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“Get down,” Tank yells to the women, moving fast, getting a grip of a nearby table and ripping it from the floor, the bolts holding it in place surrendering easily with a ping. He puts himself back in front of the women, holding the metal tabletop before him like a huge fucking shield.
Thank fuck.
“Danny!”
At the roar of my name, I instinctively drop to the floor and look up, just as another of the men is taken out. He flies back, hitting the deck.
“Stay down!” James yells, and I roll to my back to get him in my sights. He’s stalking toward me, firing left and right, popping off men like coconuts off a shy. I see Ringo under a table, his lip curled as he shoots, and Otto with his back to a speaker, reloading.
James stops a few feet away from me, his gun still poised, his eyes darting. I turn over, checking the club. And then I see him. Backing out of the door, a sneer bigger than Miami coating his familiar face.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, starting to get up, my boiling blood starting to fry my veins. I stare at the entrance, struck.
No. It can’t be.
“Where the fuck is Beau?” James roars, snapping me out of my trance.
I slowly turn my eyes onto Tank, who’s gingerly lowering his shield. The relief that courses through me when he reveals Rose and Beau hunched on their stools over the bar, arms over their heads, is rampant. Rose turns and cautiously frees her head, peeking up at me. She nods at me and exhales, taking Beau’s arm and shaking her. “Beau?”
She doesn’t move, and my heart races as James sprints full-pelt toward her, taking her body gently and firmly. “Beau?”
She looks up at him, her eyes wide. “I’m okay,” she says, her voice croaky. Her words don’t satisfy him, and he starts patting her all over, lifting her shirt, checking her legs. “James, I’m fine.”
“God damn fuck!” he yells, yanking her into his chest. “Who the fuck was that?” He’s frantic. It’s understandable. Beau’s not long out of the woods, and here she is dodging bullets.
I find Tank with blood on the sleeve of his white shirt. “You good?”
“Just a flesh wound.” He brushes me off with a wave of his shovel-sized hand, taking a nearby stool.
I raise my gun, pacing through the club, and when I make it to the entrance, breathless, I check left and right, searching the street outside. Nothing. But I saw him. And he didn’t look very dead to me.
“Get inside,” Brad hisses, yanking me back into the club and slamming the doors. I step over two bodies, my mind reeling as I head straight back to Rose. I pull her off the stool. James is still holding Beau to his chest, still looking like a restrained monster.
“It was Volodya,” I say, starting to pull Rose through the club, tossing the keys of my Merc to Tank. “Let’s go.” How the fuck can this be? Spittle told me he was dead. He fucking told me!
“What?” Brad asks, audibly stunned.
“We’re talking about the same Volodya, right?” Ringo asks, tailing us. “The same Volodya who shot you at the Winstable massacre?”
“Yes,” I grate, still seeing his beady eyes in my mind’s eye.
“He’s dead,” they say in unison.
“So am I,” I remind them, pushing the door to the rear alley open with the head of my gun. Tank moves past us, opening the back door of the Merc, and I usher Rose in.
“Are you sure, Danny?” Brad asks as James appears, pulling Beau along behind him.
He gets her into the back of his Range and joins us. “Volodya?” he asks, as the pressure in my head builds and builds. “Russian mafia? You told me he was dead.”
“Well, he obviously fucking isn’t!” I explode, losing my shit and aiming at a pigeon on a nearby wall, blowing the fucker apart. I need to kill. Anything, I just need to fucking kill. On that thought, I stalk back into the club and work my way around the bodies, kicking each and every one. Finally, I get what I’m looking for. A murmur. I drop to my knee next to him, snarling in his face as he squints, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth. “Where will I find Volodya?” I grate.
He has a pathetic attempt to spit in my face, the saliva and blood spraying his chin. I locate his bullet wounds, one in his thigh, one in his stomach. “Talk,” I demand, taking my thumb and shoving it into the hole in his belly, making him squeal. I twist and turn, the squelching sound fucking hideous. “No talking?”
I lay my gun on the floor and insert my other thumb into the bullet hole in his leg, giving that a few circles. He starts convulsing and jerking, his eyes rolling. I pull out my thumbs, my shoulders dropping in disappointment. He’s passed out. Shame. If I thought Doc could save him, I’d have him taken back to the mansion to torture. But I know a dead man when I see one. I pick up my gun, push it into his eye socket, and blow out his brain. “Get Spittle,” I yell, standing and pacing out of the club. “Now!” I circle the Merc and get in the back, slamming the door shut with force.
