Hallowed Ground (7 page)

I should’ve stopped at home, changed cars, changed clothes, but I was so hell-bent on my mission to kick some ass it didn’t occur to me to do so until I’d passed the halfway mark.

The thirty-minute drive did nothing to calm me. By the time I’d reached my destination, my rage had intensified to the point my eyeballs pulsated. God. It’d be my luck if I had an embolism after surviving an evening of gunfire.

Would Donovan survive?

My belly clenched. I had to focus on other things now.

As I watched the neon motorcycle spinning on top of Fat Bob’s, I struggled with the best way to get into the club without being recognized.

Yeah, right. Being covered in blood and dirt was a surefire way to remain inconspicuous.

I rooted around under the seats until I’d unearthed an old sweatshirt. I shook it out hoping spiders or stink-bugs hadn’t invaded and slipped it over my head.

Eww. The damn thing smelled like motor oil and the mustiness of decaying vegetation.

Upending my purse on the seat, I found a sample bottle of Poison perfume—a joke gift from Kim—and liberally spritzed myself. Stinky stuff lived up to the name. It almost smelled worse than the “Eau de 1982 Ford.”

After retrieving the black case from the glove compartment, I shoved it in my left pocket, wallet in the right. At the last minute I remembered my ball cap. I slapped it on and jumped from the truck, the theme song from
Alias
playing in my head at my brilliant impromptu disguise.

Fear and anger made an interesting hormonal cocktail in my system.

Poker face in place, I marched up to the tin-covered entryway like I had every right to be there.

Six bikers stood in line ahead of me. I peeked around one super skinny chick—undoubtedly intimately acquainted with meth—to see if I knew the bouncers. My plan would be a no-go if Roger worked the door. He’d remember me, since I’d knocked him on his ass once, which was part of the reason I’d been banned from the club.

Thankfully, both guys were new. I doubted they’d posted a big sign by the cash box with my name, picture, and transgressions. Even though the incident in question had happened months ago, I had no clue how long the ban stayed in effect. Had these guys been warned about little ol’

me?

Four people. Then two. I didn’t smile as I passed over my ID and five bucks.

The cute blond guy with muscles bigger than his head studied my driver’s license. I could almost hear him counting backward, to verify if I was old enough to drink. Ironic, since
he
looked about the same age as my paperboy.

His baby blues met mine. “You don’t look thirty-four.”

“Thanks.”

He smiled broadly, a dimple winked in his smooth cheek, no doubt a practiced mannerism he considered charming, and probably got him laid on a regular basis.

I had no choice but to remain unaffected.

“Any relation to Tom Collins?” he asked, elbowing the other body-builder bouncer, and they both guffawed.

“Yep.” I held out my hand, reminding him to fork over my ID. “He’s my first cousin.”

His merriment gave way to confusion, but I’d already sidled past him into the main part of the bar.

The place wasn’t packed yet, not good for my intent to blend in. I snagged an empty glass from a deserted table, settled back against the wall by the broken pay phone. Pretended to nurse my drink as I scoped out the joint.

Fat Bob’s is three separate bars lumped together in one space. The main room is made up of the usual cheap tables, chairs, and booths lining the walls. A “U” shaped counter-style bar is in the middle of the room. The back area has a dance floor, juke box (all Skynard, all the time), pool tables, and dart boards. Beyond the back room is a beer garden, or so I’d heard. The last time I’d skulked in here I hadn’t had much time to learn the layout. I’d been too busy picking fights and getting tossed out on my rear.

Some things never change.

According to the Harley clock above the bar, a mere ten minutes had elapsed. I’d forgotten my cigarettes and decided to chance buying a pack from the bartender in the back room, when I saw him.

His back was to me, but I’d recognize that hair and those tattoos anywhere.

No big surprise he wasn’t alone.

Despite the blood pulsing in time to “Two Steps” blaring from the speakers, I inched forward.

Tricky, acting in a stealthy manner without it seeming like that was my game.

A mere twenty feet separated us. Fifteen. Ten. I switched the black case from my left pocket to my right. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a cell phone.

Two rotund floozies at the table beside me brayed with drunken laughter.

He twisted slightly, gauging if the disturbance required his attention.

I latched onto the back of an empty barstool, acting part of the revelry, but kept my chin tucked to my chest so he couldn’t see my face.

He twisted back around and adjusted his stance.

Perfect. I made my move.

Four steps. I tapped him on the right shoulder. Before he’d turned completely, I inhaled and sucker-punched him as hard as I could, in the jaw, just like in the movies.

Caught unaware, he staggered back. In the split second it took to regain his equilibrium, I shoved him against the wall, and jammed the stun gun underneath his chin.

“Don’t fucking move a muscle, Harvey, or I swear to God I will fucking blast you.”

Harvey blinked, which I assumed meant he understood.

I figured I had maybe a minute, tops, before the bouncers showed up.

He said, “Long time no see.”

“Shut up.” My hand ached from where I’d hit him but I pressed the stun gun deeper into his neck anyway. “I can’t fucking believe you had someone follow me.”

“What?”

“Don’t play stupid, asshole.”

“Ms. Collins. I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about. Put down the stun gun and I promise we’ll talk.” His voice stayed calm, Zen-like.

Which just infuriated me. “Your promises aren’t worth shit.”

“Fine. Back away and we’ll go talk to Martinez.”

“His promises don’t mean dick, either.”

“Then at least tell me what you want?”

“I want to know why you put a hit on Donovan.”

“Donovan?” he repeated.

“Yeah, Donovan.” I brandished my left hand in his face like a red flag. “Want proof? See that blood? I’m covered in it. Does it make you happy? Did you get off thinking about Donovan’s blood splattered all over me, you sick fucking bastard?”

“For the last time. What are you babbling about?”

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

“Call off your fucking lapdogs, Harvey. Anyone touches me and I’ll keep blasting you with this until I can pull out my gun.”

“Back off,” he said to whoever was behind me. His remote gaze never left mine. “What about Donovan?”

“Want the gory details on how your hired assassin took him out?” My finger itched on the silver button. I scooted in until I smelled garlic on his breath. “First shot hit his shoulder, the second his leg. Oh, and then he fell backward and whacked his head on a steel barbecue grill.

“But the best shot was the slug he took in the gut. That one bled like crazy. You wanna hear how I managed to keep his intestines inside
with my bare hands
until the fucking ambulance arrived?

Or shall we skip that part?”

His face finally showed emotion, not fear like I’d hoped, but something akin to surprise.

“Contrary to what you think, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Rage erupted in me and I smashed the stun gun into his throat even harder. “You are a fucking liar.”

“Julie.”

Martinez’s voice. I didn’t dare look to see where it was coming from.

“What? I’m a little busy right now.”

“Julie, back off.”

“Go away, Martinez. This is between me and Harvey.”

“No. Put down the stunner.”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Why not? You lied to me. You used me. I told you what would happen if you double-crossed me, Martinez.”

“I know. But you’re wrong.”

“Know what’s wrong? I’m wearing Donovan’s blood, that’s what’s wrong,
amigo
. So now I’m calling the shots and Harvey’s gonna pay.”

“Listen to me. We didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Martinez shuffled closer. I felt him. Hell, I
smelled
him.

I waited, figuring he’d pile on flattery.

He didn’t disappoint me.

“Blondie, you know I’d never purposely put you in the line of fire. Ever.”

Don’t fall for it.

God, I wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t be wrong. Someone had to take the blame for what had happened tonight. Harvey was as good a candidate as anyone.

“Think about it. If Harvey took out Donovan, how would he find Chloe?”

Just like that, Martinez knew he had me.

His voice took on a husky timbre. “Come on. Put it down.”

Okay. So maybe my arm was tired. My knuckles hurt. Before I zapped Harvey just to see him flop around like a landed trout, my hand wilted.

A heartbeat later I found myself flat on my back, staring at the air above me for the second time in so many hours.

Harvey, that sneaky ninja bastard, had kicked my feet out the millisecond I’d given him the chance. An added benefit of knocking me on my ass; it’d knocked the wind out of me and rendered me unable to speak.

Soon as I caught my breath, I would zap him. I didn’t give a rat’s ass what Martinez thought.

Harvey leaned over me. The end of his braid brushed my nose.

I flinched.

His eyes were as dark and cold as a January night. “Don’t you ever come in here and threaten me in front of a bar full of customers. Try it again, Ms. Collins, and I
will
kill you.”

No beating around the bush for Harvey.

He straightened and barked orders at the bouncers. The back room emptied as people scattered past me.

At least no one stuck around to watch the tough girl struggle to her feet.

Except Martinez. And he didn’t offer a hand to help me up.

I stood next to him, breathing hard, smelling bad, covered in dirt, blood, and God-knew-what sticky substance from the grungy bar floor. I just wanted to go home, end this awful day by drinking myself into oblivion.

He picked up my ball cap and tossed it on the bar. “This is your disguise?”

“It worked. I’m in here, aren’t I?”

“I’d have recognized you.”

I didn’t have a snappy response for that.

“Come to my office. You need a drink.”

My brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders and a valid excuse to decline his offer eluded me.

Taking my silence as a yes, Martinez’s warm, rough hand circled my wrist. He unlocked a door between the bathrooms, which opened into a large storage area with three enormous walk-in coolers.

We moved past floor-to-ceiling metal shelves filled with bar supplies, and stopped at another door—reinforced steel, marked “Private.”

He ushered me inside.

The space wasn’t what I’d expected. No posters of scantily clad chicks hawking beer. No neon bar signs. No big screen TV blaring ESPN. No greasy Harley parts strewn across the floor. It was nice. Neater than my house and a helluva lot cleaner than the bar.

Gray tweed sofas were arranged around a square coffee table. A big black desk took up one entire wall. A small chrome cart packed with liquor bottles was shoved in the corner. It was bizarre to think we were in the middle of a busy biker hangout.

He pointed to a wooden door off to the right. “Bathroom is through there if you wanna clean up.”

“Does seeing me covered in Donovan’s blood bother you, Martinez?”

“I thought it might bother you.”

Just when I’d decided he was an asshole, he acted . . . well, less assholish. Without responding, I slipped down the short hallway.

Holy crap. Not only was there a full size bathroom in here, there was a bedroom right next to it.

His bedroom? Did he live here?

I shut the bathroom door and paused in front of the black pedestal sink, taking a half-assed glance in the mirror.

Oh yeah. I looked like shit. Felt like it too.

I stripped off the raggedy sweatshirt. Scrubbed the blood and dirt from my hands, my arms, my face until my flesh stung. Some small cuts reopened and began to bleed. Scraped skin and a few bruises were trivial in comparison to Donovan’s wounds. I watched pink soap-suds swirl down the drain until the water ran clear.

Martinez had his back to me when I returned to his office. A bottle of Don Julio sat on the coffee table. I was absurdly touched he’d remembered my drink of choice.

He turned and gave my bloodstained tank top and jeans a once-over. “Is that all from Donovan?”

I nodded, feeling oddly exposed, which naturally I hated, so I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.

His gaze zoomed in on my scratched forearms. “Didn’t the EMTs check you out?”

“They didn’t have time.”

“I do.” He pointed to the loveseat. “Sit.”

“Blood and dirt aside—”

“Sit your ass on that couch, Julie. Now.”

Grumbling, I perched on the edge of the cushion. I wasn’t giving in, I told myself. I’d just moved closer to the tequila.

Martinez left, came back with a medical kit. He crouched in front of me. “Give me your hands.”

I didn’t have the energy to act churlish and refuse.

He inspected my palms, my forearms from elbow to wrist. When he finished, he poured me a shot and handed it over.

I knocked it back. Before the first drop lined my stomach, I held out the glass for more.

Martinez poured another slug for me, then one for himself.

The silver liquid disappeared without the obligatory toast. After the third mouthful, I set the empty glass on the table.

“More?” he asked.

“No.”

“You sure? This might sting.” He ripped open an antiseptic cleansing pad.

“Shit. I hate this part.”

“You’ll hate it worse tomorrow if it’s not taken care of tonight.”

I knew he was right. But why had he designated himself my personal first aid station?