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I push my body up from the balustrade, my eyes high and low. “Drink, sir?” someone says, and I look to my left, where a tray hovers before me. The waitress holding it smiles. “Courtesy of management.”
I exhale my amusement and accept the tumbler, sipping and looking around. So where are you?
He doesn’t show himself, so I lean back on the balustrade, waiting. Patient. I have to be patient now, think things through, make wise moves.
A man eventually appears beside me, leaning on the railing, looking out at the club. His club. He’s a good-looking bloke, his dark hair well-kept, his suit expensive. He takes a sip, all casual, not looking at me. “I’ve not seen you around here,” he says, turning a blank look my way.
I look past him, seeing various men in suits loitering around. “On your guard?”
He glances over his shoulder, but he doesn’t acknowledge my question. “So, who are you and why are you in my club?”
“You don’t need my name.”
“And why you’re here?”
“To kill you.”
His eyes undeniably widen somewhat, his body becoming alert. “Then why am I still breathing?”
“Because you have something I want.”
“What’s that?”
I cast my eye over each of the six men in the vicinity, and Brad Black notes the direction of my stare.
“I’m out of that game now.” He motions with his Scotch to the club surrounding us.
“Someone’s put you back in it.”
He stalls a beat, watching me closely. “And I should listen to you, why?”
“Because you want to keep breathing,” I say quietly, although he still hears, despite the pumping music.
He nods, and it’s slow. Wary. “My office,” he says, dragging his eyes off me and striding away, his men following.
I look across the club, seeing Otto at the end of a bar, watching. His displeasure hasn’t improved. I give him a nod, following Brad Black. His men don’t enter his space, but rather wait outside, leaving me to walk through the middle of them, curious eyes following me. I close the door, and Brad goes to a cabinet, topping up his Scotch.
“Take a seat,” he says, settling behind his desk as I lower to the chair, setting my untouched glass on the desk. “You don’t drink?”
“Not today.”
He nods mildly, taking more of his own. “So who sent you to kill me?”
“A mutual friend,” I say, getting comfortable, smiling at Brad’s raised brows. “Spittle.”
“The fuck?” he says quietly over a laugh. “And you refused?”
“No, I agreed. Refusing would have had that slimy fuck slithering under a rock. Plus I needed something from him urgently.”
“What?”
“A doctor.”
“You ill?”
“No, my girlfriend was shot.”
His drink pauses at his mouth. “You have a girlfriend?” he asks, an irritating smile threatening. “Why the fuck would you go and get yourself one of those when . . .” He fades off, and I exhale, waiting for it. “Fuck me, you’re here because of her.” He laughs, wiping at his forehead. “You know, my uncle always told us never to let a woman into your heart. Only ever your bed.” He toasts the air, like it’s something to celebrate. “His own son didn’t listen to him, and now he’s dead. Because of a woman. Cheers.” He downs his drink and slams it on the table.
“The Brit,” I say quietly, studying Brad carefully. “Danny Black. The Angel-faced Assassin.”
“Dead because of a woman. Looks like you’re heading the same way, my friend.”
“The only place I’m heading to is out of town once I’ve killed The Bear and every single one of his men.”
“And you need me because . . .?”
“Refuge.”
“Somewhere safe to keep your girlfriend while you go on a killing rampage?” He smirks.
“Something like that.”
He nods, his eyes thoughtful slits. “As it goes, I have just the place you need.”
“I’d hope so, since my killing spree benefits us all.” I stand slowly from my chair, and Brad smiles. He must feel like all his prayers have been answered. Every potential threat to him gone. Spittle gone. “We have a deal?”
He offers his hand across the desk, and I lean over accepting. “What do I call you?” he asks, shaking mildly. He knows. Of course he fucking knows. And, wisely, he wants me as an ally, not an enemy.
“Depends. Friend or foe?”
“Friend.”
“James.”
“And foe?” He wants me to say it. To confirm it.
“You’d have to be stupid.” I drop his hand. “I know you’re not stupid.” I tilt my head, and his wry smile widens. “I’ll be in touch.” I stride to the door, coming to a slow stop before it. “You can tell The Brit he’s welcome.”
I look back, finding wide eyes and a lax jaw. “What the fuck are you talking about? The Brit’s dead.”
“Is he?”
Black’s face strains, his cheeks pulsing. “He’s. Dead.”
I nod, thoughtful, watching his eyes rage. “But is he?” I ask quietly, swinging the door open, turning away.
