The Bad Ass Brigade (30 page)

She wiped off each of her tools, put them back in her leather case, and slung the case over her shoulder. Eyeing Luciano, she allowed herself to remember him handing Massimo the knife that had killed her mother, the countless girls he had fastened to the rack in preparation for his master’s evil.

She brandished her kama. Ignoring his terrorized pleas, she said, “You don’t deserve a painless death, Luciano.” Nodding to the man hanging on the rack, she added with an ironic grin, “But as you can see, I am feeling merciful tonight.” She quickly slit his throat and walked to the door.

Turning to the dying man on the rack, bleeding from every orifice, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. With a satisfied nod, she said, “Good night. And, good-by, Father.”

* * *

The rain pouring from the skies was a good thing. It fell in sheets washing over her hair, her soiled clothing, her hands. After several blocks the puddles in her wake were clear, no longer crimson streaked. She walked quickly toward the train station. Her timing, as always, was impeccable. She had precisely enough time to catch the next train.

She felt a sense of peace, of accomplishment, knowing she had rid the world of a monster. Surprisingly, her thoughts turned to Gabriel. With a sigh she remembered his kiss. His strong arms, his hard body, his clean, male smell, his musk. Her core clenched, ached. With a painful effort, she pushed aside her desire.

Gabriel was a warrior, he understood battle. But, she reminded herself with a grim smile, given his reverence for family, the honor he paid his ancestors, it was doubtful he’d condone patricide.

Hurrying to the station, she heard footsteps behind her. And then: his voice.

“Ah Lam, wait. Wait for me.”

She slowed. Steeled her resolve. Sped up.

His voice was insistent. His footsteps increased, came faster. Then he stopped. His voice was firm. “Ah Lam. Stop. Please, stop … Let me hold you.”

Wavering for a moment, she turned toward him. For the first time she saw the man, not the boy. His eyes were less innocent than she remembered. They were more like the Avenger’s. Like a man who knew good and abhorred evil.

His face was stern, but his eyes gleamed with compassion.

“Ah Lam. Come to me.”

She hesitated. The thousand reasons she couldn’t—
wouldn’t
—flashed through her mind. Yet she found it impossible to turn away. It was wonderful and terrifying, both at once. She knew that regardless of the possibilities, good or bad, she really only had one option.

She mustered her courage and started toward him.

# # #

ACES WILD

Prologue

“I hear you work for Chinks, Angel.”

Gabe smiled at the taunt from the fat little man across the table. It was an obvious tell. Shamus must not have made his straight. Damn, you’d think the fucker would learn. But then Shamus never learned. Hell, the last time they played, he almost pissed his pants in excitement and bet the pot on a four flush. He lost that time, too. Gabe took him for nearly a grand on that hand alone.

Gabe raised a brow and grinned at the red-faced man scowling down at his cards. “Think you heard wrong, Shamus. We work for any man wealthy enough to pay our fee.”

Shamus glared at Gabe, confirming that his hand had busted. “Even if they’re Chinks?”

Gabe chuckled. “Hell, Shamus, we even work for Micks. Although it’s hard to find many that can afford us.”

Shamus’s florid face flushed a darker shade of red. His voice was hard, threatening. “That’s no way to talk about your people, Angel. What would your father say if he heard you talkin’ like that?”

Gabe smiled as he turned over his three nines, any one of which would have made Shamus’s straight. He scooped up the pot from the middle of the table and shrugged. “Probably that nothing I said or did would surprise him.”

Ignoring the disgusted grunt from the red-faced Irishman, Gabe turned to Finn with a look of false apology.

“Hell, Finn, that was impolite of me. Should have let you show me your pair of threes before I took the pot.”

Finn’s eyes widened. He peered down at his cards and then back up at Gabe, a look of wonder spreading across his face.

“Damn, Angel. You got eyes in the back of your head or somethin?” He looked again at his crap hand and shook his head, tossing down the pair of threes. “Hell, I ain’t never seen anything like it.”

Gabe threw Gunnar a surreptitious warning, not that it was necessary. He knew his partner could see the fury smoldering in Shamus’s eyes. They both knew the volatile Irishman wasn’t far from blowing. Gunnar tugged at the leather cord tying back his sun-streaked shoulder-length hair, and acknowledged the danger with an almost imperceptible nod.

Picking up the bottle of whisky beside him, Gunnar’s dark blue eyes gleamed. “Anybody need a refill?” He filled his glass to the brim and held up the bottle to the guy sitting beside him.

A resounding series of grunts from the men at the table, enviously eying the impressive pile of chips in front of Gabe, confirmed that whisky was a welcome distraction.

For the next several hands, the only sounds were muttered expletives and disgusted grunts when another bad hand hit the table.

Gabe glanced around the room, thinking how familiar it was. Hell, they were half a decade away from the end of the century and within riding distance to San Francisco. Even so, every few miles, a pitiful little town like this sprang up — as if to claim a piece of the West before it was gone. Gabe knew these enclaves well. It didn’t matter if fifteen people or a hundred called it home. The same establishments anchored the dirt and provided a minimal sense of community: There was the church, the saloon, and in the bigger better towns, a brothel above the saloon. The crap ones had a bunny hutch out the side door. The patrons were lucky if it had more than one room. The only thing you could count on were a few iron cots with dirty mattresses offering the facade of comfort. Of course, there was the graveyard. Inevitably, the graveyard had more inhabitants than the town.

Knowing that Shamus was smarting from losing a small fortune to him ten days ago, it had been easy for Gabe to engineer a rematch with the swaggering little rooster. Gabe looked forward to taking Shamus’s money. Plus, Gabe had a message to deliver to Shamus’s boss. He hoped this time Rory Flannigan had the sense God gave fleas, and would listen up.

Typical that Shamus would pick a joint like this, Gabe thought with disgust. It was as shabby and repugnant as the man himself. But then what could you expect? In any joint owned by Rory Flannigan you could count on three things: filth, smells that made you glad you hadn’teaten that day, and cheap booze. Despicable bastard that he was, Rory always watered his booze. You could only hope he had the decency to take the water from the pump — not the horse trough or some animal piss he dredged up.

But, hell, Gabe had to admit, all he needed for his work was a deck of cards, a relatively honest dealer, and a splashy pot to lure the suckers. And all three of them were at the table in front of him.

Gabe watched as Shamus drained the last of the whisky and tossed the bottle over his shoulder. It landed with a crash inches away from the trembling woman behind him. He heaved his bulk up in his chair and jerked toward her.

“Don’t just stand there, woman. Get your useless ass over there and bring me another bottle of booze.”

The thin woman, likely no more than twenty although she looked twice that, hugged her arms protectively across her chest and scurried to the cabinet. Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, she slid the unopened bottle in front of him, then darted back to rest against the wall. The dirt on her shabby dress echoed the streaks on her face. Her stringy hair completed the dismal picture.

Shamus popped open the bottle and filled his glass, splashing the excess on the table. He looked over his shoulder and glared at the pale woman. Turning back to the men at the table, he said, his voice thick with revulsion. “Can you believe this whore was once a decent lookin’ woman?”

Silence met his ugly words. Aiming to goad Gabe, he persisted. “How about it, Angel? I hear there ain’t a woman across the state that hasn’t warmed your sheets. And that you and your big Swede friend here don’t mind a bit, sharin’ their honey pots. Hell, I hear you even share with this Injun pal of yours. He threw a disgusted look at Eagle standing several feet behind Gunnar’s chair. The cocky little Irishman missed the potent danger radiating from the enormous brown–skinned man. Gabe almost felt sorry for him. Eagle could squeeze the life out of Shamus with one hand. Hell, Gabe had seen him do it — on more than one occasion — to men less offensive than Shamus.

Gabe wondered how much deeper Shamus would dig his own grave, when Shamus obliged him and scooped up another shovelful of dirt.

“What do you say, Angel?” Shamus emptied the glass at his elbow and shot Gabe a wavery smirk. In a voice slurred from a mix of whisky and lust, he quirked a finger at the frightened woman pressed against the wall. “C’mere, Sadie. Wiggle that bony ass of yours over here.” Looking back at Gabe, he growled, “How about I toss in the whore and you and me play this next hand, man to man. Winner takes the pot and the bitch.” He mused, “Hell, even her name fits. Sadie, sad little Sadie!” He cracked her bottom with a hard smack when he sang out her name. The woman barely flinched, confirming that she was no stranger to the vile bully’s punishing hand.

From years of practice, Gabe kept his expression impassive, refusing to let his fury shine through. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and eyed the measly pile of chips in front of Shamus.

Twisting up in his chair to get a better look, he pinned a quizzical frown on the front of the repulsive little man’s trousers. “That’s mighty big talk from a guy with such a small… small pile of chips.”

Hearty guffaws and a chuckle or two greeted the blatant reference to Shamus’s manhood.

Shamus flushed an impossible shade of purple at Gabe’s taunt.

“Why, you arrogant son of a bitch. I’ll show you who’s got chips. Match this, asshole!”

Shamus stood, puffing up like an enraged toad, his gut hanging over his belt buckle. He jerked a leather pouch out of his back pocket and threw it on the table. A splash of gold coins spilled across the tattered green felt.

“This here is Rory’s weekly earnings from the scum he protects. He’ll be pleased as hell when I double his money. Specially when he knows I took it from the biggest sumbitch that ever sat his cocky ass down at a poker table. Put your money where that flappin’ mouth of yours is, Angel.”

Gabe quirked a brow. “What’ll it be, Shamus? Showdown? Five card stud?”

Shamus grunted his assent and added, “Last card’s down.”

Gabe gave him an agreeable smile and pushed his chips to the middle of the table.

“Not sure those gold nuggets equal all of this, given your embarrassingly small… pile of chips,” Gabe added with an easy grin, “But I’ll spot you the difference.”

Ignoring Shamus’s angry growl, Gabe glanced at the nervous ashen-faced dealer. Though he was Shamus’s stoolie, the frail-looking man was smart enough not to mess with Gabe — or “Angel,” as so many knew him. Gabe focused on the deck in the man’s trembling fingers, gratified that the cards were talking to him. Nodding to the dealer, he said, “I believe Shamus and I are ready, Sean. Please deal the cards.”

The tension in the room thickened. Palpable apprehension settled over the table. Shamus’s cohorts stared at the dirty felt, preparing for the inevitable explosion when Gabe won.

Gabe and the Swede made eye contact, and Gabe nodded subtly when he saw Gunnar’s hand eased under the table just in case. Anyone who misread Gunnar’s golden boy good looks did so at their peril. He was a walking time bomb, and as smart as he was lethal. Hell, he could even outdraw Gabe, and that was saying something. Without looking, Gabe knew that one of Eagle’s hands was near his holster and the other seconds away from the knife in his boot. As dangerous as the Indian was with a gun or a knife, Eagle’s forte was his brute strength — and the simmering anger that drove it.

The shuffling was over; the first card hit the table with a soft smack. Shamus grabbed his card and didn’t hide the smile that jerked his lips. Gabe didn’t look at his own card, just nodded to Sean to deal the first of the three community cards. It was the two of spades. He nodded again and the next card, the queen of spades, joined the deuce. Gabe heard but didn’t acknowledge Shamus’s hiss when the he saw the queen.

Gabe leaned back in his chair. He reached in his vest pocket and withdrew an embossed gold cigarette case. Selecting one of his custom Turkish cigarettes, he rolled it between his fingers and drank in the exotic spicy smell. In the glare of the match, he met Sean’s gaze and motioned to him to deal the final up card. Gabe smiled to himself, watching Shamus shift restlessly in his chair. Christ, he thought, the guy isn’t smart enough to try to hide his strain.

Dribbles of greasy moisture leaked from the brim of Shamus’s sweat-stained hat. The pungent smell emanating from the damp circles under his arms swamped the table.

Gabe flicked an ash off the end of his cigarette and met Shamus’s glower with a pleasant smile.