by Arden, Susan
Outside, the morning was heating up to be a scorcher. Not even seven-thirty and he wanted to lose the tie and jacket. The drive into the city would take forty-five minutes. He adjusted his Bluetooth so he could converse while driving and shifted into gear.
Mondays usually meant a complete check-in with every Denver-based business of Shawn’s. He had a list, and none of the managers knew who he’d start the week off visiting. He took care of Shawn’s issues whether they were minor or a full-fledged investigation into the management of a business, like this morning. It was his job to maintain order and he did so with a Glock 30 Gen 4. A standard .45 caliber that he kept holstered. On days like today, he brought his go-to backup out of the glove compartment: another Glock with an extra clip, giving him ten rounds of sit-up-and-listen authority.
The chaos inside his head made it all the more necessary for external structure. When he’d returned from his tour of duty in the Marines, he’d attempted to return to his old life, but nothing fit. Being a neuropsychologist in the last month of his residency had no longer made sense. Surrounded by veterans plagued by PTSD, he abhorred the diagnoses he handed out and worse, the lack of support provided by the hospital and community at large. What he and Fin had…. Christ. This condition was not going away anytime soon. If there was any easy answer, he’d have found it, personally employed it. Not come to work at the hospital wondering when he’d have an anxiety break. By the time his nightmares had increased to the point that he never slept for more than a few hours at a time, he knew his life had changed. Forever. Then all hell broke loose. The anxiety attacks got worse. Happened wherever and whenever. He’d seen it in other vets. Same thing with him. Either he quit or he’d be dismissed, or worse, put on disability.
Tristen downshifted coming off the highway. He floored the gas when the green light change to yellow at the intersection up ahead. The restaurant was just across the street, and he had no intention of giving any idiot staring out the front window a heads-up trouble was on the way.
Chomping on a piece of gum, he blew his last bubble before he hit the brakes at the end of the alleyway in back of the restaurant. Tristen parked, wadded the gum inside the wrapper, and tossed it into the ashtray.
All this for a bunch of perishables that had gone missing over several weeks. Something didn’t jive. What the hell had the manager thought…that no one would miss the inventory? Tristen wanted to teach the bastard a lesson he’d never forget.
He crossed the back alley, walking down the narrow passage, and studied a white unmarked van with smoke puffing out of the tailpipe. He hugged the side of the building, sliding into a back doorway, took out his phone, and snapped a round of photographs, capturing the license plate. He ran a search through the DMV as the pressure in his head increased. As if on cue, Mike appeared from the back of the restaurant.
Stupid son of a bitch. The restaurant manager carried out a box and pushed it into the van. Tristen snapped a picture. For a few minutes, he observed Mike load more boxes into the van. There was no mistake that the miserable rat was a thief. A text came back from his connection, and the van wasn’t registered to Mike. Same last name though. Which meant he’d borrowed it or had help with what was going down. Well, he could deal with this face-to-face or turn over the photographs to Shawn’s council and let them handle the dirty details of firing the cocksucker and pressing theft charges for everything that had been stolen.
That didn’t sit right with him. So much expense.
The manager went back inside the restaurant, and Tristen made his move. Tucking his phone into his pocket, he withdrew his handgun and left the cover of the doorway. With his arm hanging straight down at his side, the gun touching his thigh, he walked toward the van. He made it to the back of the restaurant without the manager coming back out. Tristen peered into the van then focused on the scuffling footsteps coming from the service entrance.
“Good morning, Mike.” Tristen cocked his head. He estimated the half-dozen beer kegs loaded into the back of van had required the assistance of someone else. “What do we have here?” He raised the pistol and pointed it directly at the prominent Cro-Magnon ridge running over the man’s forehead.
Mike flinched, and his eyes widened. “Wait, Tristen. What’s that for? We were just moving the stock. There’s mice or rats trashing the dry goods. Today I’m going to clean out the storage area.”
“Strange. We pay for pest control, and this restaurant passed the county inspection. When was that, last month?” Just then another man came out of the rear door of the restaurant carrying a box of wine. Tristen grabbed Mike’s shirt and pointed the gun at the other man. “The only rats around here are you and…your brother?”
The other man dropped the box. The sound of breaking glass coupled with a harsh foreign dialect filled the air. Red wine spilled from the box over the man’s shoes.
“You, shut the fuck up.” He spun the manager into a choke hold and pressed the gun into the other man’s chest. “Okay, then?”
The manager began trembling. “Please, Tristen, we aren’t criminals. You don’t understand. This is for protection. Everyone around here pays a tithe. If you don’t, they come find you.”
Tristen tightened his hold. “What the hell are you saying? Who is shaking you down? I want names and addresses.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s going to cost you, dumbass. Don’t waste my time. Start talking. And who the hell is he?”
“My cousin. His name is Illman. Listen, Tristen, I swear this is the first time we’ve ever done anything like this. I was going to tell—”
“I was wrong, motherfucker. Shut. Up.” Tristen knocked the side of Mike’s head with the butt of the pistol. “What you’re going to do is replace every can, every bottle, every goddamn item you stole. You’ve got three hours. Three bloody hours. You try and leave town, and I’ll find you. I’ll find your family. I’ll find your friends. It won’t be pretty. I’m so fucking confident you’re ready to shit your pants, I’m not going to hold one of you while the other one scurries. Let’s see. It’s 9:05. You’ve got until noon to restock this restaurant. If you don’t come back, you’d better hide underground. I’ll find your sorry ass. Give me your keys.”
“What? Why my keys?”
“Einstein, you’re fired. How stupid do you think I am? Take all those boxes out of the van, put them back in the restaurant, and get going. You’ve screwed up my whole schedule, you moron.”
“Tristen, it’s not what you think. It’s more….”
More. Tristen’s head throbbed. “Hold on. You’re right. What the hell are you up to at night? After the place closes?”
The color drained from Mike’s face. “Nothing.”
“Motherfucker liar of lies. Try again.”
“I let them store some boxes here. A few nights. And then they came and got them.”
“Who the hell is them? What the hell was in the boxes, and don’t tell me, shithead, you don’t know.”
“Charlie Gordon. His men. From the east. Weapons. Guns.”
“Geez Louise. How much of a dumbass are you? I should punch your lights out on principle.”
Hell. Chuck Gordon. He was a lowlife. A punk on the rise. Running security for Shawn, Tristen didn’t mess around and kept things tight by knowing every detail of every person’s life who worked for Shawn. People like Gordon were dealt with by the IRS, the justice system, and the banking system. Humans with rights. The shifters came to Shawn for what they needed. Now, with this new justice system, Tristen couldn’t put his hands on a shifter. Everything went according to a set of orderly rules including when theft occurred. It was all new, and he wasn’t certain how it would play out. But just like the Marines, he went with the flow, as long as it made sense.
He inhaled and unhanded Mike. “That piece of shit got you to do this to Shawn?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
Tristen refused to comment. He walked back to his car, opened the side door to retrieve his
case. He clicked open the lock and lifted the lid, revealing a selection of weapons and sophisticated electronics. He removed a small GPS tracking device. Returning to the restaurant alley, he watched as Mike and his cousin carried in the last of the boxes from the rear of the van. He bent down and attached the tracking device under the bumper.
“Listen the hell up. I know about you. Mike Eldar, aka Mikail Eldarkhanov. I also know where your wife works, where your children go to school. I know how much money you have in the bank. Your fake green card and your family’s address in Chechen where you send money each month. So don’t, I repeat, don’t think I won’t find you. You made a mistake stealing from Peter to pay Paul. You don’t get paid to make those decisions, dumbass.”
“And what about you, Tristen? These men will come back. Looking for someone.”
“I’ve a few friends of my own. I can deal. Next time, you go to your boss before you do something as idiotic as this. Call me when you’ve got everything back in place.”
“I’ll go get the stuff. And then we’re leaving town. Okay?”
“Hey, what you do after you square this problem is your concern, not mine.”
He hated this part of his job. It wasn’t one life screwed up; Mike held the strings to many lives. Tristen had to keep reminding himself the manager had made a decision, and his choice to steal from Shawn left few options. Motherfucking devil. Tristen hated the details.
He punched in Shawn’s number on his phone. “I dealt with taking out the garbage.”
“I take it you’re being metaphorical?”
“Good news. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about missing inventory.”
“What happened?” Shawn asked slowly. “Did that prick steal from me after I helped him and his family?”
“Yes. I found him walking out with inventory. Caught red-handed. Family in a white van. I’m sending you a photograph as a keepsake. Mike has been given three hours to return what’s missing. I’ve got his keys. I’ll arrange for a locksmith and rekey the security. I’m going to shift Adam, from the Den, over here. He wants a promotion.”
“Why not Keith from Spangles?”
“They’re shorthanded. The assistant manager is on his honeymoon. Left on Saturday. That would require two moves. Is that the route you want to go?”
“No. I forgot. You’re right. Put your plan into play. Check with me later.”
“Shawn, that’s not the whole of it.”
He could hear his boss exhale. “From the sound of your voice, I take it it’s not good.”
“Yeah. Had some report of a shakedown going on from Chuck Gordon. I believe his story. I’ve heard some rumors on things heating up on the East.”
“That fucker. He’s a train wreck…mixed in good with the shit brewing over on the East side. What the hell is Denver coming to?” Shawn’s voice lowered. “I’ve no doubt he was telling the truth. There are rumblings about mercenaries and the shakedowns. Shifters taking justice into their own hands, and even two-bit ex-cons like Gordon are springing up as crime lords.”
“This ain’t Kansas no more. And maybe this a good time to broach this subject: we need another person to deal with the upkeep of the businesses. Especially with all that’s raining down.”
“I got that. You know of anyone?”
“No. I wasn’t looking until I spoke to you.”
“Start looking. And let me know if you find someone. Remember, they become part of our family, of sorts. No screwballs.”
“Count on it.” Tristen hung up, and waited while the men returned to the van. “Mike, you let me know when you’re on your way back. You messed up. Don’t make a bigger problem out of this.” He didn’t watch which direction the van drove. The tracking device would keep him informed. He texted security and had a man stationed on the street to keep an eye on them if they did anything suspicious.
By noon, Tristen received a report that Mike and his cousin had come and gone several times, bringing in boxes of goods including plates, cookware, and linens. In the interim, Shawn had the new manager come in and do an inventory. The final count detailed everything but a few bottles of wine still missing. Probably the box that had dropped. Tristen texted Mike to wait for him at the restaurant.
So far, Tristen had spent the day in his car moving from site to site. When he pulled into the alley behind the restaurant, he dialed Mike’s number. “I’m out back.”
The former manager and his cousin approached his car. “Everything was returned. Like we promised.”
“You owe Mr. Barclay three hundred and sixty-three dollars. I want that paid in cash.”
“No argument. I’ll pay.” Sweat covered Mike’s face and his pupils were dilated. The man stunk of metallic-scented fear.
“The amount is due now.”
The former manager counted out the bills as Tristen studied his cousin. The man had a different build than Mike. Stocky, with burly arms where Mike was lanky, a squirrelly kinda guy. Illman kept glancing at Tristen’s car, edging back along the trunk. “Tell your cousin if he fucking scratches my paint job, I’ll have his ass for lunch.”
Mike spoke at a rapid-fire clip, and his cousin waved his arms, frowning. “He only likes your car.”
“I understand talking shit in any language. I don’t want to see you around here. You got me?”
“We’re gone. Those men will be back. They were supposed to be paid tonight.”
“Watch yourself, Mike. Keep your nose clean. There’s always someone who wants a shortcut.”
The manager turned and, accompanied by his cousin, quickly got into the van and drove away. Tristen had gotten confirmation that they were packing up their apartment. Seemed like Mike was telling the truth. Jesus. Whoever was doing the shaking down would be back. Another problem. Fucking-A.
Shawn had a few more loose ends to tie up with the security system, but without anyone Tristen could hand off to, it was on his shoulders. The rest of his day rolled along with more meetings, but no more mishaps.
Tristen’s head pounded triple-time as he mounted the steps of the Downtown Den. He was in no mood to play nice during his upcoming fact-finding mission between Fin and his extra-special buddy. He’d half wondered if Fin would show given he’d left the box of matches on the counter next to his empty coffee cup. He’d not heard from his taciturn partner, except a text he’d received about an hour ago, confirming dinner. Scrambling, he’d called the Den and requested a private room. He didn’t relish an evening of conversation discussing various aspects of hardcore bondage scenes while seated at the bar which was open to the public.
“Sherry, I’m late. Is the room ready?” He approached the woman in charge of reservations—and just about everything else—for clients. “Thanks for dealing with me on short notice.”
“You’re top of the list. No matter what.” Sherry smiled at him seductively. It wasn’t personal. Her curved-lipped greeting was part of her charm and hence the reason she ruled the Den. Behind those shimmering eyes and beguiling smile lay a cutthroat manager. Only one man had the ability to ruffle her feathers: Shawn’s partner, Quinn Rothschild. Those two could often be heard going toe-to-toe over the management of the place. He didn’t know if they were more than business adversaries. That wasn’t his interest.
“Just as you requested. Fin is already seated. I’ve opened a bottle of Domaine Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet Les Folatières 1er Cru, on the house, love,” she purred with her British accent. “Do you want me to seat you?”
“No, I can find my way.” He half-turned right as his back was slapped. “Quinn, how’s it going?”
The man towered over Tristen. A formidable Lycan shifter. Yeah, he could use someone like Quinn for security, but he was an attorney and part owner of the club. “A few glitches, but nothing like your day.”
“Par for the course. We didn’t do too bad in the end. No losses except for time and manpower.”
“You’re amazing. Thanks.”
Tristen nodded, then turned back to
Sherry. Color rioted over her milky chest, neck, and face. Fuck, this was a meltdown waiting to happen. “Thanks, Sher. Later.”
He walked away, not fast enough to escape hearing Sherry ask Quinn, “What glitches are you talking about?”
Tristen walked across the dark-paneled bar, ignoring the throbbing in his head. There were several private alcoves with doors off to one side. A popular trio cranked. It was a full house tonight. He stopped in front of the doorway to the private room. The door was closed. Not the usual, given it was in a corner and music was playing. Fin normally enjoyed the jazz group featured. Tristen rubbed his head, trying to plaster on an expression that didn’t betray his state of mind.
He pulled open the door and met a pair of liquid black eyes belonging to the man who held Fin by the hand, stroking his palm with two extended fingers.
“Well, what do we have here?” Tristen kept his voice level, refusing to react to the gastric burn rising in his throat.
Chapter Four
“Tris, we were just talking about you. Santo is reading my palm. Care for a turn?”
The expression on Tristen’s face was Kodak-worthy, but the idea of teasing him wasn’t. Normally. But desperate times required desperate measures, and he was at the end of his wolf wits on how to jar his jarhead lover into action. Tristen had a razor edge to his controlling persona, and a jealous streak with the tendency to take off as though it was a runaway train.
“Tell me what you see.” Fin ignored the glower plastered on Tristen’s gorgeous face and pretended rapt attention as to what Santo was chatting on about. The feel of Santo’s cold hands was nothing to get worked up about. But Tristen would find that out soon enough. Better to build a fire under his lover’s jealous ass and let him start to boil. Tonight, he had every intention of feeding Tristen’s green-eyed monster until it was stuffed to the gills. Hell, if this is what it took to get Tris’s attention, so be it. Santo had been prepped, and he knew the issues. Now it was showtime.
