by Amy Vansant
“No. That’s what I’m thinking. I think someone noticed Ryan. But why did they go to his house to grab him? Why didn’t they just grab him during one of his visits to their neck of the woods?”
“Maybe they thought he was a cop? That he had a partner watching somewhere near by?”
“Maybe. Heck, for all we know maybe he is a cop.”
Charlotte ran out of photos and began to search through the phone for anything else that might be useful. She’d just noticed a few voice messages when the phone went black.
“Shoot. I ran out of juice.”
“Well, you made some good progress. Now you know Ryan is probably the victim of his own attempt at vigilante justice. Or a cop.”
Charlotte sighed. “And probably dead.”
Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte and Declan cruised the dirt road that led to Jackie’s club. Seamus had told them to watch for a bullet-riddled alligator crossing sign standing on the side of the road, twenty feet from the entrance.
Handy and disturbing.
The club came into view, a large square building with a covered parking area attached to one side. A darkened neon sign hung over the only visible entrance. Charlotte could make out the outline of what looked like a disco dancer with his finger pointing to the sky. His opposite hand rested on the small of his arched back, as if he’d just pulled something and had reached for the pain. Beside him, it read, Slipped Disc’o.
“I don’t see Seamus’s car,” said Declan. They circled the club and parked on the opposite side. “That figures.”
Charlotte gathered Mariska’s charge cord and Ryan’s phone, figuring she could glean a few more insights from the phone on the way back home.
They headed inside to find Jackie cleaning a whiskey glass, standing behind an ornate, dark-wood bar. Her head snapped up and she put a hand on her chest.
“Oh jeeze, I didn’t hear you drive up. You scared me.” Jackie tucked away the glass and walked to the opposite side of the bar. “Where’s Seamus? He said he might bring you along.”
“Your guess is as good as ours,” said Charlotte.
Jackie shook her head, smiling. “That man would be late to his own funeral.”
Declan’s mouth hooked to the right. “I think he was once. Have him tell you that story.”
“Do you mind if I plug in this phone? It’s dead and I need to juice it.”
“Oh sure, give it to me. There’s a plug right behind the bar here.”
Jackie plugged in Ryan’s phone while Charlotte’s and Declan’s gazes swept the disco. A large dancefloor complete with a DJ stage occupied most of the center of the enormous building. Wooden benches and booths flanked the center. Her impressive bar occupied most of the right wall. A disco ball the size of a small planet hung from the ceiling, and in the shadowy recesses of the room, Charlotte spotted gun-shaped equipment awaiting the chance to fill the room with laser beams and disco-ball-refracted sparkles.
She whistled. “This place is pretty impressive.”
Declan nodded. “It’s bigger than I imagined.”
“It used to be a shipping depot of some sort,” said Jackie, overhearing Declan’s comment as she returned to them. “The company went out of business, someone tried to turn the building into a dance club and failed, and then I bought it for a song.”
Charlotte grunted. “Not a big surprise it went out of business. This isn’t the most accessible location for a trucking company or a bar.”
Jackie grinned. “But it’s a great location for an underground club.”
Declan clapped his hands together. “So what’s up? Seamus asked me to swing by and help him with some trouble.”
Jackie lifted a hand to her cheek, head shaking. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting. But too many things are happening all at once.”
“Like what?” asked Charlotte.
“For one, I keep finding dead animals on the property. A skunk, an armadillo...they look like they were hit by cars, but they’re not being hit in the parking lot. It’s like someone is finding them on the road and bringing them here.”
“Maybe an animal is dragging them here?” suggested Charlotte.
Declan nodded. “Or kids. It sounds like a kid’s prank.”
Jackie swept a hand through the air. “There aren’t any kids around here for miles. The ones old enough to drive out here have other things on their minds than leaving dead skunks on my doorstep.”
Charlotte clucked her tongue. “I’d find it odd if a kid nowadays looked up from his phone long enough to pull a prank.”
“Exactly,” agreed Jackie, chuckling.
Charlotte found Declan staring at her.
“What?”
“You know you’ve been living in Pineapple Port so long, you sound like a retiree, right?”
Laughing, Charlotte felt an embarrassed flush spread across her cheeks. She knew it was true. “Anything else?”
“A lot. Twice, men have come asking to buy the place. The first were real slick-looking, lawyerly—all fancy suits and smiling faces. When I turned them down they were nice about it. The second two...” Jackie grimaced.
“Scary?”
“Very scary. Like something out of a crime movie. One man looked Hispanic, but he had strawberry-blond hair that didn’t seem to go with the rest of him. His friend was muscly and didn’t do anything but stare. When I turned them down, they told me their boss wouldn’t be pleased.”
“Did they say who their boss was?”
Jackie shook her head. “That’s what I’m afraid of… that phase three is meeting the boss.”
“Do you know why they want the place?” asked Declan.
“No. They never say. I asked them, but they ignored me.”
A phone rang and Jackie glanced behind her.
“That’s the office phone. It’s probably Seamus letting me know he’ll be late. Come back with me. I have some papers I found in the parking lot that I think the second lot of visitors dropped. There might be some information you can use to figure out who they are.”
Declan and Charlotte followed Jackie to the office. By the time they arrived, the phone had stopped ringing. Jackie shrugged.
“He’ll try my cell if it was him.”
She rustled through some papers and retrieved a yellowing, folded sheet of thick paper. Unfolding it, she laid it out flat and tried to smooth it with her palm.
“It looks like a map,” said Declan.
Charlotte nodded. “But it’s so scribbly. All these connected boxes on this side...and look at this long stripe that goes to—what does that say?”
Declan squinted. “Does it say something? I’m not sure that’s even writing.”
Charlotte looked up at Jackie. “Are you sure the men dropped this?”
“No. Could have been anyone. It just happened to show up on the same day, so I kept it. Do you want to see the skunk?”
Charlotte laughed. “No, I think we’re good. I don’t think fingerprints stick to skunks.”
Declan straightened. “Did you hear that? Sounded like a car door.”
“Seamus,” said Jackie.
She sounded relieved.
Chapter Fourteen
Stephanie stomped her brakes and the Viper skidded three feet down the dirt road.
She’d seen a flash of metal through the trees.
Another car appeared ahead of her, pulling into the parking lot of Jackie’s bar.
She’d caught up to Pirro and his thugs before they had time to hurt Jackie.
Stephanie pulled a pair of binoculars from her glove compartment and stepped from her car to gain a better view.
She needed to make sure it was them. If the car ahead of her belonged to Jackie, she wasn’t sure how to explain her presence.
Hi Jackie, I’m an old friend of Declan and Seamus. Remember me? I thought I’d swing by and find out how easy it would be for a red-headed drug prince to kill you...
The binoculars came into focus. The car didn’
t belong to Jackie. She didn’t know what Jackie drove, but she knew it wasn’t a silver Impala with stylized flames across the hood. Only one cretin drove that car.
Pirro.
With dark skin, pale red hair and a face like a chewed piece of gum, the last thing that man needed was a flashy car to draw attention.
Yet there it was.
She watched as two other men hopped from the Impala. One lit a cigarette. The other drew a gun and headed toward the club.
Here we go.
She hadn’t planned on everything happening so fast.
Stephanie looked back at her car and remembered with renewed dismay that she’d forgotten her gun. Usually, she kept a spare in the trunk, but she’d taken the Glock inside her office to clean the day before.
Stupid, stupid.
It wasn’t like her to make such a moronic mistake. Maybe it was her subconscious trying to tell her something.
Maybe I should get a shrink. Get a little therapy, get in touch with my feelings, and then kill the doctor so he or she doesn’t rat on me...
Maybe she was sick of killing Louis’s enemies, but right now she longed to kill Pirro.
Kicking off her Louboutins, she winced as one skidded along the dirt road and slipped into a muddy little moat.
Seven hundred dollar shoes. I could have been a little less dramatic.
Breaking into a sprint, she removed the jacket of her skirt-suit and hung it on a broken branch as she passed. She jerked up her skirt to keep it from restricting her stride. The gravel road bit into the bottoms of her feet, but she pressed on.
This was her chance to do something good. Something Declan could appreciate.
Plus she really wanted to kill Pirro. She felt very in touch with her feelings on that one.
The man with the gun was nearing Jackie’s door. There was no way to get by Pirro and his smoking partner and get to the door without being spotted. Several feet short from the parking lot, Stephanie stopped and leaned over, slipping her fingers into the swamp mud.
Does Declan have any idea the things I do for him?
She smeared the mud on her face and arms. She couldn’t bear to slap mud on her Burberry blouse. Unbuttoning it, she limped onto the asphalt, her lacy bra exposed, her hair rumpled to cascade across her face.
“Help,” she said, walking toward the smoking man. She tried to call loud enough to catch the attention of the man about to enter the building, but he opened the door and disappeared inside without turning.
Shoot. Have to make this quick.
“Hey.” The smoking man spotted her. He knocked the side of his fist against the car door to catch the driver’s attention before walking towards her.
“Eh, Chica, you look like you could use some help.”
Stephanie peered through her hair at the leering smile on the man’s face. He was as likely to help her as she was likely to let him live another ten minutes.
Pirro popped his head through the passenger window.
“Hey baby, what—”
Stephanie watched the leer drop from Pirro’s face. His eyes grew wide.
“Chewie, don’t! That’s that crazy—”
Still grinning, Chewie turned to better hear Pirro. “What?”
Bad move, Chewie.
The moment his attention diverted, Stephanie lunged forward like a cobra. She snatched Chewie’s gun from his waist band, firing it into his gut as she pulled it from his belt.
He’d felt her arrive a second too late. His head turned, his mouth forming a large O as he doubled over and fell to the ground, clutching his stomach.
Stephanie stepped aside to let him fall and strode toward Pirro, gun raised and pointed at his gaping mouth. He whipped back into his car.
It pained her, but she made a judgment call.
“You better run, Pirro. You touch your gun and I will make sure you die last and slow.”
Pirro knew her reputation well enough not to doubt her. He hit the gas and rolled into the adjoining field, making a wide U-turn back toward the road.
Tracing his progress with her gun, Stephanie gritted her teeth. She’d wanted to kill Pirro, but the gun she’d pulled from Chewie only had five bullets left, tops. He carried an archaic six-shooter. Obviously liked to pretend he was an old-time gunslinger. A purist.
She could have easily sunk the remaining five bullets into the Impala without touching Pirro, who had a gun, or guns, of his own… and knowledge of Chewie’s weapon of choice. As afraid of her as he was, he knew she wasn’t bulletproof.
A shot and a scream rang out and Stephanie swiveled her attention to the dance club. For the first time she noticed a car parked on the opposite side of the building.
She recognized it.
It was Declan’s.
Stephanie bolted for the club. Behind her, another gunshot rang and she heard something wiz by her head. Pirro had taken a potshot at her on his way down the road
Such a jackass.
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte cocked her head and heard what sounded like a chair sliding across the club’s wooden floor.
“Here he comes. Sounds like he already took a seat at the bar.”
Jackie laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Declan took a step toward the partially closed door of the office.
Suddenly, the world around Charlotte burst into a tornado of motion.
The door flung inward. Declan dodged to avoid being struck by it. As he twisted, a man appeared in the doorway and raised his arm, leveling a gun at Jackie’s face.
Charlotte fought to free her body from the shock of the commotion, diving toward Jackie as the crack of the weapon echoed through the small room. Jackie screamed and collapsed beneath Charlotte’s tackle. Her left foot shot forward, punching the back of Declan’s knee, causing him to buckle backwards. Something hot bit Charlotte’s shoulder. It felt as though she’d been stung by a wasp.
A wasp made of lava.
An odd thought crossed her mind.
Television lies.
On TV, gun-shot people claimed the wound didn’t even hurt, thanks to the shock of the event.
That was a lie.
Her shoulder sang with pain.
Landing on Jackie, Charlotte looked up in time to see Declan’s legs collapsing. He’d been clipped hard by Jackie’s fall.
She thrust her arm upward and shoved his butt skyward. It was all he needed. He regained his balance.
What next?
Charlotte realized she didn’t know what to do. Her instinct had been to push Jackie from the path of the bullet, but what did she do once she was on her friend and on the floor? Television never showed that part. Now they were both on the ground, sitting ducks for the next bullet. Assuming the intruder’s gun had any power at all, he could shoot through them both with one bullet.
While she appreciated economy of effort, she wasn’t rooting for the man to save ammunition today.
She saw Jackie’s mouth move but heard nothing. Her ears were ringing. Jackie looked terrified.
Charlotte turned toward the intruder and watched Declan crack the man across the wrist with what looked like a real karate chop. The gun fell to the ground, blasting a second time as it tumbled. Even Charlotte’s ringing ears heard the bullet strike the wall above her head. She ducked, cringing and pushing Jackie’s head lower.
Though in mortal danger, on the upside, she wasn’t totally deaf—or at least she wasn’t before the second shot. Now she wasn’t so sure. Though she thought she detected the muffled sounds of Jackie growing increasingly hysterical.
Let’s try this again.
The man snarled and struck at Declan, who swept his arm to the right, deflecting the blow. He tagged the assailant with his left fist, but as the man’s head snapped back, he kicked out with his leg, catching the side of Declan’s shin. The two of them exchanged a flurry of blows, each blocking the other’s punch or kick with one of his own.
Short of an action movie, Charlotte had neve
r seen two people fight so furiously before. It was almost as if a director had choreographed the battle. Stunned by the violent dance, it took her a second to realize Declan might appreciate some help.
“Stay down,” she said to Jackie, knowing that between the gun shots and the screaming, there wasn’t much chance she’d been heard. Considering the panic on Jackie’s expression, she wasn’t too worried her friend would try to rise any time soon.
Charlotte scrambled to her feet.
“Get the gun,” roared Declan.
Charlotte perked. I heard that!
How Declan was able to see what she was doing while playing some sort of savage patty-cake game, she didn’t know.
Good idea, though.
She searched for the gun, unsure where it had skittered after the second shot. Spotting the weapon near the file cabinet, she reached for it, only to have her hand stomped on by the intruder.
Seems their foe could also multitask.
She howled in pain.
Declan rushed the man, sending him slamming back into the door jamb. The force shifted the man’s foot from Charlotte’s fingers to the gun, kicking the weapon across the room. Charlotte scrambled after it. She’d nearly reached it when the two fighting men stumbled back in the opposite direction, grappling and twirling as they struggled for power. Jackie squealed and scrambled behind the desk. Declan’s heel hit the gun and it spun into the desk leg before ricocheting back toward the file cabinet.
Charlotte rolled out of the way to avoid being trampled.
Spotting the gun on the opposite side of the room, she again crawled toward it, only to have the battle switch directions, blocking her progress.
On her hands and knees she peered up at the wrestling men. “Oh come on.”
Pleased to find she could hear her own complaining, she dove for the gun and grabbed it, hastily pointing it back at its owner.
She never had a chance to scream Freeze! or Stop or I’ll shoot! or any of the other cool things she’d remember shouting when she collected her dramatic private-eye exploits into a best-selling memoir.
Declan robbed her of the chance.
