Indulgence (2 page)

I knew it wasn't just a rumor. There were a ton of fucks out
there who'd want to do that guy in. I thought Royal Blood was bad when I first
got in, but the Necromancers were a nasty piece of work. They defined the word
evil. Drugs, guns, those were big enough things, but the Necromancers…their
dealings went a lot darker. Rumor had it, they trafficked a lot more than drugs
and illegal arms.

“Nobody knows who?”

“Nope. There's some leads, but the club hasn't been able to
tie any of them up.”

“Why are they coming to us? Royal Blood and the Necromancers
aren't exactly known for being the best of friends.” Both clubs had hit each
other so many times no one knew the actual tally or who started it in the first
place.

“They know a good thing when they see it,” Weiss said, nodding
at me.

“Desperation’s more like it.” They wished they had me in
their back pocket, but I was sworn to the Blood.

“You want it or not?”

Without even cracking open the envelope I asked, “How much?”

“Don't you want to sit on it for a day or two? You ain't
even looked in the envelope.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “How much?”

“Half a mil.”

Sneering, I said, “Cut close to home, did it?”

“If someone tried to put a bullet in your head, wouldn't you
want to know who it was to serve some revenge?”

“I assume Sykes wants to see me,” I said, ignoring his
question. “He's not giving a rival club member a free shot, right?”

“He’ll call you when you accept the contract. No sooner.”

“Then my price goes up.”

“X-”

“If Greggor's handing over my identity in the name of
peace,” I air quoted the most ironic word in the sentence, “then I want more
compensation.”

Greggor was the president of Royal Blood. He was the
definition of hard ass. He called all the shots and his word was law. Step out
of line and you paid the ultimate price. Your cock or your life. I absolutely
hated the fucker.

“I'll see what I can do,” Weiss said through a sigh.

I narrowed my eyes, peering into the envelope. My first job
back in a month and it had to be the big fuckin’ kahuna. Complicated had
nothing on it.

“You know, taking this job would make things a lot easier
for everyone,” Weiss said, lighting up a fag.

No more drive-bys, no more fights over money and women, no
more territorial lines. Short story; a lot less fighting and a lot more revenue
raising. Nobody wanted an all out MC war and that's what Royal Blood and the
Necromancers had been teetering on the edge of for fuck knows how long. An
attempt on their President's life was the ultimate tipping point.

“If it turns out to be one of ours, you know shit's going to
get crazy,” Weiss said, smoke streaming from his mouth. He flicked the ash off
the end of his cigarette, pointing at the door. That was my cue to get gone.

If it was a member of Royal Blood, then I'd be fucked for
shooting a brother. If it was a Necromancer, I'd be fucked for offing a rival.
If it was an outsider, I'd be a hero. Either way, my identity as X would go
from being a shadow of death to front page poster boy.

My life as a hitman would be over.

“Those things will kill you,” I said, rising to my feet.

“No they fucking won't,” he said with a chuckle. “You will
you motherfucker.”

Mercy

Two Weeks Ago

Staring into the grotty bathroom mirror, I fluffed up my
hair.

The remnants of black dye stuck to the skin around my
hairline and I licked a finger and rubbed at the stubborn spots. When they
didn’t budge, I rolled my eyes.
Great
. With a sigh, I messed my long
locks forward a little to try and hide it.

Black hair kinda suited me. It made me look like a complete
stranger, which was the exact statement I was going for.

Grabbing my phone, a little burner I picked up at a
convenience store a few days ago, I shoved it into my pocket and pushed open
the door.

The stage with the sparkling curtains and seedy lighting
hadn’t changed in the last ten minutes and nor was it likely to. A woman
dressed in nothing but a pair of thigh high stockings, red lacy knickers,
six-inch heels and tassels on her nipples passed by me, her hand in that of a
slimy looking pervert. She glanced up at me and winked before disappearing out
back to a private booth.

Puke
.

I was desperate for work, but not that desperate. I’d tried
to get a job at the bar, but it didn’t pay enough for me to deal with all the
fucking gross men who constantly tried to feel me up…and I’d only been in the
place for half an hour. I pulled a couple of beers, served some weirdos with
wandering eyes and got felt up by the owner. Luckily for him he didn’t follow
me into the ladies.

Working at a strip club wasn’t the kind of lost I was
looking for.

Pushing out of the front door, past the bouncer and ignoring
the calls from the owner, I walked down the dark street, pulling my leather
jacket closer. I was running out of money and if I didn’t find a job soon, I’d
be out on my ass. I couldn’t get a regular job that required tax numbers, ID
and names, so I was shit out of luck. If somebody had of told me it was this
difficult to disappear, I might’ve planned it out a little better.

A car zoomed past on the dark street, colliding with a
puddle of murky water and it splattered all over me. Gasping, I held my arms
out and cursed.

“Fucking great,” I muttered. I was all on my own, totally
skint, desperate, lost and now I could add wet to the list. Fucking great
indeed.

Shaking myself off like a wet dog, I glanced up, my gaze
catching on an old school pub across the street. A sign hung over the door,
swinging in the breeze, a coat of arms painted onto the 'ye olde' wood. It was
very…old world. The coat of arms was a skull with a crown hanging off its head
with the pub’s name written in an Old English script, The Gambler’s Inn.

There were a couple of motorbikes parked out front in a no
standing zone, but nobody seemed to care. That right there? That gave me a
glaring indicator at the type of clientele that this place attracted. I was
running out of options and this one was a lot better than working the bar at
the strip club I’d just vacated.

This was either an omen or a warning, but I was beyond
caring.

Sucking it up, I jogged across the street, giving the bikes
a wide berth and shoved the door open. Instantly, my ears were assaulted with
some obnoxious grunge music, all guitars and wailing lyrics. It was dark and
smoky, but I could make out the shapes of booths and tables, an old jukebox
against one wall with a sign on it that read ‘out of order’. A few people
lingered in dark corners, all of them men and all of them mean looking. Some
wore leathers that marked them as bikers, but others I could pin as crooks just
from the way they looked. A different kind of slime to the clientele in the
strip club.

The place reeked of beer that had soaked into the carpet and
had never been washed. I wrinkled my nose, beginning to wonder if this was the
best idea after all. Maybe I should just turn around and go someplace else…but
there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

The clack of pool balls broke through the music as someone
broke the rack on a new game. Realizing that people had started to notice me
standing there like an idiot, I narrowed my eyes and made my way to the bar.

Don’t bring attention to yourself, Mercy
. Rule number
one. Keep a low profile.

There was a guy leaning against the bench that housed rows
of liquor bottles, most of them looking like they were the hard stuff. No fancy
cocktails here. Just straight up or not at all. Simple, no fuss, take it or
leave it kinda shit. That, I could work with.

“Yeah?” the guy asked, tapping the top of the bar.

Customer service didn’t seem like a high priority here and I
wondered if it was a thriving pub or a front for something else. Best not to
dwell on it. Sticking my nose in other people’s money laundering would only
serve to get it cut off.

“I’m looking for the owner.” It came out a little more
hesitant than I would’ve liked. There went my tough woman card already.

The guy straightened up, giving me the once over. “Who’s
askin’?”

“Just looking for a job,” I replied.

He narrowed his eyes and barked, “Wait here.”

I couldn’t back out now, so I slid my ass onto a stool and
an old dude at the opposite end of the bar raised his glass at me. I smiled
thinly and glanced over my shoulder at the dingy pub. There were more eyes on
me than I first realized. I’d seen biker bars in the movies and they were all
painted to be dangerous places where one wrong move could see some pretty heavy
shit go down. This place was no different.

Rule two was show no weakness, so I sat up straight and
shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. Fake it till you make it.

“You,” the guy from behind the bar snapped at me,
reappearing out of the shadows. “Boss wants to see you.”

Sliding off the stool, I looked him up and down this time, a
sneer on my lips. The fucking manners…

“Office is there.” He jabbed a finger to a door across the
pub that had a sign stuck on it that read,
Staff Only
.

I didn’t know if I should knock or just barge in, but by
going by the attitude of Mr. Sour behind the bar, I decided to go with the
ballsy approach. I jabbed the door open with the flat of my palm and walked
into what smelt like an opium den.

A man was sitting behind the desk and looked up at my sudden
appearance. When he saw me standing in the doorway, his lips curled into a smug
grin.

He looked like this thirty-something, broad shouldered,
tough guy with a slicked back head of hair and a dirty cigarette hanging out of
his mouth. Totally unattractive.

He gestured for me to close the door and I let it go,
stepping into the room.
Balls, Mercy
, I thought.
Show him your big
balls. Don’t let him give you shit
.

Taking a drag from his smoke, he looked me over like he was
sizing me up. It was different from the way Sleazy Strip Club Dude had raked
his beady little eyes over me. He was calibrating the level of sex appeal for
his patrons. Pub Guy was looking to determine strength - I could see it in his
eyes. That, and the fact that he didn’t linger on my tits.

“You're the boss?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.
This wasn't the typical job interview, but none of them had been so far.

“That’d be me,” he drawled in a voice that was all husky.
Not sexy husky, husky as in I’m about to cough up a lung, husky.

“I’m looking for some work,” I began, but he waved a hand at
me.

“What kind of work?”

I glared at him. “
Bar
work.”

He started to laugh and butted out his fag into an ashtray
on the desk. “We don’t deal with whores here sweetheart. That’s Freddy with the
greasy fingers over at Fancy’s.”

I rolled my eyes. Fancy Freddy. Figured.

“I can see you’ve already met him.”

“And what a fucking pleasure that was,” I bit back.

Pub Boss Guy smiled again. “You can call me Weiss,” he said,
looking me over.

“Mercy.” The name I’d dreamed up for myself rolled easily
off my tongue and Weiss narrowed his eyes.

“What?” I snapped.

“You’ve got bite,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I
like that.”

“Look…” I hesitated, wondering how far I could push this
guy.

“Weiss,” he prodded.

“
Weiss
. I just want a job.”

“I’ve been lookin’ for a reason to piss off that cunt Brock
out there.”

I cocked my head to the side.

“People ain’t nice here,” he went on. “Can you handle that?”

“Sure.” I shrugged. “You lot have been a fucking riot so
far.”

“When I say they ain’t nice,” he went on, trying to hide a
smile, “they ain’t upstanding citizens who pay their taxes and are nice to
their mothers.”

Glancing around the office, my gaze lingering on the
motorcycle jacket flung over the sofa, I said, “I figured that.”

“Can you fire a gun?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Sometimes shit goes down. There’s a firearm in a bracket
under the bar. You can’t shoot, you tell me now. You can’t shoot a shotgun,
I’ll get somethin’ you can.”

“I learnt how to fire a few different guns at a range,” I
said. “I haven’t tried a shotgun, but I get the gist of it.”

“That ain’t a range out there, sweetheart.”

God, the way he kept calling me sweetheart, like I was a
little fucking girl, got my goat. “I can shoot a gun,” I spat. “I can shoot you
in the fucking balls if I have to and I will if you don’t stop calling me
sweetheart.”

Weiss leaned back in his chair and started laughing until
tears were welling in his eyes.

“Where the fuck have you been all my life?” he asked,
reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

“Those things will fucking kill you,” I drawled.

“No they won’t,” he said shoving a smoke into his mouth and
flicking his lighter. “You will.”

“Don’t push me.”

Weiss took a long drag, the end of the cigarette flaring
orange. “Can you start tomorrow?” he asked through a plume of smoke.

“Cash in hand.” It wasn’t a question.

Weiss raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask questions. “Cash in
hand. Off book.”

“Then I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Hey,” he called out. “What’s your other name, Mercy?”

My heart stopped and face planted. I didn’t want his
questions.

“Reid,” I said. “I’m Mercy Reid.”

“Like that’s your real name,” I heard him mutter as the door
slammed closed.

X