Swallow (Kindred Book 2) (4 page)

“Oh my God,” Grant said. She glanced around to see that he was crouched under the table behind her. “What do we do?”

Already her hand was snaking into her purse, but she didn’t answer his gutless question. She pressed and held the speed dial programmed into the lock screen numbers by Tuck who’d tweaked the tech, then prayed that Brodie would answer. Risking a look in her bag, she saw the call cut off, he’d diverted.

“Damn you,” she whispered.

Another round of bullets joined the pattern of holes in the ceiling, and the head of the gang jumped onto the bar using a stool as a stepping aid. The staff and patrons were being herded into the corner beside where she and Grant already were.

Full of swagger and arrogance, the blond man smiled as he spoke. “Ladies and gentleman, if you would just give your wallets and jewelry to my colleagues as they go around, we won’t have any problems.”

The other four masked men went to each of the huddling patrons in turn offering an open black trash bag for the victims to drop their valuables. They waited patiently and said little, but shook the bag to hurry those who were too slow in emptying their pockets.

Time wasn’t on her side. She needed to call for help while there was still confusion and while the gang members were distracted by their spoils. Giving up on Brodie, she bypassed Art’s speed dial on her phone, and pressed in Tuck’s. He would never abandon her. He would answer. He always answered. She needed a sure bet.

Keeping one eye on the men who weren’t yet closing in on her position, she waited for the line to connect. “What are you doing?” Grant hissed from behind her. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Taking action when others cowered was part of the Kindred job description. She didn’t have the skills of the others, but she could call in reinforcements then distract these guys long enough for the cavalry to arrive. The Kindred gave her strength, even when they weren’t with her. Imagining that Art was there, looking over her shoulder, she was determined to show him that she had the mettle Brodie’s woman should have. Priority one for the Kindred was to watch each other’s backs and she needed someone at hers now.

What she didn’t need was Grant second-guessing her or getting involved in her actions when his words wouldn’t alter them. “Rather that than sit here like a pussy,” she whispered back, glad she had the chance to demean Grant in his cowardice.

He chose not to hear her contempt and instead judged his brother’s culpability. “You’ve been spending too much time with him. Don’t be a hero.”

Grant blamed Brodie for her confidence, but if Brodie was in her ear now he’d tell her to keep her head down and her mouth shut. The funny thing was she’d been making decisions for herself, the manor, and for Brodie every day for months. That had prepared her for this. She was ready. She’d been using the manor facilities to train, and was in better shape now than she’d ever been before in her life.

Physically, she was quick and used her supple flexibility and speed to dodge rather than attack because she didn’t have the strength to launch an assault. The Kindred did. They gave her direction, they gave her support, and she was one of them, which meant inaction was the only wrong thing for her to do in this scenario.

“That’s what he would say,” she said.

When something had to be done, she did it; to procrastinate would drive her nuts. In the past, Brodie had told her not to be the hero and to call him in times of need. Well, she’d tried that and struck out. Brodie was too busy wallowing in his grief to remember the lessons Art had taught him about self-pity. It was an indulgence not meant for them. That thought spurred her anger, not aimed at Grant or these criminals, but at Brodie for failing to fight for his own sanity. A surge of potent emotion gave her the excuse to show Grant her impatient fury.

Glaring at her nervous boss, she cooled her regard. “But he’s not here, is he?” she said.

An alien voice interrupted their interaction. “Hey! What’s that light in your bag?”

Spinning back to face the room, Zara saw one of the gunmen standing over her with his firearm aimed at the floor, only a few inches from her. He was trying to peer past her at the dull light emanating from her bag.

“It’s the way to paradise, why don’t you come here and check it out,” she growled at him while thinking of the gun she had in her purse. Taking on a room full of automatic weapons with her handgun would be foolish, but if the guy got too close or she felt threatened, she would use it. Otherwise, carrying it around made no sense. She’d never killed before, but had witnessed lives being taken by Brodie.

The thug lunged down, grabbed her hair to haul her up from her crouch onto her feet, and managed to smack her head off the underside of the tabletop in the process, sending the table into a wobble before it crashed onto its side. Drinks had been scattered when furniture was tipped, nudged, and kicked aside. The floor was sticky and glass crunched under her feet as he pulled her across the room toward the bar.

Holding his gun aloft, she was aware of his finger resting on the trigger guard, close enough to do damage in a hurry if he was spooked. “She’s got a phone!” the gunman said, shoving her toward the leader who was still standing on the bar.

Their masks were little more than plastic costume faces of dead musicians held on with a strip of elastic that went around the back of their heads. Buddy Holly secured the exit. John Lennon came over raking through a black treasure bag with his gun hanging on its strap off his arm. Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix must still be watching their hostages. Frank Sinatra had a hold of her and Elvis was standing on the bar, commanding them all.

“They’ve all got cell phones, dummy. That’s the point! If the cops come the media come, then we get to hold these rich fucks for ransom,” Elvis said and crouched closer to her. “Who are you calling, sweetheart? Your boyfriend. How much would he pay to get you back?”

Logging everything that these men were saying to each other, in case anything turned out to be important later, she locked her eyes onto the boss. “I’m calling his best friend,” she said and he laughed then looked in the direction she’d come from to register that she’d been at a table with Grant.

Elvis’s eyes lit and the mask shifted to accommodate a smiling mouth. “And you’re here with another guy? Good time gal, are you?”

Showing courage was the only way to get through this, she wouldn’t be intimidated. If she could stand up to Brodie then dealing with this guy would be a breeze. “I’m whatever the hell I want to be,” she said, invigorated by this chance to vent her own grief and frustration. Using those negative emotions, being open about her resentment was freeing and so therapeutic that a weight lifted from her shoulders. “Why do you want cops here? You want a shootout?”

Elvis hopped down onto a stool and jumped onto the floor beside her with his gun in hand at his side. “Why don’t you hand over your phone? Let’s see how much your buddy would pay for your life?”

Putting her hand in her purse that hung on a long strap across her body, she took out her phone and he opened a palm to accept it. But there was no way she was handing over Kindred tech.

“Treason terminate,” she said in a clear, concise tone, just as Tuck had taught her.

The voice command made the phone spark and fizzle, destroying itself. Just for good measure, she dropped it onto the floor and smashed it with her heel. Training the innovative system to recognize her voice had taken time, but it learned her signature and she was glad she’d spent the time doing what Tuck told her.

Elvis’s angry eyes pounced up to hers and she had to smile in triumph. “Oops… clumsy me.”

Now she had his attention. It felt good to get one up on the men who had terrified so many innocent people. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, having lost his good humor. “I thought this was a bar filled with rich, dumb as fuck yuppies.”

With a half-shrug, she let him know she wasn’t as easily scared as the others here. “You’re almost right,” she said. “There’s them”—she nodded to the side without breaking eye contact—“And then there’s me.”

He sneered and examined her figure. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

No, she didn’t, not with so many others here backing him up and significant firepower at his disposal. “I think you should be more afraid of what my boyfriend will do to your men when he hunts every one of them down, which is what he’ll do if you don’t let me and these people go now.”

Elvis threw back his head and laughed. She expected that reaction. But she wasn’t braced for his fist to fly at her face. He smacked her a beauty that sent her backwards, but Sinatra caught her shoulders, and forced her back onto her feet.

Coming near, he scanned each side of the room. “I don’t see him,” Elvis said, taking another look. “Does anyone see the big scary boyfriend?”

Trying to contain the automatic tears caused by his hit, she maintained her gumption. With an inhale and a gulp, she lifted her chin to prove her sustained defiance. “You’ll never see him coming,” she said, every bit as sure of what she said as she portrayed. Except she underestimated what it was not to have Brodie there to backup her disobedience.

Snatching her arm, Elvis pulled her toward the restroom at the back of the bar. “Take what you can off these pricks and wait for the cops to roll up. Come find me when they call, don’t forget I’m driving his party bus!”

Pointing his gun upward, he was laughing as he fired at the ceiling. The screams of patrons joined the shower of plaster that rained down. Dragging her around the tables, Elvis shoved her through the swing door that led to a back corridor. Aiming for the men’s room, he propelled her inside. It didn’t matter that she stumbled, he gave her another push, and she slipped on the tile floor.

Her arms shot out in a desperate attempt to break her fall, but she fell against the row of sinks face first, hitting her head on the porcelain, and dropping onto her knees. Dazed by the impact, she knew she couldn’t stay down so groped for the sink to use its stability to pull herself up onto her feet again.

“You want to know what I think?” he said while she was still blinking and turning, holding herself against the steady strength of the sink, trying to bring him into focus. “I think you’ve made up the crazy boyfriend. See that thing with the phone, that’s a party trick, and God knows what tech company you probably work for. It’s a toy, isn’t it? You’re full of shit.”

As sure as he seemed, she knew she wasn’t bluffing, so didn’t mind him testing her resolve. “Are you willing to risk finding out?” she asked, securing her footing, though she stayed by the sink just in case she lost it again.

Unhooking the strap of his gun from his arm, he hung the weapon on the condom machine behind the door and started toward her. “With a pretty face like that, yeah, I think it might be worth risking the wrath of your imaginary boyfriend. This is gonna be a long night. My men and me might need a distraction like your clever mouth. You’re a good time gal, right? I can give you the best time of your life.”

Her fingers curled around the lip of the sink behind her when his hand went to his fly. One agonizing tooth at a time, he pulled down his zipper. “You don’t want to do this,” she murmured.

Sauntering toward her, he put his hand into his jeans and pulled out his thickening member. “My dick says different,” he said, proud of himself. “I don’t see your scary boyfriend yet. When is he gonna come to your rescue?”

This was going to get real fast, he was already erect, and there wasn’t much space left between them. Sexual assault was every woman’s worst nightmare. Some women froze and didn’t put up a fight in hope that their attacker would leave them alive. She couldn’t be one of those women. How could she possibly look Brodie in the face and tell him that another man had put his hands on her?

“I’ll give you one more chance,” she said, increasing her grip as panic and adrenaline began to impede her breathing. “Stop this now.”

He stopped walking but kept jerking his dick in his fist. “Why?” he asked, smug to the point of almost laughing again, and that arrogance gave her strength. She wasn’t going to fear a man who took pleasure in tormenting others. He was a bully and she would never back down for one of those. “What are you gonna do about it, sweetheart?”

She had only one chance to save herself. The potential of threats against her body was why Brodie had taught her how to defend herself. “What my big, scary boyfriend taught me to,” she said and thrust her hand into her open purse to pull out the Sig Brodie had furnished her with.

The sound of her chambering a round made him blanch and his swagger ebbed as she took aim. “You’re not gonna use that,” he said, but she recognized the nerves flavoring his tone. “It’s probably not even loaded.”

Confident, she set herself against the sink and held the butt of the gun with two hands. “It’s loaded all right,” she said

When he tensed to leap for her, she squeezed the trigger.

Zara didn’t see him go down but she heard the familiar slump of a lifeless body hitting an unyielding floor. Her eyes stayed shut for a few seconds after the gun recoil made her blink. Her hands were shaking as rationale warred with instinct. The danger wasn’t gone yet, and she needed to confirm the Elvis threat had been neutralized.

On opening her eyes, she saw him sprawled on his back on the sterile tile of the bathroom floor. His open eyes were fixed and vacant. He was dead. Yelping out her horror, she lost her cool and stifled her mouth with a hand to block any other sounds that might come out of her.