Blackjack Wayward (The Blackjack Series) (56 page)

Then he heard all hell break loose back inside, including a roar of pain from Jufi.

“Shit!” Tihkonov said, spinning and running back inside. “Guys what-” he paused, seeing Walker standing over the reeling forms of Jufi, who was nursing a badly broken nose, and the last man, who was motionless.

Walker was unarmed, breathing heavy, but otherwise unmarked by the excitement.

“Who are you?” Tihkonov asked, raising the aim of his AA-12 slowly, but Tommy just beckoned him. The Russian leveled the weapon, and was about to fire, when a whistle caught his attention. It was Alicia Berkley, hiding along the side of the wall, just a few feet from where he had thrown her, aiming one of the DRD Paratus-18 suitcase guns at him.

“Drop it,” she barked from behind cover of a large wooden coffee table.

Walker, now with a smile, beckoned him inside again.

Tihkonov couldn’t believe his fate, as he lowered the weapon and got manhandled into the very couch he had thrown Ms. Berkley a short time ago.

“Now you answer some questions,” she said, holding the rifle like a pro. Hell, she held it better than a couple of his guys. Alicia looked over at Walker for approval, but he just shook his head, moving closer, and slamming his right heel into Tihkonov’s face.

She wanted to complain, to scream at him for not following her lead, but the cold, dead look on Walker’s face, the heavy breathing and the coating of sweat across his chest and face, but most importantly his eyes gave her pause. He had exerted himself like a man after a twelve round boxing match, and his mouth was agape, each massive breath clawing for air, but his eyes were calm, and it was disconcerting to Alicia that she just stared at him in awe.

“Who dares, wins,” he whispered.

Tihkonov took the blow and collapsed on the floor, covering his mouth, which was now an exploded gash of blood, which he spat on the carpeting along with a half-dozen teeth.

“We know everything we need to know,” Walker said, looking over at Alicia, casting a curious glare at how she was holding the rifle, how unlike a rookie.

“I’m not going to approve killing him,” she said, trying to be as definitive as possible.

Walker finally smiled, “I don’t work for you, remember?”

Alicia motioned to the rifle, “I have this.”

His smiled widened and he let out a heavy snort. “Okay, we do it your way,” Walker said and powered a kick into Tihkonov’s midsection so powerful that she heard a couple of ribs snap as the Russian screamed and held onto his side.

“There,” Walker said, walking to check on the only other man that was somewhat okay, Jufi, and punching him in the collar bone with such ferocity that he almost passed out.

Alicia shook her head, bewildered.

“I didn’t kill them,” Tommy said, shrugging. “Here, give me that. Pack your shit and lets roll. And call back Zhou, we have to get out of here.”

They stared at each other, for what seemed like a full minute, then she kissed him. It was what was required, and his soft, flushed lips parted to welcome her inside. To her delight, there was no shock or pause, or homosexual surprise. Nor was he too brusque, despite the pounding of blood through his body from physical exertion, and the suddenness of her advances. He held her in his sweaty arms, his hands caressing her bottom and breasts intermittently, as she reached down and freed his belt and pants with the efficiency of a cat burglar, revealing his thrusting manhood, threatening to destroy the fabric of his tidy whiteys. He rubbed himself against her pelvic bone, the move sending a rush of blood through her body that almost tickled her in pleasure. She rocked her hips up and forward to welcome him in. Wearing no undergarments herself, the folds of her insides parted in eagerness to make his acquaintance, and he thrust forward as was necessary, pressing into her through his clothing.

Then one of the Russians coughed, and their lips parted.

“I guess you’re hired back,” she said, feeling her wetness permeating through his underwear as she withdrew a thumb’s worth of Mr. Walker from herself and looked around.

Her refractory period on near-sex was as impressive as his was not, and she couldn’t help but smile to herself as she reached again for the suitcase rifle he had thrown to her, the same weapon she had moments ago tossed aside.

Walker cut a pathetic figure, his wet boner pressing against the stretched underwear, so she tossed the rifle at him, taking control.

“Watch them,” she said, walking to the room, and flashing an approving smile as he struggled to regain his senses. She entered her room and flicked on the lights, revealing the fun Mr. Walker had. One of the Russians was conscious, crawling toward a wall slowly, thought for what reason, Alicia couldn’t tell. He was hurt bad, somewhere in the midsection, and his face was flushed with pain. She sauntered past him to the suitcase that lay on the bed, and saw the second man wedged between the wall and the bed, immobile. His leg was mangled forward along the knee, and Alicia imagined the pain from having the joint bent against itself would be too much for a living man to endure.

She threw off the light sweater and the skirt, naked save for her boots and took them off as well before donning a pair of panties, figuring Mr. Walker’s cold defensiveness would return, barring any further fun. Atop she put on black leggings, a scoopneck knitted sweater dress with long sleeves, and threw the boots back on, zipping the small rolling suitcase as she came back out to the penthouse’s main room.

Walker was leaning over one of the injured men, the leader who had man-handled her earlier, whispering something to the Russian as he searched his pockets.

“What are you doing?”

He stood up, thumbing through the man’s wallet.

“Letting him know what happens if I ever see him again,” Walker said, lacking the menace that the original message must have had.

“I’m ready,” Alicia said, reaching for a rifle.

“Leave it,” Walker said, and led the way toward the elevator.

The elevator door slid open three floors down, letting in an elderly couple, maybe in their late ‘70s, dressed as if for the ball. Chatting away in Spanish, they didn’t notice Tommy and Alicia’s ragged condition, nor did they realize that they were spared a double tap from Walker’s scavenged pistol as he nervously watched the door open expecting more of Tihkonov’s team as late arrivals.

It was a damned mess, Alicia thought, all the contingencies of a police investigation rattling in the back of her mind, along with a growing bill of bribes and payoffs, which would no doubt inflate her already tiny budget. 

Once the couple settled in for the last dozen or so flights down, Tommy got a stupid grin on his face, and Alicia didn’t know if it was from the satisfaction of winning the previous conflict, or the irony of how ragged they looked versus the old couple, who were wearing their finest. She elbowed him, shrugging in inquiry, but Walker just shook his head, breaking into a slight chuckle that for the first time drew the disapproving glare of the gentleman, who was mid story, and unused to being interrupted. Perhaps it was the older man’s haughty demeanor, dismissive and forgoing, that made Tommy talk.

“So,” he said, rubbing a sore spot in his chin. “Maybe I need to be gentler.”

Alicia didn’t follow, aware that the couple was turning to face them, the old man furious of the interruption.

“With my recommendations, I mean,” Tommy added.

“Disculpe?” said the older man.

“Que mal educado,” the woman scoffed. Alicia and Tommy both knew enough Spanish to understand her insult was more broad than just a slight at their schooling, but also swept into bad parenting and even faulty genetics. They were only now becoming aware of how rough they looked, Tommy in particular, glaring at the torn clothing, scuffed elbows and knees, and the odd spatter of blood staining the fabric.

Alicia was aware of the older couple’s attention, but she couldn’t help but smile at Tommy’s forthcoming apology.

“Maybe,” she said. “I guess I need to listen to advice a little better?”

Tommy smiled, nodding, then turned to the older man severely.

“Oh, don’t mind this,” he said, casually lifting the nine-millimeter and showing it off, before slipping it into his waistband.

“No he matado a nadie hoy día,” he said in broken Spanish, which meant “I haven’t killed anyone today.”

The woman gasped audibly and turned, pressing the bottom floor several times. The man stared at the weapon in Tommy’s waist, his haughty demeanor a vain attempt to recover his lost dignity.

“Que coraje,” the old man said.

Tommy’s glare told the man all he needed to know, “Fuck off.”

“Maybe less of that,” Alicia said, disapproving again.

“Right,” he said, flashing her a grin and hiding the pistol.

“Was that twice you jumped the balcony?” she asked.

Walker thought about it for a moment before nodding. “Wasn’t too far a jump,” he said as the door slid open and the couple abandoned the elevator.

Berkley held the door open for Tommy, who still leaned against the back wall.

“I’m a work in progress,” he said.

“Aren’t we all,” she said, digging into her purse for the satellite phone. “So, call Zhou back?”

“Please,” Tommy said, smiling and walking past her toward the hotel exit.

Lucy Schultz worked at the bank as a teller, and Owen had wanted to have sex with her since high school. She was one of those girls that was all reserve, modest to the point of mania, but her classic looks drove all the boys wild. The joke was her mother tied her virginity up in the basement and wouldn’t let it loose for anything short of a medical degree. They had spoken the way kids do in high school, in fleeting, asinine conversations, and hardly at all since. He dredged a memory of the
m running into each other at the store last year, passing each other without a word.

Now she was leaning on the stage, her eyes never leaving him as he went through the set. She was playing it up, propping her breasts on her crossed arms as she looked up at him. Lucy’s smile revealed her intent, and her heavy lipstick and blush made her almost doll-like. Her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders, thin enough that it moved in independent wisps as she watched him. What struck him more than anything else were her eyes, dark green and outlined in thick eyeliner, following him as he played the guitar. They looked
hungry,
and though they were disconcerting, he smiled internally, blessing the power of rock and roll.

“Hey you,” she said, once he had finished the set and come down the side of the stage. Her voice was the sound of singing crystal and Owen crouched low on the stairs doing his best to find her eyes and stay there.

“Didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” he said and she smiled. The mixture of that smile and those eyes sent a little flutter through him.

“Just felt like getting out,” she said, and he knew she could sense his excitement. “That was a great show. I didn’t even know you played.”

“Yah, for a long time, I been on the local circuit for a couple of months now. I never thought I could spend too much time in a bar.”

“No shit,” she said and he was shocked to hear her curse. “Well we got to celebrate, ‘cause that was a hell of a show. Meet me at the bar, first round’s on me.”

“Hells yes,” Owen said, unable to hide a smile. “Give me five minutes.”

She nodded and walked away, and Owen struggled to peel his eyes away as two old guys came to the stage, dressed in coats and jackets despite the warm evening. The shorter of the two slipped a five in the tip bucket, the only currency of any kind resting there, and said, “Nice set.”

Owen nodded his thanks and hurried to store his gear in the stage’s back corner, where it would rest until closing time. Part of his pay was the free drink coupons in his pocket, and he hopped the short stage, doing his best to establish a nonchalant amble as he joined Lucy at the bar. She smiled at his appearance slinging a thin arm around his neck and planting a big kiss on his cheek. He laughed, knowing her lipstick stained his cheek and not caring. As promised, she paid for the first round; cheap whiskey shooters that they downed before they glasses cleared the bartender’s hand. She waved for a second round as he felt the liquor burn its way into his belly and without hesitation grabbed the refilled glass and drained it. His felt the dull wave in his mind as the alcohol saturated blood washed through him and he surrendered to it.

It didn’t take long for Owen to start counting the passage of time in drinks, but he didn’t feel drunk. His nose wasn’t numb, his mind felt mostly clear, and he stopped, content to revel in his buzz. Lucy kept pounding back drinks, all of them shots, and somewhere along the line, she leaned into him and kissed him hard. She molded into him and he made room for her, drawing her tighter for a passionate, if clumsy embrace as her tongue probed his mouth and lips. He reciprocated, and found that her breath tasted like alcohol, but that something else lingered there. He almost stopped, but her free hand drifted below the bar, stroking his penis through his jeans. Small explosions of pleasure radiated from around her hand and when he looked at her, he saw an animal need there that absorbed and amplified his.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, the words slurred. He took her hand, but when he tried to lead her out back to his truck, she shook her head, biting her lip in with a seductive smile.

“Got a ride already,” she said, dragging him towards the front door.

He paused for a second, thinking of his gear, but the gleam in her dark green eyes was so ripe with promises that it overwhelmed his senses. And besides, the bar owner was a friend, he wouldn’t mind if Owen got his stuff in the morning.

Owen let Lucy lead him outside, pulling her close for a kiss that she melted into before separating and pulling her cellphone. She spoke softly, giggling at the person on the other end of the line. Owen looked up and saw the stars twinkling in the sky, the moon hung full and low. Lucy came over and nuzzled his neck, brushing her lips and tongue across the soft flesh under his jaw. He slipped a hand low cupping her buttocks, the thin fabric of her dress pressing through to the panties beneath.

She lifted his hand away with playful slowness, “Not here.”

“My place,” Owen said.

Shaking her head with mock seriousness, she said, “Trying to lure a good girl like me home? You should be ashamed.” Lucy took her head in his hands and brought his ear next to her lips, “You’re coming with me,” she whispered, her breath tickling his flesh. Finishing the sentence with another hard kiss, she parted from him as headlights pulled into the unpaved lot. The cab was a dull yellow, and as the driver got out, Owen got a strange vibe from him, but Lucy basically pushed him into the back, barely giving him enough time to sit up before she was on him. Their lips met, her hands found the naked flesh of his chest under his shirt, and she encouraged the same, his hands exploring the soft contours of her body.

They stayed like that a while, and Owen used it to properly acquaint himself with Lucy Schultz’s body. He ran hid hands up under the hem of her dress, sliding his fingers into the cup of her bra, looping the other hand around to cup her ass. He tried to work his way inside the smooth fabric, but she stopped him with a coy shake of the head. Reaching the limit of his ability in their current state of dress. He looked up as the car hit a pothole and found they’d come to an abandoned auto mechanic’s garage. Registering that it had been Rudy Hardwick’s garage, before he’d suffered the stroke two years previous, he looked at Lucy and said, “You live round here?”

She shook her head and something was different about her, more predatory. That look of hunger he saw earlier was amplified to the point where she looked ravenous, and the way she stared at him made him understand on an instinctual level that she wasn’t longing for sex. He tried to open the door, but the driver was there, despite being in the driver’s seat just before Owen spoke. He pulled the door open from the outside and grabbed Owen under the armpit, his arm looping around Owen’s neck in a solid grip. Struggling proved useless as the driver pulled Owen from the vehicle as if lugging an unwieldy suitcase, spilling his lower body onto the pavement.

Lucy climbed out of the car, crossing the seat and coming out the same door Owen had been forced through.

“Oh, God,” she said, collapsing to her knees. “It’s too much!”

“Keep it together,” the driver said, maintaining his hold, and though Owen was squirming, he made no progress in shaking the man’s arm. Try as he might, he could hardly move at all, and the man’s arm closed on his chest with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He gasped a quick breath as Lucy knelt next to him.

“Lucy, what the…,” was all he got out before she slapped him flush across the face with an open handed swat that sent stars splaying across his vision. He shook his head and she brought the same hand back, her knuckles colliding with his temple and rocking his head hard enough that the tendons in his neck creaked. His head rolled in a limp pendulum and he felt a dull throbbing behind his eyes.

“I didn’t know it could be like this,” Lucy said, but Owen heard it through muffled ears.

“It gets better,” the driver said with a menacing smile. “Let’s do this inside.” Owen’s body would not follow instructions as the cab driver dragged him through a door into what used to be a storefront. Stripped down to the bare walls, they walked around a desk that led into the garage. Owen saw Lucy had not followed, instead getting behind the cab’s wheel and driving out of sight. They moved into the garage and Owen was plunged into darkness. A thin, meaningless line of light poured in through a crack in the garage door, but nothing Owen could see with.

“Who you got,” said raspy a voice hidden in the darkness. Something in that voice drove the buzz from Owen’s mind, and he started looking around, trying to adjust his eyes to the dark. He felt the driver grab the waist of his jeans and bend at the waist, throwing him to the floor. There was the sickening feeling of free fall, halted by the concrete floor of the garage. Every ounce of air exited Owen’s lungs in a gust, and his teeth clicked hard at the impact as he felt every vertebrae readjust. Grunting in pain, he writhed as he felt muscles clenching.

“Some pretty boy Lucy picked up,” the driver said, his accent strange. “You got the stuff?”

Silence reigned and Owen stopped moving, perking his ears. He heard the rustling of clothing and finally, a light came on, a single bulb hanging from an overhead socket. It lit the whole of the enclosed space and Owen saw Lucy coming through the same door he’d been carried through. At first her expression was of exhaustion and her breathing heavy, still overcome by her near-sex experience. When she looked down on him, though, her features changed and he saw such malevolence that it made him cringe. She took a step towards him and he instinctively scooted along the smooth floor on his butt, keeping his distance.

She stopped, laughing and that’s when he saw them, protruding an inch from her incisors, fangs that tapered into fine points.

“What the fuck are you people playing at?” he said, managing a chuckle. Was this some bullshit game?

“You hear that Sal,” the cab driver said, false mirth lacing the words. “He wants to know what’s up.”

The dim bulb’s light seemed to gleam off them and he squinted trying to get a better look. The driver and the man called Sal stopped, each of them smiling, showing their own fangs over their lips. Owen pivoted his head to take in all three of them, Lucy in her dress, her figure still vulpine and inviting, the driver in his cheap shirt and slacks, tall and thin, not looking to possess an ounce of muscle. Yet he’d manhandled Owen with no effort. The one the cabbie had addressed as Sal was a little less than average height and thin to the point of malnourishment. His skin was pulled tight across his skull, his cheekbones about to burst through and he was pale, making his dark eyes that much more stark. He clothes fit well, and he moved with an effortless grace that made Owen think of the big cats he saw loping around their pens at the zoo.

Pulling a syringe from his pocket, he stepped towards Owen, uncapping the needle, letting the hollow plastic end hit the floor with careless vigor. Looking around, Owen saw the garage had been stripped as bare as the office, the exception being a broom sitting in the corner closest to him. Lucy and the driver stood near him, but their attention was on whatever lurked within that syringe, and Owen moved with a burst of speed, crossing the distance and grabbing the broom. The driver reacted fastest trying to cut Owen off, but changed direction at the last second unleashing a jab that caught him full on the chin.

The world blacked out for a moment, and when Owen’s eyes brain caught up with his eyes, he saw Lucy standing over him, her face awash with glee; her fangs on display in her wide smile.

“I always wanted to fuck you, Owen,” she said, the mocking hint of playfulness in her voice. “But this is so much better.”

He was leaned against the wall, still half standing, and felt the broomstick still clutched in his hand. Jutting the round end at her like a spear, Owen managed to catch her in the throat hard enough to make her gag. She took a lurching step back coughing hard, her hand at her throat and Owen didn’t hesitate, swinging the broom two handed at her head. Dazed as she was, she almost caught it, her hand coming up with enough speed to alter the broom’s course, and instead of catching her across the face it angled up into her head, glancing off her skull with a dull crack.

She let out a stiff whimper, but didn’t seem to feel any further affects. The driver was on him in a second, and Owen turned and took a punch meant to crush his skull on the bicep. The force of the blow was enough to send him staggering into the garage’s wall and bounce off, but Owen brought the broom up to block the follow up punch. The driver’s fist broke through the broom handle in an explosion of wooden splinters, its momentum carrying into Owen’s nose with a crunch and transferring it to him sending him into the wall again. Instead of bouncing, the wall seemed to absorb his motion in a bone jarring second. He felt his legs give, but steadied them using the wall to prop himself up as the driver faced up, his guard up, his eyes alight.

Trying to shake his mind back to sharpness, Owen saw Lucy still rubbing at her head, but it seemed more a reflex than in response to discomfort. Sal had stayed out of the conflict, but Owen noticed he still held the syringe, and the syringe was now empty. Still holding the broken pieces of the broomstick, one in each hand, Owen raised finger to the only sharp pain he felt at the moment, a raised bump on his neck. His finger came away with the smallest trace of blood, nothing compared to the flood escaping his mashed nose.

“Did you fucking bite me,” he asked, his voice thick and dull because of his blood stuffed nostrils.

“Not yet,” Lucy said, but he could feel something eager in her words that chilled him. She circled him, and Sal advanced, filling the space she’d just left. They seemed to be waiting for something. The driver still stood ready for him to fight, blocking Owen from the door. Panic screamed at the edges of his mind, but Owen tamped it down with a brutal reality check. He knew if he didn’t do something now, he was dead, and it wouldn’t be pretty. His eyes flitted around the room but the place was bare, the only thing he saw was a fire extinguisher bracketed to the wall parallel to him.