Chapter 1
Jack Taylor
Thunder rumbles, the wind picks up, and raindrops plunk on the clear roof. Around the perimeter of the patio, purple and yellow mums bow to the downpour as ivy dances on the surrounding walls. Maybe it’s the storm but I’ve got a bad feeling about tonight so amble back inside.
Three of the regular patrons argue at the pool table as the cook comes upstairs to chat with the bartender. Outside, the barback catches a smoke by the front door. The kid either doesn’t own a jacket or isn’t smart enough to come in out of the rain. The owner, a red-headed woman in her early thirties sits at an empty table, staring into her computer tablet.
“What can I get you?” Bryan, on duty tonight, steps to where I sit on a stool.
“Just seltzer.”
The bartender nods and slides the glass over. Waiting for the shit I know is about to go down, I stroll to a table where I can sit with my back to the bricks. From here, I can keep an eye on the patio as well as the glass wall facing the Bushwick sidewalk.
Downstairs, the ladies under my charge should be finished chit-chatting soon and I’ll get my boss’s wife back home to her kids. More than once I’ve warned her about these meetings but she insists the women need a safe place to talk.
I say, she should buy them all good therapists in the city and be done with it.
Whatever. When my boss quits the NFL, it won’t be my problem. My gut tightens at the thought of his family leaving but put the emotions aside when two guys come in the front door. They shake their umbrellas, place them in the stand, and sit near the pool table at the far end of the bar. The shifty-eyed guy in blue jeans keeps his head low while the other orders a couple of beers but not the local artisan on tap. Neither has beards, tats, nor piercings, and couldn’t look more out of place if they tried.
When the bigger of the two reaches into his pocket, the hairs on my arm tingle, and I reach inside my leather jacket just in case I need my weapon. I use my empty glass as an excuse to ease up to the bar and get a closer look. Thankfully, a wad of cash appears, not something with bullets or a sharp edge, so I chill. Whatever shadiness is going down, it’s probably not a risk to the ladies downstairs.
Still wary, I shoot a glance toward the owner but I needn’t have worried. She also caught the exchange, wanders across the room, and ducks under the bar. We both wait to see what packet is passed for the cash but there’s only a handshake.
When the strangers leave, Emily leans over the bar. “What do you think that was all about?”
“I don’t know but if they make this a regular stop, call me and I’ll make sure they find a new place to do their business.”
“Thanks.” The owner places a fresh seltzer on the polished wood surface, then takes a long drag from her vapor cigarette. Smoke curls around her head, smelling of flowery shit I can’t imagine drifting through my lungs.
Intelligent, elf-shaped eyes hone in on me. “What’re you going to do when the Quinns move to North Carolina?”
It’s the same question that’s been heavy on my mind for the last few weeks. I’ve been with the quarterback so long, he’s more like a brother than my boss. Hell, I’m godfather to his kids.
“I really don’t know. Need a new bartender?” I grin and shoot her a saucy wink.
The pretty redhead barks out a throaty laugh. “For sure, you’d be good for business. Single women would be lining up for miles. Seriously, why not work for Patten Securities? Grayson would hire you in a heartbeat.”
I’m about to answer how I’m pursuing that avenue when something or someone flashes outside, moving way too fast.
Fuck. Adrenaline spikes, I stand, and the front door flies open. A Middle Eastern man dashes across the room with one hand inside the front pocket of his hoodie, the outline of a gun evident. The guy seems to pay me no notice as I follow him across the room but at the top of the stairs, he turns, pulls out his weapon, and points it at my stomach.
“This is none of your concern.” As he backs down the stairs, I calculate the odds of kicking it out of his hand without it going off.
Not good enough, I spring out of his view, dash to the patio, and bolt down an alternate set of stairs. In the larger of the two lower rooms, I crawl to the doorway and assess the situation. Four of Mel’s group sit on stools, three are on a couch, and two stand. All have their backs to me with their eyes glued to the angry man at the foot of the stairs.
“You would shoot me, Mehmet?” A girl of about twenty stares wide-eyed into a face that could be her twin.
In the mirror behind the bar, between the many-colored bottles, I catch him spitting in her face. “When I kill you, our family’s honor will be restored. Selfish bitch.”
Fuck. The crazy asshole’s finger twitches and I vault over the bar like a fucking gymnast. As my legs swing across the wood, stemmed glassware and bottles crash to the floor. A brown hand waves a weapon wildly in my direction but my feet connect with his chest just as he fires.
He falls back with a loud clunk, his head hits the stairs, and I grab his gun. After I slip on the safety, I check for a pulse at his neck. Unfortunately, he’ll live.
“Calling nine-one-one.” With his cell phone glued to his ear, the downstairs bartender throws me a roll of duct tape.
Above, Emily rushes down the stairs. “Oh shit. Is everyone okay? I heard a shot.” Her eyes go wide at the gun in my hand and the unconscious man at my feet.
I point at the bullet hole lodged in her bricks. “This guy will probably have a nasty headache but otherwise, everyone is okay.”
