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Bang!
Tank knocks me from the path of the Escalade, and I feel the right wing of the car catch my arm as he pulls me out of the way, sending my gun flying out of my hand. “Fucking hell, Brad,” Tank pants, out of breath. The Escalade sails past, my eyes focused on the windows. But they’re blacked out. And then it slows down. Comes to a stop. The windows start to lower.
“Fuck,” I whisper as the reverse lights come on. I search the ground for my gun, seeing it’s slid halfway across the road. Not happening.
“Boss?” Tank asks in question as the car starts to reverse.
I’m out of options, and when I see the head of a machine gun pointed out of the window, I wonder if I’ve finally run out of lives too. But the vehicle suddenly stops again, the reverse lights go off, and the driver puts his foot down, pulling away fast. The fuck? I’m a sitting duck here, and they didn’t take me out? And who the fuck are they?
Tank’s expressing a similar questioning face. “That’s weird, right?” I ask, as the Escalade takes the corner up the street, disappearing.
“Weird as fuck,” Tank agrees, tucking away his gun as I head across the road to pick mine up. I put it in my trousers and feel in my pocket for my cigarettes, lighting up again. And I plan on finishing this one. I blow out the smoke, shaking my head, suddenly wide awake. A brush with death will do that.
“Here,” Drake says, holding out his phone, showing me an image of the rear of the Escalade. The license plate’s blurred. But nothing Otto can’t fix. “Send it to me.” I give his shoulder a slap. “Good work.” I back up, ready to head to my car, but a cop car at the end of the road catches my eye, cruising leisurely. Or conveniently?
“I think we might be looking at the reason why they fucked off,” Tank muses, eyes on the cop car.
“A lookout?” Drake says, glancing up and down the street, searching.
“Definitely.” I put my cigarette between my lips and straighten out my suit jacket as the cop car roll up beside us. “Evening,” I say with a smile through my cigarette. “Anything I can help you with?”
The officer gives each of us a moment of his eyes, his partner leaning across to get his fill too. “Brad Black,” the driver says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. There’s not a cop in the state of Florida who doesn’t know who I am. Who Danny is. Who James is.
“The American one,” his partner muses.
“You sure about that, old chap?” I say in a British accent both the boys would crucify me for, blowing my smoke toward the car.
“There was a report of gunshots.”
“Here? I didn’t hear any gunshots.” I look back to Tank and Drake. “Did you hear any gunshots?”
“No gunshots,” Tank says as Drake shakes his head.
I return my attention to the cops and smile. “Definitely no gunshots.”
Both look like they’re chewing wasps, their eyes narrowing to slits. “Good night.”
“Farewell, gents.”
The driver shifts the car into gear and drives away, and I trudge back into the club, needing a drink. I sit on a stool at the bar and wave Mason over as I text Otto the license plate number, Paul Kalkbrenner’s No Goodbye booming.
“I thought you were leaving.” Mason pulls down a tumbler and grabs a bottle, pouring neat.
“I was. Then an Escalade tried to pull a drive-by on me.”
“What?” Nolan hops on the stool next to me, looking me up and down. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I click send and accept my drink, knocking it back. “Make sure the footage isn’t available if the police come calling. They were sniffing around outside just now.”
“Got it.” Nolan’s off promptly, and Mason leans on the bar, twisting a tuft of his beard as he looks past me.
“What?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
“One of the girls.”
“What about them?”
“I walked into the dressing room earlier without knocking.”
