For the Fight (Romantic Suspense) (Beyond Blood, #2)

by Nora Flite

  Hecko wasn't here. Or, if he was, he looked nothing like Juice had described. No one had green hair. I doubted the guy could change much in a year, but who knew?

  After my reconnaissance, the only thing I could do was stake out the club and wait. Across the street was a cracked, dirt colored motel. Gathering my bag from the bus station cubby, my next order of business was to rent out a urine-smelling room that faced the Tail End's front entrance. I paid in cash, and the man who gave me my key barely looked up from the toaster-size television on the front desk.

  Sitting by the window, I peered side to side. The buildings to the left and right were coated in graffiti. The glass openings were broken, covered up in tape and wood planks. Nobody lived there. At most, a few druggies probably squatted inside. No one that would notice me here in my room or care. Good.

  Locking the door, I fell back on the stained blankets. I hated the filth, and everything smelled like cabbage and an open sewer. I'd camp out in whatever festering hole I had to if it kept me from being finger-printed later. I would avoid every mistake. Unlike Kite, no mysterious, dark-haired woman who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time would be able to blackmail me.

  Marina. Just thinking of her had my stomach tightening. So much had happened, and all so quickly. I wanted it to happen even faster. When I was done with this mission, I planned to do something... nice for her. And for me. Mostly for me.

  That night, I slept in my disguise and the same clothes. As I had every night since meeting her, I dreamed of Marina Fidel.

  Day two began. I cracked my eyes and stared at the grey clouds. Anxious, I rolled out of the blankets and prayed I hadn't gotten infested by bed bugs.

  Inhaling until my lungs hurt, I sat on the edge of my stained bed. I'd have to watch the bar all day and night. Luckily, I'd packed some food. Chewing on some jerky, I sipped a bottle of water and began the arduous task of the stake out.

  Inevitably, my mind turned to my plan. I have to identify him first, I told myself. Once I do, I'll approach and ask him about Frank. Depending on who Hecko was, I'd either spot a gap-tooth and recognize him as Marina's target, or he'd end up being someone that just knew Frank. It it was the latter, I planned to coax out of him any information about Frankie's past and his other 'friends.'

  One of them had to be the second murderer.

  The day crawled by, melting into night. My legs were cramping, I started to pace. This part of the process was the worst. I liked the hunt, and like Kite, I enjoyed the kill. But sitting in a wretched motel room and counting the cracks in the windowsill was not exciting.

  Finally, as I'd been growing tired of trying to imagine what the bouncer down below was dreaming about, I saw my man. It had to be Hecko, though the green hair was muddier than my brain had conjured. Even from behind, I could see he was too young to be the killer. He was closer to Juice in appearance, he'd have been a child sixteen years ago.

  It didn't matter. He would know something.

  Opening my duffel bag, I gathered my ensemble. It was a meticulous process. I needed a whole other disguise. This time, I went with a knit cap that covered my ears. A fake beard hid most of my face, the contacts changed out for green ones.

  Leaving the motel, the weight of the gun comfortable under my jacket, I gave the man in the chair another few bills and kept walking. If he'd been sitting up, studying me, he wouldn't have recognized me from my visit last night.

  Hecko had been inside the bar for no longer than fifteen minutes. The three empty glasses in front of him and the fourth drink in his hand implied otherwise. The guy was a drinker, putting away the stuff with efficient practice. That was good. People let slip much more information when they were drunk.

  He was alone in his corner of the bar, tucked onto his stool like he was holding out for a downpour to stop. There was no rain, the skies outside were calm, but how intuitive of him to know a storm was coming.

  Nodding to the bartender, I ordered a gin and tonic and approached Hecko. He didn't see me coming, his body jerking in surprise when I put my arm around his shoulders. “Holy shit!” I cried out. “Is that you, Hecko?”

  Spilling liquid on his lap, the guy shoved at me. “What the fuck, man? What are you doing?”

  Leaning away, I lifted my glass high. “You're kidding! Don't tell me you don't remember me? I hung out with Frankie all the damn time!”

  He was skeptical, and he should have been. But I was relying on the power of time and alcohol—mostly alcohol—to aid me in my statements. Hecko flicked blood-shot grey eyes to my shoes and to my face. “Did you? I don't...”

  “Man, all the titty bars he would take us guys to,” I laughed loudly. Shaking my chin, I clapped Hecko tightly on the shoulder. He glared at my hand, but didn't push me off this time. “Fuck, I miss the guy. Still can't believe he's gone.”

  What I really missed was not having to act so vulgar. Every swear was convincing on my tongue, but it left a sour taste in my mouth. Rust and blood and gin. This wasn't me, but I was spectacular at pretending.

  He looked down into his drink, took a long gulp until the bottom was empty and I could see his face through it. Breathing out heavily, he slammed the container on the bar. “I do miss him, yeah. But I don't remember you—sorry, what was your name?”

  “Cory,” I lied, swirling my glass. I let my hand fall back to my hip, hopped on the stool beside him. “I'm only a little offended that you don't remember me,” I said, winking. “To be honest, we never talked much. I was too busy throwing ones at the girls. I recognized you from the fucking doorway though. Your hair hasn't changed at all.”

  His smile was hesitant, but real. “Frankie used to call me the Gecko.” Self-consciously, he scrubbed at his short clumps of hair. “He always told me to change it. I never listened.”

  Sipping my gin and tonic, I watched his face closely. “Guy could be scary.” Hecko's eyes jumped to me, flashing. “But he meant well, most of the time.”

  “Scary,” he muttered. His chuckle was cynical and empty. “Yeah. That's right.”

  Sensing I was onto something, I waved for the bartender. “Another drink for my friend.” When the woman poured it, and when Hecko was nodding appreciatively and swallowing half of the caramel colored junk, I leaned close. “Honestly, Frankie did some messed up shit. You know?”

  Holding the glass like it was a shield, the guy squinted at me. I saw the beads of sweat on his forehead, noticed him fidgeting. “Maybe. I don't know. He's dead now, either way.”

  “True, and bless his soul,” I said, saluting to a man I didn't give a damn about. “But come on, Frankie was no saint. Neither was that guy who worked with him.”

  There. The riptide of fear roamed across Hecko's face. “What are you talking about?” he hissed at me, acting dumb but failing.

  I put my drink down heavily, swaying as if I was growing drunk. “Come on, Hecko! You're young but you knew Frankie, right?”

  “Of course I knew him.” He looked side to side.

  “Then you know what I'm talking about. The big motherfucker who was missing a tooth, used to pull the insurance shit with him.” I was pushing hard, trying to shake out what Hecko knew, what was true or what was just wind I was fumbling at. I was making a lot of assumptions, but it was intentional. If this guy knew Frankie like it seemed, he'd slip and give me something I could use.

  Shuddering, Hecko's brows hooded his eyes. He bent towards me, furious and with foul breath. “Would you shut the fuck up? Don't bring him up here, I'm not supposed...” He trailed off, eyeing me with sudden paranoia. “Did he send you?”

  My stomach prickled. Here was what I wanted. “Maybe. Why do you think he sent me?”

  Like a falling star, Hecko crumpled. He didn't look pleased, he grabbed his glass and finished it with a cough. “No. Forget it. I'm not doing this.”

  Controlling my smile, I broke the tension with a laugh. “Ah, fuck. Sorry man. I shouldn't be bringing up that bad stuff here.” Once more, the bartender approached. I or
dered two more drinks, keeping my eye on Hecko the whole time. “Forget it. My bad. Let's just cheers to Frankie and clear the heavy air.”

  The glasses were pulled close to me. I moved with speed, a dexterity born from necessity and determination. Hecko never saw me slide the packet from my sleeve, never spotted me tapping the powder into his drink. I would have tried to ply him with more alcohol, but I knew it was pointless. He had sealed the topic. Hecko didn't trust me.

  It was a wise decision.

  My teeth glinted, I handed him the glass. Together, we clinked them with reverence. Dedication to a man long dead, a man I had helped kill.

  The moment Hecko took his greedy gulp, I counted the seconds. I knew how much of the poison I had given him. It would be crawling into his bloodstream, twisting his guts and muddying his mind. In three minutes, he'd be a dizzy mess. A pliable mess.

  Tapping my finger on my knee, I waited him out with a smile. The first hint of his cheeks turning pasty made me move. “You look like you need some air, let's go out for a smoke,” I said, sliding my hands into the gloves in my pockets. I was going to need to make sure I left no fingerprints from here on out.

  He grunted, grip shaking on the glass. I was pleased to see he'd finished it. Not that it mattered, it'd be emptied and run through a hot wash enough times, it'd be useless for evidence. I doubted that would matter, regardless.

  Hecko stumbled, I hooked my arm around him for support. The bartender was staring at us. I crooked an apologetic smile and mouthed, 'too much to drink' at her. She nodded, turning her back.

  Busting through the alley exit, I made a soothing sound as Hecko groaned. His ability to stand on his own was fading. Outside, there were two men smoking. As if on cue, my green haired friend bent away from me, vomiting on the filthy concrete. “Easy buddy,” I said, shaking my head knowingly at the men.

  They chuckled, flicking ash and stamping out their cigs before giving Hecko and I some privacy. They thought they were being polite. They didn't know they were allowing me to drag my prey off and out of view.

  “Come on,” I whispered, listening to Hecko's pained babbling. “This way. Over here. Let's get you set up.” Dragging the man around a corner, I ducked into the long alleyway I'd spotted from my motel room. It was a shade lighter than tar-black, my eyes adjusting just enough to see shapes. I didn't need much vision for my plan, though.

  Hecko coughed, pushing against me feebly. The poison had done its job. He was conscious, but disoriented and frail. Crouching on the opposite side of a dumpster that smelled too much like rotten eggs, I knelt beside him. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “What... what's wrong with me?” he groaned, unable to see me—or anything—in the dark.

  Firmly, I pushed a hand onto his throat; held him against the cold wall. I put enough pressure to frighten, to keep him from squirming. Fear was as useful a tool as cyanide. “Listen to me, Hecko. Trust me, you will want to pay attention.” My thumb dug in harder. Under me, through the glove, his pulse was rapid. How strange it must have felt for him, to have a heart throbbing so madly while his limbs refused to obey.

  “What is it, what do you want?” he croaked.

  “Our discussion earlier was never finished.” Leaning in, I strained to spot the sound of nearby people—there was nothing but Hecko's whimpers. “I asked you about Frankie's partner. The big man who worked with him, a guy with a gap tooth.”

  The long, pathetic wail that came out made my hairs stand on end. “I promised him I wouldn't say a word. I said I didn't... didn't want any part in this. I didn't care what he did to Frankie... I swear...”

  My face tightened from my sharp frown. Did Hecko just say what I thought he had? “This man had something to do with Frank's death?” In response, the guy gurgled. I turned his head, let him vomit down his own shoulder. Instantly, I snapped his face back to me. “Tell me his name, Hecko. Unless you want to die in your own puke.”

  A full body shudder went through him. “I'm not a rat.”

  Lifting the pistol from my jacket, I pushed the cold tip to his forehead. I hoped he could hear my smile. “What about now?”

  God, had he started crying? Was it from the poison, or was he that scared? “Why are you doing this?”

  “Tell me his name.” I clicked the safety off. The metallic sound was a punch to the ribs; Hecko squeaked. Not a rat, indeed.

  “Lars Diani... his name is Lars Diani.” He breathed in deeply, struggling for air. The poison wouldn't kill him. I hadn't given him enough. I had no intention of using the gun, though. It was too obvious. The spool of wire would be smarter.

  Sliding the barrel down, I nuzzled it on Hecko's cheek. “Lars. He was the man who used to help Frankie burn businesses, destroy families who didn't pay them?”

  “How do you know about all that?” he asked. “It's been years since they did any of that themselves... they didn't dirty their hands anymore, they didn't... didn't need to.”

  Hecko knew a lot for someone who appeared no older than Marina. “You said you didn't care what Lars did to Frankie. What did you mean?”

  His hand came up, wiping at my wrist weakly. He'd find no hold, his nails doing nothing to the thick cloth covering me. “You never met me... did you? Your name isn't even Cory.”

  “No,” I said softly, “It's not.” The nose of my pistol ran over his temple. “Focus. What did Lars do to Frankie?”

  Hecko swallowed loudly. “He had him killed. Isn't that why you're here?”

  Blood rushed to my heart, my lungs squeezing. Lars had ordered the hit—the hit Kite and I had orchestrated—against Frank Montego? “Weren't they friends?” I asked, trying to absorb this turn of events.

  Hecko was silent. I nudged him, listened to him wheeze. He was losing consciousness from the poison. “I—what?” he mumbled.

  “Weren't Frank and Lars friends, partners?”

  “Yeah... they used to be.”

  Settling on my heels, I slid the gun away. “Why kill him?”

  I'd adjusted to the dark enough to see the wetness in Hecko's eyes. “I swear I told no one... I swear... why am I being killed when I promised Lars I didn't care?”

  He was fading. I slapped his cheek, squeezed his lips until I felt him come alive. “Hecko, what was the reason?”

  Something wet rolled down his chin. “Frankie was going to make a deal... he was going to betray everyone... I heard him, he said it, and I...” Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned. “Why the fuck would you do that? Uncle Frankie, why the hell... why...”

  Ice exploded in my veins. Uncle Frankie. “You're his nephew?” Dammit. God dammit.

  Hecko blinked when I let him go. “Please,” he whispered, “I told Lars everything. He promised he'd leave me alone if I... if I never said I'd told him. It'd make people suspect he'd hired the hit, and... fuck, I just wanted to be left alone...”

  Yes. I could understand, now, why this guy had been drowning himself in drink. If he'd heard from his uncle that the plan was to make a deal, and had gone and confided to Frank's partner—or former partner—Lars, then... well. The guilt had to weigh heavy.

  But I was in a situation I hadn't predicted. I couldn't let him live. He'd tell Lars and alert the man to the presence of someone looking for him. The element of surprise was crucial here.

  Yet, killing him in a suspicious way... I'd narrowed my choices down dramatically. In front of me, Hecko was coughing again. I smelled the vomit on his tongue, knew more was coming up. Casually, I snapped my palm over his mouth and held him tight. He was too weak to struggle, his head vibrating and throat clenching desperately. “Sorry,” I said into his ear. “If you squealed on Frank, you'll squeal on me.” Hecko was, in the end, a true rat.

  My blood was on fire, the sensation I'd been robbed of for so long flooding back. In my grip was someone's life. The flickering, warm heat that kept us all moving and smiling and crying and laughing. I held it close, crushing it until it dissipated in that grim alley.

  When his bod
y was discovered, it'd look like he passed out and choked on his own vomit. I suspected that anyone who knew him would agree: Hecko was an alcoholic. And yes, he'd been drinking this night.

  If they remembered me, they would recall a man in a knit cap with a beard and green eyes, a man who had come and gone and no longer existed.

  I was thrumming, my body all electric and wild. The disgusting air was suddenly fresh, the shadows fleeing like my eyes held their own source of light. Kite had murdered Frank. That had been eight months ago. My last kill had been much further away.

  Flaring my nostrils, I strolled from the alley and back to my motel. I took new streets, avoided any repeated eyes. It was a brief return; I gathered my items, used my small bottle of bleach and a rag to scrub down everything I had touched in that room. The doorknobs, especially, were cleaned.

  Leaving my key and more cash on the empty front counter, I brushed back out into the February night. My steps were springy, and I ached to utilize the energy and power I felt. I wanted to taste and hold and claw at a woman—one woman.

  I couldn't wait to see Marina again.

  - Chapter Five -

  Marina

  Grunting, I pushed the crate of glasses into place. My hair was in a bun, but strands still escaped and plastered themselves to my face. I really should not have been helping Kite organize the bar, but I'd caught him grumbling about everything that wasn't getting done because, and I quote, “Jacob was out pretending to be Batman.”

  No single braincell of mine should have felt sympathy for this man. Especially after he'd guilted me into a bargain I got no benefit from, but... well. I don't know. Sometimes Kite was a brute, and other times I saw something soft and tender and hurt behind those black marble eyes of his.

  So here I was, stacking boxes behind the bar on a Tuesday morning. No one else was here besides Kite, not even the bar tender whose name I'd learned was Anabelle. Apparently, as much as she was willing to put up with, she refused to load and restock before her shifts began.

  Wiping my hands on my jeans, I looked over the bottles behind the bar. The two men who owned the Corner Velvet stocked it with some high quality stuff. Grabbing a bottle of Johnny Walker, I turned it and eyed the mostly empty contents.