want you fucking dead, and they must be paying out a lot more than a half-million to get this kind of talent.” He slapped the list with his other hand. “Congratulations, Brownstone! You’re moving up in the world.”
“Yeah, some friends dug around a little to figure out who exactly was coming after me.“ Brownstone grunted. “Still gonna bet on me living? I don’t give a shit either way.”
“Nah, I’m still betting on you, but your instincts were spot-on in bringing this to me. This shit is perfect, Brownstone.” Tyler brandished the list. “You know what this means?”
“The fucking UN of killers is coming after me?” The bounty hunter shrugged. “I’m uniting the world in my own way?”
Tyler shook his head and grinned. “It means we can get higher odds on your survival. I was worried people would all assume you would live, but with this kind of firepower coming after you, people are going to flock to the ‘Brownstone Killed’ bets. Plus, now we can add all sorts of bets about who kills you.” Tyler snapped his fingers. “Video. Fly a drone around you and we can stream it on a darknet server.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe next time charge a streaming fee per head? You know, ‘Pay Per View?’”
Brownstone glared at him. “Fuck you. This isn’t a show, asshole. I’m not going to make this easier for these killers just to take in a little more money on the side.”
Tyler sighed. “Fine. Be a bitch then. It doesn’t matter. I don’t like you, Brownstone, but the amount of money I’m about to make will be off the charts. You still going to call me when you take them out, right? I can really goose the bets that way.”
“Yeah.” The bounty hunter turned to leave. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, asshole.”
“Oh, Brownstone? One last thing.”
“What?”
“If you want anyone to place bets over the phone, make sure they start with ‘Happy Brownstone’s Death Day.’”
The bounty hunter grunted. “You think you’re fucking hilarious, d
on’t you?”
Tyler tapped his head. “I don’t think I am. I know I am.”
This time it was Brownstone who flipped off Tyler. “After this is all over I don’t want to see your fucking face for a long time.”
“Feeling’s mutual, you greasy thug.”
Brownstone stomped out of the bar.
The bartender couldn’t stop grinning. Even in the worst-case scenario, Brownstone would die and Tyler would make a lot of money.
Somebody up there loves me after all.
Tyler frowned. “Wait. Since when is Brownstone surviving not my worst-case scenario?”
A few hours later every manner of scumbag and gambling addict filled the Black Sun, drinking, eating, and placing bets. The money was already flowing in, and none of the big action had even started yet.
Good thing I hired those temp waitresses and extra security, Tyler thought.
Excitement filled the air, even more than during the last Great Brownstone Chase, as Tyler had taken to calling the event.
The bartender finished pouring a White Russian for a gangbanger at the bar, a Demon General. The man was far from his gang’s territory, and he wasn’t the only gangbanger who’d traveled across the city to get a little slice of the action. Everyone wanted to get in on making money off Brownstone’s death. It was hard to blame them.
The gang member took a sip of his drink. “You’re not shitting us about the people coming after Brownstone, are you, Tyler?”
“From God’s mouth to my ear. I’m an information broker. It’s my job to know this kind of shit.”
“They say last time you made a bunch of money off Brownstone surviving.”
Tyler shrugged. “Got lucky with some hedging. Don’t think he’s going to make it this time with the crew he’s got coming after him.”
This shit’s more exciting than the Sweet 16.
Despite the gathering of LA’s most ethically and morally questionable people outside of the local politicians, Tyler didn’t worry about trouble. As long as he kept the alcohol and the bets flowing, the fun of the event and everyone’s mutual hatred of Brownstone would keep the peace.
Just in case, though, everyone had to surrender their weapons at the door, where they were placed in portable lockers he’d rented. Brownstone had suggested the idea in a text the night before, and surprisingly, no one had really pushed back.
It’s like Brownstone and I are fucking business partners. Still don’t know how I feel about all this, but I’ll roll around in the money when it’s done to make myself feel better.
Tyler chuckled, then his cell phone’s ring broke him out of his thoughts.
“Hello?” Tyler answered.
“A friend of mine said you’re the man to call about placing some bets on James Brownstone.”
The voice was feminine but sultry. Tyler liked this woman already. Still, he couldn’t risk entrapment.
“I’m just a humble bar owner, not some sort of bookie, ma’am. I think you’re mistaken.”
“The password is ‘Happy Brownstone Ass-kicking Day’”
That’s not the fucking password. Damn it, Brownstone. Guess I should have seen that coming.
Tyler heaved a sigh and considered hanging up, but money was money and the close wording of the passphrase suggested the bounty hunter fucking with him rather than a cop.
“Okay, what bets do you want to place?”
“I want to place bets against the killers, all pro-Brownstone, and then an overall bet on Brownstone, with all this over in less than two weeks. I don’t want to drop physical cash.”
Tyler could tell from the woman’s voice she was gorgeous. Beautiful and willing to bet on a man’s life; just his kind of woman.
“Sweetheart, you should come down here. It’s going to be a great time. It’ll be fun. I’m offering free drinks depending on how much you bet to promote the Great Brownstone Chase II, and free drinks to all the beautiful ladies who stop by.”
I’m so fucking smooth.
“The Great Brownstone Chase II?” The woman let out a husky laugh. “Let’s just say I’m someone who wants to remain anonymous, so not gonna stop by. Give me a crypto wallet address. I’m guessing you’re smart enough to have crypto betting set up.”
Tyler preferred the old-fashioned approach, but a man had to move with the times. Anonymity could be inconvenient, but it kept the cops and the feds off his ass.
“Yeah,” the bartender agreed. “But I’m only accepting Trollcoin, Bitcoin, or Ether. I’ll text you the address. You sure you don’t want to come on down? Like I said, free drinks.”
“Nah, I got better things to do than deal with a small-dick loser like you.” The woman hung up, laughing.
Fucking bitch. Wonder who she is? He considered fucking with her bets, but letting personal feelings get in the way of business would destroy his hard-won reputation for professionalism among LA’s underworld.
Tyler slipped his phone back into his pocket, shaking his head. Something poked at the edge of his mind, making his heart speed up as if he were missing some obvious threat. Maybe the woman’s insult had hurt him more than he realized.
My dick isn’t small, bitch.
The bartender looked up and realized complete silence had gripped the bar. Someone had even muted the TV, most likely one of the waitresses.
His gaze swept the bar and landed on the likely cause. Standing at the entrance was a trio of police officers, with a scowling brunette in the lead. Her name tape read HALL and her rank insignia indicated she was a lieutenant, a bit up there to be wandering around checking neighborhood bars.
The two no-neck thugs Tyler had hired for security looked at him for direction. The last thing the bartender wanted to do was agitate the police.
“Let our fine men and women in blue in so they can get a drink on the house,” Tyler called, forcing a smile onto his face. “After all, they are the thin line between civilization and chaos.”
The bartender was under no illusions that the local police liked him, but he had an unofficial understanding with them that as long as he kept his shit in check they would leave the Black Sun alone. A few bribes here and there were supposed to help facilitate that.
Why the fuck are they here all of sudden? They here to shut down the gambling? They didn’t come during the first event. Shit.
Lieutenant Hall glared at everyone as she walked toward the bar. Now that she was closer, Tyler could make out AET on the bottom of her badge.
Why the fuck are they here? Hunting someone? But they aren’t geared up.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Hall,” Tyler said, trying for his best unconcerned voice. He nodded toward a few nearby patrons. “No enhanced threats here today, ma’am. Just normal folks, no weird magical assholes.”
“Just regular assholes?” the woman said. “I haven’t been in here in a while. I remember this place being more of a shithole.”
Her two buddies chuckled, along with more than a few of the customers.
Fucking assholes.
Tyler shrugged. “I came into some money to do some renovations. Thanks for noticing.”
“Oh? Where did this money come from?”
The bartender scratched his ear. “During, uh, James Brownstone’s recent reign of terror, I found a way to monetize it.”
“You mean you ran a betting pool while that troublemaking bounty hunter tore up half the county?”
Tyler shrugged. “Look, I couldn’t stop the man, so I made sure I took in money whether he died or not.”
Lieutenant Hall curiously looked the man up and down. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“He’s a fucking menace if you don’t mind me saying, ma’am. Last time he was in here going after a bounty he damaged my place.” Tyler pointed to the door. “Knocked my door clean off. The guy’s like some sort of rabid bull, and everyone wants to drop to their knees and blow him because he takes down a few bounties here and there when we’d all be a lot safer if he were locked up in an ultramax
.”
The cop’s face darkened and she looked at her buddies. They didn’t look any happier.
Shit. Fuck it. If she wants to take me down for pissing on her hero, I can still take bets online. Tired of always hearing about fucking great James Brownstone is.
Tyler cleared his throat. “Look, why the fuck do we even have bounty hunters? What? Because of Oriceran shit and the occasional asshole who can throw some spells?” He gestured toward Lieutenant Hall. “It’s not like it was twenty years ago. We’ve got AET now, right? You guys can handle shit. I don’t care how magical some guy is, you put enough lead or grenades into him he’s gonna drop dead, right?”
Lieutenant Hall’s face lit up. “You’re damn right! We cops are enough. Bounty hunters like Brownstone just cause trouble and destruction.”
The other two nodded their agreement.
Time to press on. Now I’ve got her.
Tyler slammed his hand on the bar. “As far as I’m concerned, we should just let you professionals handle it rather than everyone letting some ugly thug like Brownstone run around causing property damage and risking people’s lives. After all, those killers were after him. He wasn’t saving us from anyone. He was saving his own ass.” He leaned in and licked his lips. “Just like he is now, so you can’t blame a man for wanting to make a profit off Brownstone suffering, can you?” He followed that up with a smile.
Lieutenant Hall pointed to a table where four gang members sat. “Get up. That’s the cop’s spot now.”
“Come on,” one of the gang members whined.
“You heard the lady,” Tyler yelled. “Get the fuck up.”
They rose and glared at Hall.
“Listen up, scumbags,” the AET officer yelled. “We know what’s going on here, but the LAPD has better shit to do than worry when criminals take money from other criminals. You want to bet on that asshole Brownstone dying? Be my guest. Consider this an unofficial endorsement.” She pointed to herself. “Me and my friends are going to drink a little just to keep an eye on things, but as far as we’re concerned this is damned Switzerland. Neutral ground, and we’re not going to worry about anyone while they are here.” She narrowed her eyes. “In exchange, you won’t cause trouble, because if you do I’m going to call up all my AET friends, and we’ll deliver the kind of pain that makes Brownstone’s shit look like preschool.” Hall dropped into her seat. “And somebody get me a damned vodka already.”
Bring The Pain_An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure Page 10