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Chapter 17
I’m nota man who very often loses his cool.
When it comes to both my lines of work, anxiety is a luxury I’ve never been able to afford.
But when the line linking me to Elena crackles and goes silent, worry sinks into the core of my being, digging in and planting roots. I blink at the wall in Jonas’s office, waiting longer than necessary to see if the call revives itself, before I’m met with the ear rape of a dial tone.
It bleats for a full minute, causing a spasm to rip through the muscle beneath my eye, darkening my vision slightly. An itch flares beneath my skin, the sound echoing long after it falls silent, and I slowly set my phone down on Jonas’s metal desk, turning around.
Vincent sits duct taped to a plastic chair, one of Jonas’s dirty gym socks shoved in his mouth to block out his pathetic whimpers. I’ve barely even touched him, and the fucker’s already pissed himself twice.
Perching on the edge of the desk, I steeple my fingers together, watching him struggle against his bindings. His fear would smell so sweet, if not for the unspoken violence lighting his gaze, telling me he’s not in the least bit sorry.
Which makes my decision a hell of a lot easier.
My phone vibrates a moment later, an incoming text from Jonas flashing across the screen.
Jonas: Station Thirteen, at the corner of Fifth and Poplar. En route now.
Though he hadn’t been around the bar so far this week, Jonas had still been close by, overseeing an export of some craft beer he’s been working on in his spare time. I’d grouped him in on the call when I dialed Elena, in case he was closer and able to get to her quicker.
Cuffing the ends of my sleeves, I do my best to bury the blood coating them, admiring the addition to Elena’s handiwork on Vincent; when I entered the bar, he’d been curled into a ball on the floor while Gwen tried to wrap his hand, which she remarked she thought was broken after giving me the CliffsNotes of what happened.
His fingers certainly weren’t bent correctly, nor was he able to move them when prompted; when I noticed the discarded needle across the room, a detail Gwen left out of her account, I’d smiled at Vincent and stomped down on top of his already mangled hand, relishing in the garbled scream that tore from his chest.
If it wasn’t broken before, it is now.
Dragging him into Jonas’s office with the help of Blue, who finally came back from an extended lunch, I split my knuckles wide open on his swollen nose, using the heel of my hand to make sure that cartilage cracked, too. While I cleaned myself up and called Elena, I had Blue strap Vincent to the chair and gag him, waiting to hear from my wife before I proceeded.
Unfortunately for him, the end of that call probably isn’t what Vincent was hoping for.
Blue watches from the corner of the room where he lounges on an old leather sofa, hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. Nicknamed for the ocean-like quality of his gaze, he keeps it trained on me, silent and waiting for more orders.
Picking my suit jacket off the coat rack by the door, I shake it free of any debris, slipping it on over my shoulders as I take in Blue’s calm demeanor. He’d gotten back from his break and sprung right into action, no questions asked.
It’s the kind of quality you look for in an employee. A soldier.
Without knowing much about his actual background, the squared, neat cut of his dark hair and the anchor tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt sleeve, tells me he probably has some military experience, which means he understands loyalty.
His existence here as a bouncer makes me less irritated with Jonas and his shitty hiring skills.
Slightly.
“You just gonna leave him here?” Blue asks as I head for the door, cocking a thick brow.
I pause. “Got a problem with that?”
He holds his free hand up, shaking his head. “Nope. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”
“I’ll be back for him. Don’t let him out of your sight, and don’t let anyone come in while I’m gone.”
Closing the door behind me with more force than necessary, I quickly scan the bar floor, making sure all of the patrons found their way out. After I kicked Gwen’s skinny ass to the curb, I announced to the few customers that we were closing early, bolting the doors so no one else could get inside.
Pushing out the back door, I lock up and walk down the alley to my waiting town car, informing the driver—drivers change so often around here, I haven’t bothered to learn his name—of our destination. He guides the vehicle through the streets, practically empty this time of year, until finally turning onto Fifth and stopping in front of Station Thirteen.
It’s not an active bus station; hasn’t been in years. The Primroses, majority owners of the island, scaled back years ago on public transportation costs, arguing that we don’t get enough tourists each summer to balance out the expense.
So, the few stations we had were either torn down and turned into something more profitable, or—on the south side of the island—they became hotbeds for criminal activity.
