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Cassie squeezed by the man, careful to avoid the blade still in his hand. “Yes, thank you. We really appreciate it.”
“Stay safe,” he said, giving them a fatherly look.
Harris raised her hand in thanks and walked toward the end of the alley, Cassie on her heels. When they made it to the sidewalk, they both turned back around and gave the chef another wave. He nodded his head and ducked back inside.
No sooner had he disappeared than Cassie heard a grunt and Harris was knocked to the ground, landing on the asphalt on her hands and knees. Two big hands grabbed ahold of Cassie, one wrapping around her mouth and the other bringing one of her arms behind her back. Pain shot through her shoulder, and she cried out.
Cassie didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. She could smell the putrid water wafting off him. His tattooed hands were dirty, and she could taste bleach on her lips. Maybe he was a janitor after all.
Or maybe he used bleach for other purposes.
Cassie refused to let him get the upper hand. As Harris got back to her feet, Cassie drew her head forward and drove it back as hard as she could. She felt a satisfying crunch as the man’s nose broke and he cried out in pain. She took the opportunity to pull out of his loosened grip.
Turning around to face him, she put several feet between them. The man drew his hand away from his face and took in the blood that had pooled into his palm. Then he looked up at Cassie with a snarl. “You bitch. You’re gonna—”
Harris didn’t let him get another word out. She charged at him, kicking his knee, and sending him to the ground. He was back on his feet a second later, swinging at her. She blocked his punches with one arm and delivered a jab to his already broken nose. He howled in pain.
Onlookers scurried by the alley, curious about what was going on but not wanting to get involved. Cassie wondered if that was why Harris hadn’t drawn her gun—too many witnesses and too many opportunities for someone else to get hurt. A fistfight would get them into less trouble than armed assault.
Harris kept up the barrage of blows, alternating between his face and his stomach. He blocked most of them. A few landed against his gut. He looked unaffected, despite the few grunts he let out.
Cassie noticed too late that he was trying to wear Harris down. She was putting all her energy into her blows, favoring her injured shoulder, and he was absorbing them. Harris must’ve figured it out too because she switched to using her feet, aiming for his kneecaps and groin.
The man was fast for his size. As Harris went to land another blow, he stepped into the attack and grabbed her leg, pinning it to his side. Then he feigned a shot to her bad shoulder, and when she tried to dodge, he used her own momentum against her. He slammed her to the ground and landed a punch in her gut. Cassie practically felt it in her own body.
As he reared back for another punch, Cassie charged at him, taking him by surprise. She wasn’t sure what she planned to do aside from distract him, but she’d fight tooth and nail to get him off Harris. It had to be enough.
And it was. As his hand shot out to stop her, Harris kicked him between the legs with the heel of her boot. The man curled in on himself, and Cassie sidestepped his arm, lowered her center of gravity, and drove her shoulder into his side.
Not expecting the sheer force of the momentum she’d built up in her run, the man tripped over Harris’s legs and went tumbling out of the alleyway and onto the sidewalk. The crowd that had formed near the entrance shrieked in unison and started to back up, pulling out their phones.
The janitor recovered faster than Harris or Cassie. “Help!” he yelled. He pointed a finger at the two women. “Help! I’m being attacked! She has a gun!”
The crowd gasped and turned their collective attention toward Harris, who scurried to her feet and tugged her coat tighter around her waist, hiding her firearm from their prying eyes. She turned to Cassie as she backpedaled. Only one word came out of her mouth.
“Run.”
33
Zbirak picked up his phone with a scowl. He was at home, meditating, having left poor Robert Sherman to worry about his family. Don Reed knew that, yet he called anyway. Burrowing into his brain like a parasite. Zbirak hated working with the man, but Reed had connections. And Aguilar liked him. For some goddamn reason.
Then there was that little piece of history they shared together. A job gone wrong. He had bailed Reed out of a tight situation on the West Coast. Reed had his hands in many pots, and Zbirak had been smart enough to take advantage of an opportunity when it arose. But now they were connected, and he was beginning to doubt it had been worth the trouble. The man gave lawyers a bad name.
Zbirak lifted the phone to his ear. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “What?”
“Why are the cops knocking down my door?” Reed’s voice was flush with anger. “Who sent them here? Huh? Was it you?”
“You’ll watch your tone when you speak to me.” Zbirak didn’t need to present any more of a threat than that. His reputation preceded him. “We both know that if I had an issue with you, I wouldn’t send you to jail. I’d make you dig your own grave.”
Reed’s tone was still gruff, but it had lost some of its bite. “Two bitches showed up at my office. Twice. One of them had a badge.”
Zbirak bit back his retort about Reed’s language. It was a lost cause. And Zbirak was more interested in getting to the bottom of this interruption. “Why didn’t you call me the first time?”
“I’m not one of your groupies,” Reed spat. “I can handle my own shit.”
“Clearly not.” Zbirak let his words hang between them, waiting to see if Reed was stupid enough to take the bait. When the silence stretched on, Zbirak continued. “Why were they there?”
“They had questions. About Annex. Stole one of my folders the other day. Then had the balls to come back and rub it in my face.”
