By a Thread (7 page)

Callie flinched, and Bria put a comforting hand on her friend's arm. I eased over so that I was standing in between Callie and Trent, despite the fact that I was sighing on the inside. Pete and Trent were determined to make trouble, which meant
that my break from being the Spider was going to be officially over in another minute, two tops. Vacation or not, low profile or not, I couldn't just stand by and watch two guys trash someone else's restaurant—especially not when that restaurant belonged to Bria's best friend.

“I think that it's time you realized just how serious we are, Ms. Reyes,” Pete said when the crackling tinkles of breaking glass had finally stopped. “And just how eager our boss is to buy your restaurant, no matter what shape it—or you—are in. I thought you got the message six weeks ago when you had that accident. You know, the one where you fell against the bar and broke your arm? You were lucky it was just a hairline fracture and not something more serious—and that you didn't hit that pretty face of yours on the way down.”

Callie flinched again, but she stood her ground in front of Pete. My eyes narrowed. So they'd roughed up Callie once already. Why? What was so important about her restaurant? And who wanted it so badly that they'd beat her up to get it?

“Callie?” Bria asked in a surprised voice that clearly said she didn't know anything about her friend's so-called accident.

“It was nothing,” Callie replied in a tight tone. “I slipped, that's all.”

“Sure,” Pete said in an easy voice. “She slipped—with a little help from me. And she's right. That was nothing then. But I think it's going to be quite a bit more serious than that now just to make sure our boss's wishes are coming through loud and clear.”

He went back to the bar,
grabbed another bottle of liquor, and drew back his arm, ready to send it flying—right into Callie's face this time. Callie gasped, and Bria grabbed her friend so she could push Callie behind her.

“Hey now,” I said, stepping in front of both of them and holding up my arms like I was going to surrender. “We don't want any trouble.”

My move made Pete hesitate for just a second, but that was all the time I needed to grab a bowl of peanuts off the bar and fling it at him. Of course, the bowl and peanuts didn't do any real damage, but they still made Pete curse and stagger back, which bought me enough time to turn my attention to the real threat here—Trent, the giant, who was already reaching for me.

I pivoted and lashed out with my foot, driving my sneaker as hard as I could into the giant's right knee. Trent grunted and hunched over, his leg twisting at an awkward angle, but he didn't go down. So I stepped forward and slammed my fist into his face. It was like hitting a concrete block, and I felt the jarring impact all the way up to my shoulder, but I managed to put enough force into the blow to make Trent list even farther to one side, like a sailboat about to tip over. Even as his head turned in my direction, I grabbed a wooden chair, hoisted it up, and brought it down on his back. The giant finally lost his balance. His temple clipped the edge of a table before smacking onto the floor, and he let out his first real groan of pain.

Bria grabbed Callie and pulled her back against the wall and out of my way, while Pete stood in front of the bar, his mouth open in surprise.

The chair had splintered on
impact, and I snatched up one of the thick round legs from the floor. Before Trent could even think about defending himself, I crawled onto his back and hooked the chair leg underneath his thick neck. Then I leaned back as far as I could, grinding the wood into his throat and cutting off his air. The giant flailed around on his hands and knees, trying to buck me off like he was a wild bronco that I was riding, but I dug my knees into his ribs, tightened my grip on the chair leg, and hung on. Thirty seconds later, he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

I tossed the chair leg away, got to my feet, and turned to his friend.

Pete's mouth fell open a little more when he realized that Trent was out of the fight already, but he wasted no time smashing the bottle that he was still holding against the bar. The liquor that had been inside splashed everywhere, adding even more harsh fumes to the mix, while the handle broke off in his hand. The jagged edges glinted like razor-sharp diamonds.

I'd thought—even hoped—that Pete might hightail it out the door once his buddy was down, so that I could at least try to keep the violence to a minimum. But I could tell by the anger flashing in his eyes that he just wasn't that smart.

“You stupid, bitch,” he growled. “Don't you know who we work for? Not that it matters now, because I'm going to cut you to pieces for messing with Trent.”

I shook my sleeve, and a silverstone knife slid into my left hand. The weapon was one of five that I normally carried on me. Two up my
sleeves, two in the sides of my boots, one against the small of my back. Since we were on vacation and I was wearing sneakers, I'd left the two in my boots in my suitcase at the hotel. But the other three knives were locked and loaded in their appropriate slots, so to speak, even though I knew it would take only one to deal with the likes of Pete Procter.

“Did you say cut you? Why, I'd be happy to oblige,” I drawled again.

It was one thing to try to keep the violence to a minimum, but I wasn't about to let some lowlife hood come at me with a broken bottle and not fight back. Especially not when he could easily turn his attention to Bria if I didn't take him down.

My hand tightened on the knife, and I could feel the small spider rune stamped into the hilt pressing against the larger, matching scar on my palm. Owen had made this set of knives for me as a Christmas present, and he'd put my rune, my mark, on all the weapons. They were the best blades I'd ever had, and I had no qualms about using one to whittle Pete down to size.

Pete's eyes widened, but he didn't back down, even though he'd just watched me take out his giant friend. Dumbass. He lurched forward, swiping at me with the broken bottle. I easily sidestepped him again and again and again. I could have kept this dance up all night long.

“Stand still,” he growled.

“Why, whatever you say, sugar.”

The next time he came at me, I stepped into his body, already turning, turning, turning. I put my back to his chest, grabbed the arm with the broken bottle, and used his own momentum to neatly
flip him over my shoulder. Pete slammed into the floor, the bottle sliding out of his fingers and tinkling across the floor. He blinked and started to get up, so I punched him in the face, cutting off that idea. But Pete kept flailing around, his right hand reaching, reaching, reaching for his broken bottle, so I drove my silverstone knife all the way through his palm, pinning it to the floorboard underneath.

For a moment, silence filled the restaurant—complete, utter silence.

Then Pete started screaming, and he didn't stop. I let him blubber on for about thirty seconds before I yanked the knife out of his palm and used the hilt to clip him in the temple. He immediately went slack and still, although blood continued to pour out of his wounded hand. The steady stream soaked into weathered wood, covering it like a fresh, glossy coat of crimson varnish.

I got to my feet and realized that everyone was staring at me—again. Just like they had for weeks now at the Pork Pit. Eyes wide, nostrils flared, fear tightening their faces. This time, I couldn't help the tired sigh that escaped my lips.

So much for my vacation.

Once I made sure that Pete and Trent were out cold, I headed over to the bar where Callie was now slumped on a stool and took a seat beside her. The other diners had paid up and left as soon as the fight was over, and the two waitresses had scurried out the door as well. That left me, Bria, Callie, and the bartender in the restaurant, along with the still-unconscious goons.

“Do you want me to call him before
I leave?” the bartender asked.

Callie stared at the two men, the shattered shelves, and the mess of broken bottles, glass, and liquor behind the bar. She bit her lip, then nodded. “He'll hear about it one way or another. Besides, this is his beat now, remember? So go ahead and call it in.”

“Who are you talking about?” Bria asked.

“My fiancé,” she said. “He's a cop just like you, Bria. I told you about him, remember? Don't worry. He'll take care of those two. They won't bother me again. At least not for tonight.”

She murmured the last few words in a sad, defeated voice, but Bria and I still heard them. The bartender moved to the other end of the counter, picked up a phone there, and made his call. As soon as he was out of earshot, Bria turned to me.

“I thought you left your knives at home!” she hissed.

I just looked at her.

Bria threw her hands up in the air. “I can't take you anywhere, can I?” she muttered, and started pacing back and forth in front of the bar.

“What knives? What's Bria talking about? Who the hell
are
you?” Callie asked. “And where did you learn how to fight like that?”

“Let's just say that I'm in the . . . security business,” I said.

Callie's brows drew together in confusion. “But I thought you ran a barbecue restaurant. What would you know about security?”

“Oh, you'd be surprised the things I know about,” I said. “I like to read and . . . study up on
various topics in my spare time. I take a lot of classes at the local community college up in Ashland.”

Bria groaned and started massaging her temples, like my words had just given her the mother of all migraines. I wasn't feeling too great about things myself. We hadn't even been gone from home a day, and I'd already gotten into a bar fight. Not exactly how I wanted to start my vacation, especially when I'd promised Bria that there wouldn't be any blood this weekend.

Even worse was the fact that it wasn't just any fight with any goons. From the way Pete had talked, these two had someone backing them, someone rich and powerful, which meant there would most likely be repercussions from our brawl. How bad those repercussions would be remained to be seen, but I wanted to know exactly whom I was dealing with so I could take the appropriate steps to protect all of us.

So I ignored my baby sister's less-than-gracious response to my whopping whale of a tale and focused on Callie. “Now, why don't you tell us who these guys work for and what they really wanted, other than to mess up your restaurant and scare the shit out of you. Because from what Pete said, it's not the first time that they've come in here and threatened you, is it?”

Uncertainty filled the other woman's eyes, and she turned to Bria, asking her a silent question.

Bria sighed and nodded. “Go ahead, Callie. You can trust her. Gin's . . . used to situations like this.”

I raised an eyebrow at the sarcasm in her voice. Bria snorted and started pacing again.

Callie looked back and forth between
the two of us for several seconds before shaking her head and starting her story. “There's this guy named Dekes who wants to buy my restaurant. Pete and Trent work for him, along with several other men. Giants, mostly, private bodyguards, that sort of thing.”

I nodded. I knew exactly the type of muscle she was talking about. Lots of giants in Ashland and beyond hired themselves out as bodyguards to rich folks, since it paid so well. Of course, for those rich folks who dabbled in things that weren't quite legal, the giants acted more as enforcers than bodyguards, which was exactly what I was willing to bet Trent was.

“Anyway, Pete, Trent, and the others have been coming in for a couple of months now, offering me more and more money every time if I'll close down the restaurant and sell out to their boss. Lately, they've gone from being pleasant to what you saw tonight. Tough. Threatening. Violent.”

“And your arm?” I asked in a quiet voice.

Callie sighed. “It was something of an accident. I told Pete to leave, and he shoved past me to get to the bar. I stumbled and hit my arm.”

“But Pete didn't exactly apologize, now, did he?” I asked.

Callie didn't say anything.

“Wait a second,” Bria said. “Did you say Dekes? As in Randall Dekes?”

Callie nodded. Bria cursed and quickened her pacing, moving from one end of the bar to the other with sharp, precise movements.

“I take it you've heard of him?” I asked my sister.

She nodded. “Unfortunately. He's a real estate mogul and developer who's had a home here
for more than a century. Remember all the mansions and shopping centers that we drove by today? Dekes built all of those.”

“He's practically bought up the whole island,” Callie added in a soft voice. “He plans to build a big resort complex on Blue Marsh—a casino, golf courses, spas, restaurants, the whole nine yards. It'll put everything else on the island to shame and probably out of business as well. There were a few initial holdouts like me, but everyone else has sold out to him already.”

“Why?” Bria asked. “Because of the money he was offering for their property?”

Callie nodded. “That and the fact that there have been some . . . accidents. Vandalism, mostly. Another business owner was beaten up pretty badly one night when his store was robbed.”

Accidents. Right.

“Where is Dekes going to build this resort?” I asked.

“He's adding it on to the Blue Sands hotel.” Callie held her hands out wide. A brittle smile tightened her face. “According to the plans that I've seen, we're sitting in the middle of the main floor of his casino. He's supposed to break ground on construction in two weeks, but he's having a press conference tomorrow at the Blue Sands to formally announce the project. He owns the hotel, and his mansion adjoins the grounds.”

Bria let out another curse, one that was longer and louder than all the ones she'd muttered so far. I eyed her. My sister wasn't much for swearing, not like I was, and it took a lot to get her riled up.
Usually, only Finn could ruffle her feathers like this.