by Jack Parker
Victor frowned deeply at the idea. "…What'd you do with the hyena?"
"I let her finish her meal. Then I shot her." Ludkov took one last puff before spitting his cigarette to the concrete floor.
Victor could only shake his head in disbelief. "Why?"
"Because she had no future. And I did not think she would get back into her cage if I asked nicely." His shoe covered the butt on the floor and squashed the glowing embers. "A thing must not outlast its usefulness, or it becomes a liability."
He knew he might get his ass kicked for this one, but what the hell—in for a penny, in for a pounding. "Is that how the Bratva sees you now? Their cocaine smuggling hyena?"
Ludkov didn't look at him. "Perhaps. But I have not learned nothing from Katarina. Now that my cage is opened, it will not be my captor's enemy that I bite."
Victor would have thought that without the Russian mob backing him up Ludkov might not be quite as scary, but he was definitely wrong. Jesus, this guy was Ivan Drago with a bigger vocabulary and a better tailor. Victor crossed his arms and hunkered down uncomfortably as he stared out at the door, hoping vainly that Emery and the others would take only a few seconds to return. His eyes darted between the exit and Ludkov a few more times before he spoke again. "Did you really rip off a guy's ears in a fist fight?"
Ludkov narrowed his eyes and snorted. "I do not know how people are aware of this tale. It happened during my boyhood in Ulyanovsk. But no."
Well, at least some of this shit was rumors.
"He lost only one ear. And it was afterwards successfully reattached."
Okay. That was definitely enough fucking conversation for today. Victor pulled out his phone and pretended to be very busy, covertly sending a rage-filled, all-caps text to Emery's number.
* * *
Friday nights at the seedy little Irish pub knows as Deirdre's were positively crawling. Emery didn't think he'd ever seen so many bodies packed into such a tight little building as he stood down the street with Kurt, Victor, Georgie and Ludkov waiting for Dave's return from scouting ahead. Ludkov's remaining employees lurked about on the outskirts of the block, but their presence was of no comfort in light of the sea of thugs they were about to hurl themselves into. Ludkov and Georgie were attempting to look casual, smoking cigarettes together and muttering in Russian while Victor prowled around on his cellphone. Emery looked over as he felt a hand on his upper arm and Kurt was leaning down. "I've been meaning to apologize."
Emery lifted an eyebrow. "You've already apologized for at least a dozen things that aren't your fault. What is it now?"
Kurt set a hand on Emery's hip and looked down. "I'm sorry if I've hurt you. I didn't mean to be so tactless."
Emery smiled, briefly reaching a hand up to offer Kurt's cheek a quick stroke as he lowered his voice. "Rubbish. I've never been so sore, and it's never been so worth it."
He was not prepared when Kurt slid a hand onto his abused backside with a squeeze and a jolt of pain shot through him, forcing out a slight gasp. "In that case…consider my apology rescinded."
Emery bit down on a whirlwind of reactions. Shock, arousal, anger and amusement all churned in his stomach and he simply settled for a stern glare. True, their physical reunion had been rough enough to leave some serious marks. Every time Emery tried to sit or shifted wrong he could feel the sting, and the pain jerked him right back into the event with the terrible side effect of making him randy as all hell. Kurt was only making it worse and he knew it. Fuck. He'd forgotten how absurdly exciting it was to be taunted by this man in exactly the worst settings. Here he was about to be murdered by a gang of savages and all he could think about was Kurt's cock in his mouth. "If we live through this, you'll wish we hadn't," he threatened, but his heart hammered happily with fondness for the man.
It was a few minutes later when Dave emerged like a cowering dog, head low and hands in his jacket pockets as he toddled back their way. As soon as he made it to the group Emery could see his face was bruised. "He's in there," Dave confirmed. "Towards the back."
"Dave, what happened to your face?" Emery demanded.
Dave rubbed his cheek self-consciously and attempted to shrug it off. "Oh. I accidentally stepped on some asshole's foot and he clocked me."
Emery straightened up heatedly. "Who was it? What did he look like?"
"Doesn't matter," Dave dismissed, looking sheepish. "Just some inked up prick with one of them nose rings. I never understood those—just makes you look like you ain't wiped your face proper. There's a lot of blokes in there, though. Loads. You ought to be careful."
Emery indicated that Dave shove off with a gesture and the young man quickly went down the street. He turned back to his makeshift team before stepping forward to lead them in. Sure enough, Deirdre's was as hectic on the inside as it had looked on the out. Swarms of raucous men blocked off the bar, screaming curses and laughing and shoving one another about. The bartender looked to be in a heated argument with one patron and the boys around him were whooping and hollering to antagonize. Another bartender poured pint after pint at incredible speed but was barely keeping up. Emery worked his way through the bodies with the others in tow and ignored the dirty looks he got in the process. It took quite some maneuvering but eventually they made it to a space at the bar where they could survey the rest of the pub.
"This is a madhouse," Georgie said. "Even if we can make it over to Hennessey he won't be able to hear a damned word we say."
"I can make it work," Emery said, but was uncertain.
"Not with this much commotion," Kurt protested. "You won't be let near him. We need to find a way to thin out this crowd."
"How?" Emery asked.
Georgie took another long look around. "Perhaps it's best if we wait until later. Some of these boys might file out in the later hours."
Kurt didn't look at her. "And Hennessey will be too drunk to speak."
Emery bit his lip in frustration. "What can we do? What sort of distraction could we possibly provide that would be loud and disruptive enough to clear this place out?"
"I'll do it," Victor said unenthusiastically.
Emery turned to him. "What do you mean, you'll do it?"
Victor let out a long, world-weary sigh and closed his eyes. "I'm American. Loud and disruptive is sort of my thing."
"What?" Emery asked, but Victor was already moving off. He swiped a pint that didn't belong to him off of a countertop and chugged a few mouthfuls before scanning the crowd. Then he purposefully ran right into the back of one of the biggest, meanest-looking chaps in the room, sloshing Guinness down his pant leg.
The man was wearing a black tank top, heavily tattooed, his muscular structure firm and his eyes outraged as he whipped around. On his face was a glaring silver nose ring. Emery had to wonder if Victor had intentionally targeted this individual. Victor, no stranger to the acting game, affected a convincing drunken slur. "Hey watch where you're fuckin' goin'."
"The fuck did you just say to me you little shit?" the man demanded. His mates had all turned upon collision, looking on with interest.
Victor huffed and took another drink, spilling some down his front. "You Brits are deaf and dumb, huh?" He pulled the drink away and grimaced. "Even your beer on tap's shit, eugh. I came all the way t'fuckin' London just for a Bud-Lite worthy glass of pisswater."
Laughter of disbelief surrounded him. Clearly the men were finding this fascinating, thrilled by the prospect of unprovoked contention. The man he'd run into was looking to his friends in wonder before shaking his head at Victor. "Is that your first pint, sweetheart? I knew yanks couldn't hold their liquor, but this is too precious."
Victor pointed a finger with the hand holding his glass, splashing more beer. "Please, I couldn't get drunk on your lousy Mick shakes if my life depended on it. Now why don't you get your big pale ass outta my way so I can go drain this garbage out of my system?"
The man grinned and shoved Victor back lightly with a hand. "What's the rush, eh?"
"Hey, hey!" Victor barked, loud enough that a great deal of the noise around him died off. "You get your fuckin' hands off me unless you wanna die!"
The man's friends offered up a chorus of jeers around him. "Oh so you wanna fight me, love? Is that what you're after?"
"Fight you?" Victor sneered. "I could accidentally kick your ass, you nancy Hugh Grant motherfucker. I'd have a harder time going one round with that eighty year-old drag queen running your sorry-ass country."
"Is that right?"
"You're damn right that's right."
Victor stumbled a bit as another hand shoved him from behind. Things were starting to get tense. Emery was too shocked to react. "What d'you think, boys?" the man asked. "Should I show this little tosser some English hospitality?"
A cheer went through the surrounding crowd.
Victor saw this and chucked his glass, startling a few men who stood up in rage as it broke at their feet. He then proceeded to climb up onto the nearest table, making a ridiculous damned spectacle of himself. "Okay! Okay, yeah, let's take it outside! Come on!" He held out his arms and addressed the room. "I'll show all you fucking tea-fags what it means to get a real ass-kicking, courtesy of the US of A!"
"Oh dear god," Emery uttered.
"USA! USA!" Victor chanted, pumping his fist in the air and hopping down off the table to accompany his challenger towards the exit. Immediately a hoard of people stood, funneling in their direction. Emery, Kurt, Georgie and Ludkov all watched as nearly all of the pub's occupants clamored for the back exit where Victor and his new friend were heading. Kurt was astonished, Georgie was horrified, and Ludkov was grinning madly. Victor gave Emery a look that clearly read don't fuck this up before disappearing out the door.
Emery's jaw dropped. "The fucking git, he's going to get himself killed," he breathed, lunging forward. He was stopped as a great hand landed on him. He looked up to see Ludkov patting his shoulder, pushing past Emery towards Victor's direction and chuckling gruffly.
"Perhaps not."
Emery watched as Ludkov followed the stream of people out the door to the stage on which Victor had offered himself up for a royal beating.
"Nothing to do about it now," Kurt said, pulling Emery back. "He's given us exactly the opportunity that we need. Let's not squander it."
"The man is magnificent," Georgie remarked in awe, eyes still on the door everyone was spilling out of. "Or…was, at least."
Emery turned over his shoulder to see that the place had emptied out a great deal and he now had a clear view of Hennessey in the corner. Kurt was right. He said a brief prayer on Victor's behalf before he rounded a few blokes at the bar and leaned over it as he waited his turn to order a drink, sizing up his target and the associates at his side carefully. Aaron Hennessey was a portly, ugly man in his forties with a pockmarked face and thinning black hair. In his meaty fist was a pint of Guinness and there were two men sitting at the table with him. One was tall and wiry, taking a nice long drink every time he saw his mates do the same. The other was a scruffy little Irishman about Victor's height with a deep voice and eyes stuck to the skirt of a young woman chatting up some older fellow at the bar. Emery absorbed them all in a glance and took the stout that was handed over to him. He took a sip and leaned back towards his two remaining crewmen. "The one on the left is already three pints in while the others are on their first. He's got something to prove. The one on the right's got his mind in the gutter."
Kurt and Georgie took their cues without further explanation. "How do you want to play this?" Kurt asked.
"Friendly," Emery said. "As friendly as we can manage. Follow my lead." He turned back to the bar and ordered a round of the most expensive whiskey they had.
A few moments later a bar waitress was delivering a tray of whiskeys over to Hennessey's table. Emery watched tensely as Hennessey looked up, a scowl of confusion on his face before his eyes fell to the liquor on his table. The waitress gestured and his eyes rose up to lock on Emery's. Emery merely nodded and turned casually back to the bar, taking a drink from his glass. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the tall one reach for a drink from the tray before his hand was swept away by Hennessey. When he chanced a look back at them Hennessey was still staring, but after a moment he raised up a finger in a beckoning gesture. Emery slid from the bar and wandered over.
The eyes of Hennessey's compatriots fell on him like threatening dogs as he made it over. Hennessey was looking up at him with an unimpressed sneer. "Evening," Emery said casually.
"What is this?" Hennessey demanded, pointing a hand at the tray of drinks.
"A transparent attempt to curry favor," Emery replied. "Is it working?"
Hennessey huffed. "Cheeky little shit, aren't you? What's your business, boy?"
Emery held out a hand. "Emery Eaton. And if I'm not mistaken, you're Aaron Hennessey."
Hennessey waited for a long moment before shaking his hand. "You're not. Now what the fuck d'you want?"
"Just a chat. Tell me to bugger off if you like, but I'll make it worth your while if you listen." Emery indicated the alcohol on the table.
The thin man on the left practically wagged his tail.
"Eaton," Hennessey repeated at length, eyes narrowing. "I know that name."
Emery nodded. "I imagine you would. I just became one of the richest men in England. You might've read about it."
"Eaton works with the bleedin' Bratva," the Irishman snapped helpfully. His eyes were trained with malice on Emery's face.
"You're thinking of my predecessor," said Emery. "I work for myself. And I've got better avenues to pursue than doing the legwork for a bunch of Russian scum."
Hennessey gauged him for a moment before pointing to Georgie at the bar. "That so, lad? Then what are you doin' with that little slut? It's a known fact around here she's been sittin' on Russian prick for years."
Emery shrugged. "And now they want her dead. About as much loyalty as you can expect from their like. But I'm not here because of the Russians. I'm here because of someone worse."
Hennessey lifted his glass of Guinness to his lips. "And who's that?"
"I believe they call him the Dutchman."
Hennessey's glass froze at his mouth and he didn't drink for a long moment. Then he slowly set it down, rage bubbling in his eyes. "What about him?"
Emery glared off into the distance. "I've had grand plans about my fortune, you see. And now that I have it I'm about to be rendered impotent by this cock-sucking intruder who wants all of London under his thumb. The inheritance I've just received has made me a target—I'm now someone he seeks to assimilate into his growing fold thanks to my abundant resources. The Russians used to have Hunter Eaton's cooperation, and now that the Dutchman's got the Russians on his side he seems to think my estate is his as well. But I've had just about enough of being under thumbs…and I want this bastard gone."
Hennessey rubbed the rim of his glass for a long moment before he lifted a leg and kicked an empty chair out from the table. "Sit down. Bring your mates where I can see 'em. And buy us another round."
Emery gestured at Kurt and Georgie, then to the waitress. He sat down across from Hennessey and was joined on his left by Kurt. Georgie followed suit to his right, letting her eyes linger coyly from under long lashes on the Irishman across from her. He perked up a bit at this, straightening in his seat and quickly removing his flatcap. "Mr. Hennessey, these are my associates. You already know Ms. Faraday, and this is Mr. Gabler."
"Mooney and McDermott," Hennessey replied, gesturing loosely to the thin one and the shorter one respectively.
The waitress came back around with another tray of drinks and set them down. Hennessey gestured that the table drink and Emery's stomach sank. Whiskey. Oh god, what was he thinking? Two years on and he still couldn't stand the stuff. He grimaced internally as he reached forward and took one. Kurt was the first. He immediately snatched a glass from the tray and swallowed it in a single impressive gulp. Mooney, the heavy dr
inker across from him, observed this with a slightly miffed look before attempting to down his just as fast. Emery glanced over to see that Georgie had McDermott's full attention, sipping her whiskey daintily while she idly rubbed a hand on her clavicle just above her breasts. Emery looked down into his glass and steeled his stomach before knocking it back. His body railed against the unwanted intrusion but he managed to keep it down and retain his composure.
Hennessey didn't seem to notice that his boys were a bit distracted. He leaned forward when he'd finished his drink, giving Emery a skeptical look. "You've got stones on you, approaching me like this. That'll buy you sixty seconds to catch my interest. Whatever you've got, it had better be good."
One shot to impress. He'd better make the most of this opportunity. "Alright." Emery huddled down over the table, giving a sidelong glance to Kurt before clearing his throat. "…Ever heard the one about the Black Knight?"
* * *
Victor stumbled, barely catching himself on the damp pavement of the alleyway behind Deirdre's with his palms before scrambling back up to his feet. He scowled back at the man who'd pushed him and dusted his knees. This was definitely the stupidest stunt he'd ever pulled. The things he did for that kid… He watched with a sinking sense of dread as more and more men spilled from the bar door to watch the shitshow that was his impending slaughter. Victor cracked his neck and backed away as a swarm of bodies began to surround him and the big dick he'd antagonized. The man in question held up his arms, smirking out at him. "Okay sweetheart. You wanted to kick my ass, let's see you do it."