Loose Ends (21 page)

“What deal?” Farrel asked.

King smiled and let out another small laugh, like they were all having a friendly conversation. “I don’t ask questions, buddy. I deliver results. You know how it goes, and this time, the woman goes with us.”

Her face had grown pale under Rock’s not-so-gentle touch, and King liked it. She started to tremble in her seat, her purse in her lap, clutched in close like she just needed some damn thing to hold on to, and he liked that, too. Having her scared, her fear all ramped up, was very helpful. Frightened people were easy to push around. It was the cold bastards like Conroy Farrel that a guy had to guard against.

“We’ll go through the swinging door with you in the
lead,” King said, giving the cold bastard precise directions. “Once you’re through the door, keep walking. The door to the alley will be in front of you. Fifteen seconds, that’s the amount of time I’m giving you to walk through the kitchen and get out the alley door.”

He gave Rock a quick glance, and his partner gave the slightest nod. Rock would follow with the woman.

Good. King didn’t want any mistakes. If Farrel so much as twitched, Rock needed to be ready to back him up. Fuck the woman. They could pick her up before she got too far. But nobody would be going anywhere if Conroy Farrel got the drop on them.

Smooth and easy, Farrel stood up from the table.

“Hold on, Con.” King grinned and moved in close to the guy. “It’s just so damn good to see you.”

He put one arm around Farrel’s shoulders and frisked him with the other, coming up with the inevitable automatic pistol. With Rock blocking everyone else from viewing the transaction, King slid Farrel’s gun inside one of his hoodie pockets and zipped it closed. He also took Con’s folding knife and stuck it next to his in his pants pocket.

“One thing I want to make perfectly clear, Con, is that Rock would just as soon shoot the woman as not. Personally, I’d keep her alive for obvious reasons. She’s a real looker, that’s clear, and I’m sure she’s a lot of fun. But Rock’s kinda twitchy. He’ll be covering her with his .45 all the way, and he’s only got about two and a half pounds on that trigger of his. Hell, if he sneezes, she’s dead, and if you do anything, she’s dead. So don’t do anything. Don’t even think it, because if you think it, I’ll feel it, and Rock will bag the girl.” He was only being straight with the guy, and he hoped Con appreciated his candor. He could tell by the flat, frightened look on the girl’s face that she’d understood every word he’d said.
“Smile, honey. We don’t want people thinking we’re not having a good time—and I mean it. Smile.”

She did her best, which was pretty damn good. Hell, she was so beautiful, he liked looking at her whether she was smiling or not.

Stepping away from the table, he slipped his left hand into his hoodie pocket and, after flipping off the safety cover, palmed the black syringe. He kept his right hand carefully in front of him, close to his waist, his thumb and fingertips lightly resting on his belt buckle. From that position, he could push the hoodie back and pull his .45 clear of its holster in a lightning-fast draw. Despite Lancaster’s rules of engagement, he wasn’t going to let Conroy Farrel get ahold of him. He’d see the bastard dead first.

“Fifteen seconds,” he repeated, stepping aside and pushing open the kitchen door. “Don’t fuck with me.”

Fifteen seconds
.

They would never make it.

Jane kept putting one foot in front of the other, following King, with Rock following her, and all of them following J.T.

She’d been in the kitchen at Mama Guadaloupe’s before, picking up dinner one night with Skeeter, and the place had not changed. It was still orchestrated chaos, pans rattling, a dozen people talking, half in Spanish, half in English, constant movement, nobody standing still, and everybody getting in their way.

People were crowded up against the pickup line, stacking plates up their arms, putting finishing touches on meals, expediting orders, and the four of them were going the wrong way, trying to jostle their way through, moving against the flow.

Ten seconds
.

She was counting it in her head, and they would never make it.

The kitchen was hot, about ninety-five degrees, the air rich with the spicy smells of food. It had hit her like a blast furnace when they’d come through the door. Between the heat and the fear, she didn’t know what was making her sweat more—but she was betting on fear.

“Hey, hey, you there,
ustedes ahí, los gringos, deberían
estar de vuelta aquí,
” somebody called out to them—
you shouldn’t be back here
—and as quickly as that, their bubble of momentary invisibility popped. Everyone saw them, which only added to the chaos.

“
Los baños
are the other way, through the dining room,” one of the busboys said. And how anybody could mistake their phalanx of fear and intimidation for four people who’d gotten lost looking for the bathroom was beyond Jane. She was just your average Josephine, but all three men looked like serious contenders for some kind of Death Fighters of Doom videogame.

“No, no, it’s okay,” somebody called out. “It’s J.T.
Oye, Juanio … oye …
” The voice trailed off in confusion.

Oh, God, a cook had recognized J.T., one of the old men standing next to the grill. King Banner couldn’t have expected that. She could only pray that the cook would take the bull by the horns and call the police or, better yet, call Steele Street.

Of course, whatever bad thing happened was going to happen faster than any of the good guys could get there. And it was definitely going to be a bad thing. She knew why J.T. had held her gaze and told her to get out any way she could, and so help her God, she was going to do her best. She needed to be ready.

“
Oye … chico?
” the old man continued softly, standing stock-still, watching J.T. go by, a look of shock on his face.

Jane understood completely. She’d had the same reaction to seeing J. T. Chronopolous back from the dead.

Five seconds
.

The four of them were starting to bunch up, getting closer to the door, and she felt Rock shove his gun against the small of her back
—the bastard
.

Two and a half pounds of pressure and she was a dead girl in a gold dress.

No
.

The one word was very clear in her mind. She wasn’t dying in an alley on the west side, shot in the back by some behemoth bastard. And she didn’t care if King Banner and his buddy drove around all night long, she was most definitely not getting in their car and going for a ride—no way. She was going to make her stand right here. She’d rather die fighting in the alley, where she still had a chance, than be kidnapped, tortured, raped, abused, and end up dead anyway.

Oh, hell, yeah, she was going to fight for her life—with everything she had, right here, in about three more seconds.

She’d been quiet at the table, but she sure as hell had been thinking, and she had a plan—a plan far better to execute in the alley than in Mama Guadaloupe’s packed-to-the-rafters dining room.

Her mind was clear, her choices limited, her decision made.

There were only a thousand things that could go wrong.

Con reached the door to the alley and gave it a hard push, sending it back on its hinges. There was only one thing that could go wrong with his plan. If he failed in any way, Jane died.

So he would not fail.

He knew precisely where everyone was behind him, to the millimeter. He had a damn good guess about the amount of time it would take a soldier with King Banner’s training and skills to draw his pistol and knew he was dealing with a second or less. There would be a few more tenths of a second available while Rock comprehended what was happening. Con planned on using every single hundredth of a second to his advantage.

He’d heard about these guys, King Banner and Rock
Howe, and they were the worst of what happened when elite soldiers, men who had been trained to the point of ultimate superiority, crossed over into the underworld. Add Souk’s chemical fortification, and the die for destruction was cast in stone. These men were brutal, without conscience or humanity.

The door hit the outside wall of the restaurant and bounced back, a tremor running through it from the impact. He crossed the threshold, walking through to the alley, which left the door heading straight for King, moving fast enough that the man’s instincts overcame his diligence. The bastard lifted his arm to keep the metal slab from hitting him, his attention shifting for an instant, and in that instant, Con moved, pivoting on his right foot, bypassing King, and reaching past Jane. Both of them were swept aside as he locked onto his target: Rock Howe’s gun hand.

His fingers closed on the bigger man’s wrist, pushing it up and away from Jane even as he slammed the palm of his right hand straight up under Rock’s chin. He felt bone give way, and he was betting he’d broken old Rock’s jaw. The gun fired—too late to do the man any good. From the angle, Con knew the bullet had gone up into the air.

He kicked backward at King, connecting with the man’s torso, and nearly simultaneously he heard another shot go off and King hitting the ground with a grunt.

Fuck. A second shot. Where the hell had it come from? Not from Rock’s pistol. And even more important, where in the hell had it gone?

He smelled blood. Somebody had been hit.

Next to him, Rock dropped like a stone, his body hitting the pavement, half in and half out of the door, blocking it open, his gun falling from his hand and skittering behind him across the floor of the kitchen.

Con instantly turned to meet his other threat. King was back on his feet, knocking Jane out of the way, lunging into the fight, ready to grapple.

Con blocked his first strike and, at the apex of King’s next swing, saw what the man was holding: a syringe, its needle glinting sharp and wicked in the light, its contents black. He instinctively went for control, grabbing the man’s wrist and using his leverage to swing King around and slam him into the wall. In the kitchen, all hell had broken out, people screaming, plates crashing, the sound of running footsteps. Somebody was bound to be pulling out a cellphone and punching in 911. It was inevitable, but he sure as hell didn’t want to be here when the cops showed up, especially if King prevailed with that damn needle.

A black syringe
.

Fuck
.

Black was no good. He never used the black gelcaps. They were a guaranteed pain stopper but sported a couple of bad side effects, like turning a guy’s body into rubber, or throwing him into cardiac arrest. Use them or not, though, a badass dose of the toxic pharmaceutical was headed his way—unless he stopped it.

A gun would have been damned handy, but he’d caught sight of King’s pistol lying on the ground where the man had first fallen, Rock’s was in Mexican food territory, and his own Wilson Combat .45 was zipped inside a damn pocket on King’s hoodie. Any second, though, and he was going to get a chance to get his knife back, and as soon as he did, he was gutting this bastard.

Backed up against the wall, King was bearing down with the syringe, his muscles bulging, sweat breaking out on his brow. He pressed his arm closer, bringing his hand nearer and nearer Con’s neck, pushing hard, forcing the needle toward Con’s skin. The guy was bulldozer strong, like a freaking machine.

Fuck
.

Con kneed him, threw an elbow strike, blocked an incoming uppercut … and kept holding the syringe at bay, twisting King’s wrist and forcing the needle in another direction.

He took a blow to the body, and then another. Mustering his strength, he slammed King even harder into the wall, but King Banner wasn’t one of those CIA spooks he’d been outrunning and outfighting all these years. The man was a warrior, and his blows came fast and hard, one after the other, each one a pile driver. The bastard caught him up the side of his head, and pain shot through Con like a whip crack. Then another strike came at him, sharp and fast and deep.

Fuck
.

He knocked King’s next blow away and twisted under the man’s other arm, bringing it over his shoulder and jerking it down hard, leveraging it against King’s elbow and having the satisfaction of feeling the joint give way.

King let out a deep, surprised groan.

Yeah, Con understood. The guy was built like a steel brick. Nobody was supposed to be able to break him.

The syringe fell to the ground from King’s suddenly nerveless fingers.

Pendejo
, Con swore to himself.
Asshole
.

But he wasn’t out of it yet.

As King slumped against the wall, his good arm snaked around Con’s torso, holding on tight, squeezing him hard and dragging him down into the open doorway where Rock was struggling back to a sitting position, pulling himself up against the door, his eyes glazed with pain.

Shit
.

That was the bad thing about Bangkok boys. They didn’t know when they were down.

Rock lunged forward, one hand reaching out and grabbing hold of the black syringe.

This was going to get messy.

King was rolling over the top of him, and Rock was coming down on top of King, the black syringe in his hand. For a moment, their combined weight was going to be an insurmountable advantage, and a moment was all it was going to take for Rock to stick him.

Sonuvabitch
.

He tried to twist clear, heaving his body up and out from under, but he was bucking over four hundred pounds of scrap and grapple, and wherever the goddamn needle was, he could smell it locking in on him like a tractor beam, and so it would have …

Except there was another shot.

From where he was, scrunched up tight and scrambling for a hold and trying to protect his flank, he heard a gun go off, loud and cracking, an explosion of sound. He felt Rock’s body jerk hard and then slump on top of him, felt the fierce kinetic energy of King’s whole being still reaching for him, still in the fight despite his broken elbow joint, and then he felt King collapse, all the fight and energy draining out of him in an instant.