The Frenchman's Revenge

by Taylor Lee

  For the next while, Bai patiently demonstrated how savate fighters anticipated their opponents’ moves.

  “You rolled the way everyone does, Alex, and an accomplished savate fighter knows that and is prepared to counteract your move.”

  They worked for several moments, Bai expertly guiding his movements with a flick of his wrist or an inspired throw over his shoulder. When it seemed as though Alex was beginning to catch on, Bai motioned for Elena to come back in. He directed them move by move, the expert choreographer that he was, praising their quickness and adaptability.

  “Excellent, Alex. You are a natural. One more thing and then we can set up a practice schedule and I’ll work with you. Remember, this if you forget everything else. Unlike kung fu, there isn’t one goddamn thing honorable about savate. The savate fighter has one goal in mind and that is to kill his opponent in as dirty and painful a way as possible. Remember that and you’ll know why I occasionally call on my savate skills.”

  He added with a grin, “They’ve served me well.”

  At that moment, Nianzu called to him from the doorway and Bai stood in response. He leaned over and kissed Elena, whispering in her ear. She blushed and it wasn’t hard to imagine what he said.

  As he left the dojo, Bai called back to Elena.

  “Don’t hurt him too bad, cherie. He’s a sensitive guy.”

  Chortling with laughter, Bai and Nianzu left the dojo leaving a red-faced Alex grimacing. But even though he was angry, Alex couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Elena threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “I’ve missed you, Alex. Please come back. I need you in my life.”

  Alex blushed, and assumed a fighting stance. He yelled a spirit cry then charged at his sister with both fists raised.

  ~~

  Chapter 23

  Rory Calhoun sat in the bar of the Palace Hotel biding his time, drinking in the magnificence of the opulent landmark hotel.

  The train ride from New York had been uneventful; in fact, it had been damn near pleasant, Rory thought. Amazing that a trip that used to take nearly a week now was less than half of that and, with the private sleeping cars, a man could arrive ready for business. He and Mike were waiting in the bar for Patrick Doyle, Rory’s head man on the West Coast. Pat’s cousin, Sean Byrne, was a major player in California financial circles and a long time friend of Wyatt McManus, the former governor of Wyoming. Pat and Sean had arranged tonight’s dinner. Rory knew he had one opportunity to make an impression on the Frenchman, and he sure as hell intended to make it a good one.

  ~~~

  Rory refilled Patrick’s glass and looked at his friend in appreciation. He was as Irish as Rory, but unlike Rory’s fiery good looks, Pat was what they called black Irish. Curly dark hair surrounded his handsome face and his emerald green eyes sparkled at the thought of their upcoming dinner.

  “I expect this to be an evening none of us will forget. Sean says it’s unusual at best that the Frenchman is willing to attend. I know you’re gonna be impressed. Christ, how could you not be?”

  Pat motioned to the older scruffy looking man he had brought with him.

  “I invited Finn to join us for a drink, Rory. He has some first hand experience with the Frenchman that I thought you’d like to hear.”

  Rory nodded to the little man, encouraging him to speak.

  “Tell me anything you can about this phenomenon we’re about to meet.”

  Finn took a long draft off his whisky and held out his glass for a refill. He began his tale slowly, then picked up speed and intensity as he threw himself into the story.

  Shaking his head with a disbelieving sigh, Finn began, “I wanna tell you. I’ve seen a lot of things in me day, some I’ll take to me grave. But if I live in Purgatory for the next million years, I’ll not forget that goddamn night.”

  Rory nodded when Finn held up his glass for a refill. Nothing like a consummate Irishman, Rory thought with an appreciative grin. It hadn’t taken Finn long to settle into the storyteller’s mode, the top spot in any Irish gathering, greasing his tale with liberal swigs of booze.

  Rory eyed the wiry little man who looked puny at best. But Rory knew better. Patrick surrounded himself with the best and Rory was confident the unprepossessing midget man was an accomplished killer, which made the awe in his voice when he spoke of the Frenchman more compelling.

  “You know when you first see ‘im, he kinda looks like a skinny little fart of a fella. Everything about him looks, well…kinda windy, foppish. Sorta …ah, bugger me, what’s the word?”

  “You mean ‘elegant?’” Patrick offered.

  “Yeah! That’s what I mean. Like he should be wearin’ a top hat and them tails or somethin’. So these two who were ‘bout to fight meet out in the alley behind the Rusty Nail. Some of his men were standin’ back; I guess makin’ sure nobody else got in. The Frenchie stood there, them yellow eyes of his gleamin’ like jewels, sizin’ up that Dago, who was struttin’ around like a barnyard rooster eyin’ a flock of hens. Frenchie just looked at ‘im with a little smile, then he took off his boots and put them off to the side, neat as you please. Then he took off his shirt and all of a sudden that skinny body din’t look so skimpy no more. Hell, there wasn’t a piece of ‘im that weren’t made of muscle. It was like he rippled or somethin’. I ain’t never seen nuthin’ like it. That Wop, big moose that he was, din’t look so big no more. And he sure as hell din’t look so goddamn cocky neither.

  “Then Frenchie kinda grinned at ‘im and said somethin’ like ‘Time to call on your saints, asshole.’ And before the Dago could say a word, Frenchie let out a yell that woulda scared the shite outa the hounds of hell. Sure as fuck scared me.”

  Finn shook his head, then took another slug of whisky, as though he needed the liquid courage to face what he had seen.

  “He was like a flyin’ man. You ain’t seen nuthin’ like it, Rory. It was like watchin’ a dancer or somthin’ leapin’, jumpin’ up in the air, no way the Wop could lay a fist on ‘im. But every time Frenchie came down, he put his heel in that poor bastard’s face or his bollocks or somewhere on his body. Hell, I woudna be surprised if he chopped off that Dago’s dick with a couple of them kicks. Then it was like a beast had entered the Frenchie. He was flyin’ through the air like a lion or a tiger or a panther or somethin’. You know how them animals leap? That’s what he looked like.

  “He got that Wop bastard down on the ground. You could see a man your size, Rory, beatin’ a body to death. But, hell, Frenchie’s as tall as you, but you got at least forty-fifty pounds on ‘im. And that Dago weren’t no pussy. Nah, he was like a boxer, mean and strong, twice as big and muscley as those damn Wops ever get. But then the Frenchie started kickin’ ‘im. I never knew you could break a body’s neck by drivin’ your heel under his chin but I’ll be damned if that ain’t exactly what Frenchie done.”

  Finn breathed a heartfelt sigh and shook his head as if in wonder and took another large swallow of whiskey.

  “Goddamn, if he din’t fuckin’ kick ‘im to death. Then, like one of them ‘cup de gratcies,’ as the French peoples say, he pulls outa knife and slits the Dago’s throat, kinda for good measure, I’m guessin’. He wipes the knife on his pants and puts it back God knows where. He puts on his shirt, pulls on his boots, and lights a cigarette. Then he turns and walks away without so much as a how de doo. He looked like he wasn’t even breathin’ hard. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  ~~~

  Rory decided he needed a weapon, after all. He told Mike and Patrick to go ahead to the dining room Sean Byrne had reserved. He would join them after he retrieved one of his trusty blades from his hotel room. Hell, even if this was supposed to be a civilized evening, Finn’s tale reminded him he had stayed alive all these years by being prepared, never letting his guard down.

  He was hunting for the dining room when he stopped, pulled up short, knowing that he was looking at the most beautiful women he’d
ever seen. Shock and hard cold lust sucked the breath out of his chest. Gasping for air, he leaned against the wall to regain his balance.

  She was slender, taller than average, but the most remarkable thing about her body were the lush curves that filled her fashionably risky dress. Christ almighty, how could a slender woman have breasts like that, straining to get free from the indigo silk that barely contained them? Sweet Jesus, they were full enough, firm enough to fill even his large hands. If that wasn’t enough, her curvy hips and the sweetest tightest little ass he had seen in a long time had his dick beating against his trouser flap like the devil’s drum stick. But it wasn’t her incredible body that stopped him cold, fluttering like a trembling bird instead of a six foot two statue of a man. It wasn’t even those sparkling sapphire eyes that danced like the waves on Galway Bay on a bright sunny morn. No, it was her fucking hair. A cloud of the most glorious fiery red curls he’d ever seen surrounded her beautiful pale face.

  She hadn’t seen him coming and looked startled when he stepped in front of her, both by him and, he was sure, by the hunger on his face. If he looked anywhere near as ravenous as he felt, no wonder he’d scared her. He overcame his momentary loss of speech and a rumbling laugh bubbled up in his chest as he confronted the vision in front of him. Years of captivating women and his carefully honed blarney stood him in good stead. He pasted his biggest Irish grin on his mug and put up his hands to show good faith.

  “Glory be, lass! When they ask me at the pearly gates if I’ve been good, I’ll say, I must have been a saint, Mary’s chosen lad, because I saw heaven itself before they sent me off on my way to hell!”

  Rory’s Irish brogue and banter brought a smile to the woman’s full red lips and she laughed--a soft, delicious sound.

  “I don’t want to frighten you, lass, but, Mother of God, when I’ve come face to face with a lass as haunting as the Irish Sea, you’ll have to forgive me for being so forward.”

  Elena smiled at the big man in front of her. He was tall and his hair was as red as hers and his eyes almost as blue. He towered over her, all male, big and strong, the kind of man who knew how to sweet talk a woman.

  Rory moved closer to her and looked deep in her eyes, as if he was searching for the answer to her beauty.

  “Tell me, lass, which part of God’s country produced a beauty like you? Killarney? County Cork? Dublin?

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I was born and raised in Wyoming.”

  “Ah, that explains it. You must be related to that Gov. McManus I’ve heard about. Now, lass, with the fire raging in your hair and the blue of the Shannon River in your eyes, you can’t deny it. That’s an Irish name if I ever heard one.”

  “You’re right about my father, but again, sir, I’m sorry to torpedo your theories. The McManus name was the last one on the register at the flop house where some man dumped the squaw who gave birth to my father. The only heritage I’m aware of on my father’s side is Apache.”

  She tossed her head, freeing more of the unruly curls from the jeweled pins restraining them, and turned to walk away.

  “Ah, lass, no, no, no. Don’t leave. Tell me what room you’re in. After I finish my dinner obligations I will come to you. I canna let heaven on earth walk away now that I’ve found you. The angels protecting their Irish lads would never forgive me.”

  Rory reached out to touch her, knowing if he did nothing else, he had to run his fingers through those riotous curls. His hand was a scant two inches above her head when he heard a “shtick” and a knife flew from nowhere and pinned his sleeve to the wall. He looked up, startled to see a young Chinese man standing twenty feet away, his hard gaze locked on Rory’s face.

  As stunning as the woman was who stood next to him, Rory knew he had never seen a more striking man. He was tall, slender and, yes, elegant. His expensive casual clothing was made for his lean muscled body. His dark hair hung carelessly close to his collar and his mixed Chinese European features were as arresting as they were stunning. But it was his eyes, hard, fierce, and gleaming yellow that snatched Rory’s breath.

  Within seconds, the twenty feet that separated them evaporated as the young man moved next to him a graceful, dangerous predator ready to take down his prey.

  Taking a deep breath, Rory said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “May I presume you are the Frenchman?”

  “You may.”

  “And may I also presume this lovely lass is your woman?”

  “Oui. Elena is my woman… and my wife.”

  Seeing the deadly possessiveness in the other man’s eyes, Rory’s stomach lurched as the ground fell out from under him. Calling on the saints, or more likely the devils that had protected him all his life, he forced himself to breathe deep.

  “May I make one more assumption?”

  The Frenchman nodded.

  “For some reason, you have chosen not to kill me?”

  Bai’s eyes twinkled and a sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “Not at this time.”

  Rory straightened and turned back to Elena. He reached for the nine inch blade impaling his sleeve to the wall, but as he went to remove it, Elena grabbed it. She twisted the blade hard against Rory’s wrist and pulled it out, leaving a bloody gash on the inside of his wrist. Without taking her eyes off his startled face, she handed the blood spattered knife to the Frenchman, who wiped it off on a fine linen handkerchief and returned the knife to a hidden place in his boot.

  Accepting the bloodied cloth the Frenchman handed him, Rory wrapped it around his bleeding wrist and hoped his expression was as impassive as both of theirs. He said as gracefully as he could, “I am pleased to see this beautiful lass has found someone worthy of her.”

  Then nodding at his bandaged wrist, he added, “And that you have found someone worthy of you.”

  ~~~

  At that moment, the door opened and Sean Byrne strode out. A thoughtful man, Sean had quieted his colorful Irish heritage and relied instead on his reputation as a power broker in San Francisco’s financial circles. But there was nothing like kinfolk to bring out the blarney in the most subdued of the brethren.

  Sean saw them and his ruddy faced flushed with pleasure.

  “Ah, good, you are all here. Bai, Elena, Rory… great, please come in. Patrick and Mike and the Governor and Nianzu are already inside. Rory, I see that you have met Bai and Elena.”

  He shook Bai’s hand and then Rory’s. He leaned over and took hold of both of Elena’s hands, then bent down and kissed her on her cheek. Looking back at his towering red-haired guest, he grinned at the awed look on his face.

  “Tell me, Rory, in all your days of chasing after the skirts of sweet Irish lasses, have you ever seen anything more beautiful than this woman?”

  Rory’s response was careful, reverent.

  “Never in all my life.”

  ~~

  Chapter 24

  Rory was accustomed to spiking any dinner conversation with raucous stories and jousted with Sean, Patrick, and Mike in their efforts to outdo one another with outrageous tales. The whisky flowed as freely as their blarney. Rory caught Wyatt winking at Elena throughout the evening as Rory and the other Irishmen preened, fighting for her attention, while keeping a cautious eye on her understandably protective husband. He saw Elena occasionally look at Bai as if to see how he was handling their awestruck overtures. Like the men, she seemed relieved that the cordial smile never left his lips.

  Christ, if anything, Rory thought, Bai was the most charming of them all. He smiled at their stories; knowledgably discussed New York politics and added to their understanding of the East Coast gangs, making it clear he knew his rivals far better than they did. The ultimate weapon in his charm offensive was his intimate knowledge of Ireland. He regaled them with episodes of himself as a young Chinese boy trying to understand the ways and lore of the Emerald Isle, seeking desperately to fit in. He admitted that he finally earned his place with his fists, learning that even braw
ny Irish lads couldn’t withstand the charm of a savate kickboxer.

  Listening to Bai’s soft cultured voice explicating forgotten moments in the history of his beloved homeland, Rory shook his head. It was hard to square the seeming incongruity of the distinguished, elegant man who had four accomplished Irishmen begging for his attention with the man in Finn’s story. And the man who had coolly burned to death twenty members of the Costa Nostra.

  With a flash of insight, Rory understood the compelling power of the man holding court at the head of the table. Remembering the cold fury in Bai’s eyes when he threw the knife at him, Rory saw pure animal power in human form, ready and able to take down anything and anyone who stood in his way. At that moment, he knew Bai was as charismatic and as dangerous a man as he had met and couldn’t suppress the chill that shook his spine.

  After the dessert was cleared and the guests were enjoying brandy and cigars, Rory and Sean Byrne exchanged a nod. Sean rose and asked to be excused, citing an early morning meeting. Rory was confident everyone at the table saw through the pretext, but he had told Sean earlier that he needed to have a private conversation with the Frenchman.

  Turning to Bai, Rory dropped the Irish guise and spoke as the leader of an opposing gang, not merely as an entertaining dinner guest.

  “I appreciate the opportunity to talk with you privately. Mike and Patrick are privy to my conversations and I would like them to stay.”

  Bai nodded.

  “Nianzu is my lieutenant and Wyatt is my partner and closest advisor.”

  Bai stopped for a moment and his eyes were cold and hard. He took a long drag on his Turkish cigarette and blew a cloud of aromatic smoke high in the air. He held Rory’s gaze and then said softly, “Elena is my wife and, as we established earlier, she is also my woman.”

  Rory felt his face flush and he grimaced, acknowledging that he had not forgotten the earlier incident. From the look in his eyes Rory wondered if the Frenchman ever would. Taking a chance, he assumed the brash air of self confidence that had gotten him out of tight spots in the past.