The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  Beau settles immediately, and I rest her hand by her side, tucking in the sheets around her. I go back to the message on my screen.

  Ready when you are.

  “You cool?” I ask Goldie, and she nods her agreement, resting back in the chair, her eyes lasers on Beau’s sleeping form. “Call me if anything changes.”

  “She’s perfectly stable, Mr. Kelly,” the doctor says, a refined looking fellow who happily came out of retirement to help. “Keeping her still and peaceful will only aid her recovery.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” I breathe in and turn, making my way to the door of the hotel room. A fucking hotel room. I meet Otto outside.

  “Kel,” he says, grumpy as hell, falling into stride next to me. “Why the fuck are you being so cagey?”

  If Otto knew what we’re doing, where we’re going, I’d be staring down the barrel of his Glock before I got to the finer details. “Because you won’t like it,” I answer, staring forward, my pace determined.

  “I don’t like any of this shit, and it only started because you couldn’t keep your curiosity contained.”

  “Fuck you, Otto. You know as well as I do that Beau was the key to ending this.” Literally.

  “So where are we going?”

  “To hell.”

  He laughs. “I’m an honorary fucking resident, you dick.”

  The Viking of a doorman pulls back the velvet rope, letting us pass, and the pumping music gets louder and louder until we’re in the thick of it, Fired Up filling the club. I look around the vast, dark space, strobe lighting bouncing off all the bare brick walls, the dance floor packed, the bar five deep.

  And on a stage in the center, strippers.

  “Now this is a bit of me,” Otto says, his eyes set on that center stage. “This ain’t hell, brother.”

  “Enjoy, you tart,” I mutter, heading for the industrial metal stairs to the right, taking them two at a time to the top. I make my way to the edge and lean on the balustrade, looking down on the club. Brad Black’s club.

  “What the fuck are you playing at?” Otto says, joining me, taking in the view. “Don’t just fuck off like that.”

  “How long did it take you to notice I was gone?”

  “Two spins of the pole and a grind.”

  I laugh under my breath, my eyes casting back and forth across the space. “This is Brad Black’s place.”

  He groans. “So you really have brought me to hell, you twisted fuck. What the fuck are we doing here?”

  “I’ve been sent to kill him.”

  He swings stunned eyes my way. “By who?”

  “Spittle.”

  “Why?”

  Good fucking question. “I’m working on it. Go make yourself busy,” I order, gazing around the space, and because Otto knows I prefer to kill alone, he moves away, but he can’t hide his displeasure. And I know he won’t be far.

  I push my body up from the balustrade, my eyes high and low. “Drink, sir?” someone says, and I look to my left, where a tray hovers before me. The waitress holding it smiles. “Courtesy of management.”

  I exhale my amusement and accept the tumbler, sipping and looking around. So where are you?

  He doesn’t show himself, so I lean back on the balustrade, waiting. Patient. I have to be patient now, think things through, make wise moves.

  A man eventually appears beside me, leaning on the railing, looking out at the club. His club. He’s a good-looking bloke, his dark hair well-kept, his suit expensive. He takes a sip, all casual, not looking at me. “I’ve not seen you around here,” he says, turning a blank look my way.

  I look past him, seeing various men in suits loitering around. “On your guard?”

  He glances over his shoulder, but he doesn’t acknowledge my question. “So, who are you and why are you in my club?”

  “You don’t need my name.”

  “And why you’re here?”

  “To kill you.”

  His eyes undeniably widen somewhat, his body becoming alert. “Then why am I still breathing?”

  “Because you have something I want.”

  “What’s that?”

  I cast my eye over each of the six men in the vicinity, and Brad Black notes the direction of my stare.

  “I’m out of that game now.” He motions with his Scotch to the club surrounding us.

  “Someone’s put you back in it.”

  He stalls a beat, watching me closely. “And I should listen to you, why?”

  “Because you want to keep breathing,” I say quietly, although he still hears, despite the pumping music.

  He nods, and it’s slow. Wary. “My office,” he says, dragging his eyes off me and striding away, his men following.

  I look across the club, seeing Otto at the end of a bar, watching. His displeasure hasn’t improved. I give him a nod, following Brad Black. His men don’t enter his space, but rather wait outside, leaving me to walk through the middle of them, curious eyes following me. I close the door, and Brad goes to a cabinet, topping up his Scotch.

  “Take a seat,” he says, settling behind his desk as I lower to the chair, setting my untouched glass on the desk. “You don’t drink?”

  “Not today.”

  He nods mildly, taking more of his own. “So who sent you to kill me?”

  “A mutual friend,” I say, getting comfortable, smiling at Brad’s raised brows. “Spittle.”

  “The fuck?” he says quietly over a laugh. “And you refused?”

  “No, I agreed. Refusing would have had that slimy fuck slithering under a rock. Plus I needed something from him urgently.”

  “What?”

  “A doctor.”

  “You ill?”

  “No, my girlfriend was shot.”

  His drink pauses at his mouth. “You have a girlfriend?” he asks, an irritating smile threatening. “Why the fuck would you go and get yourself one of those when . . .” He fades off, and I exhale, waiting for it. “Fuck me, you’re here because of her.” He laughs, wiping at his forehead. “You know, my uncle always told us never to let a woman into your heart. Only ever your bed.” He toasts the air, like it’s something to celebrate. “His own son didn’t listen to him, and now he’s dead. Because of a woman. Cheers.” He downs his drink and slams it on the table.

  “The Brit,” I say quietly, studying Brad carefully. “Danny Black. The Angel-faced Assassin.”

  “Dead because of a woman. Looks like you’re heading the same way, my friend.”

  “The only place I’m heading to is out of town once I’ve killed The Bear and every single one of his men.”

  “And you need me because . . .?”

  “Refuge.”

  “Somewhere safe to keep your girlfriend while you go on a killing rampage?” He smirks.

  “Something like that.”

  He nods, his eyes thoughtful slits. “As it goes, I have just the place you need.”

  “I’d hope so, since my killing spree benefits us all.” I stand slowly from my chair, and Brad smiles. He must feel like all his prayers have been answered. Every potential threat to him gone. Spittle gone. “We have a deal?”

  He offers his hand across the desk, and I lean over accepting. “What do I call you?” he asks, shaking mildly. He knows. Of course he fucking knows. And, wisely, he wants me as an ally, not an enemy.

  “Depends. Friend or foe?”

  “Friend.”

  “James.”

  “And foe?” He wants me to say it. To confirm it.

  “You’d have to be stupid.” I drop his hand. “I know you’re not stupid.” I tilt my head, and his wry smile widens. “I’ll be in touch.” I stride to the door, coming to a slow stop before it. “You can tell The Brit he’s welcome.”

  I look back, finding wide eyes and a lax jaw. “What the fuck are you talking about? The Brit’s dead.”

  “Is he?”

  Black’s face strains, his cheeks pulsing. “He’s. Dead.”

  I nod, thoughtful, watching
his eyes rage. “But is he?” I ask quietly, swinging the door open, turning away.

  “Shut the fucking door.”

  I hear the undeniable sound of the safety of a gun disengaging, and I still, a sick smile creeping across my lips. I slowly shut the door and turn to face him. He’s standing now, his arms braced. “What do you know?” he asks.

  “I know Spittle talks too much.”

  “And what has he said?”

  “Small things here and there that built a rather vivid picture.”

  “Like?”

  “Tenses. Past and present. Spittle seems to get clumsy with those. So if I were you, I’d ask myself who else he’s got clumsy with and why he’d want you dead.”

  I take the door handle and back out, leaving Brad Black with my bombshell. “You can text me the address of where I’m taking my girlfriend.”

  “I don’t have your number,” he says, just as his phone rings in his pocket. He reaches in, looking at the screen as he pulls it out. His eyes fly to mine, his face screaming disbelief.

  “Good to meet you, Brad.” I pull the door closed and stalk through the club, and Otto is by my side in a beat, his eyes watchful.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” he asks, flanking me.

  I keep my eyes forward. Always forward, because if I look back at this point, I’ll lose my focus. I need my focus.

  “I’ve just resurrected the dead.”

  67

  JAMES

  The address is a mansion in Miami. She’s still settled. No more episodes, no restlessness, no extra medication needed. I made sure Doc is aware that this is a full-time position until Beau’s fully recovered, and he didn’t argue. I’m doing him a favor, both in time and cash.

  I leave the swanky, over-the-top room and pull the heavily engraved wooden door shut behind me, backing into the corridor, where abstract art hangs between every one of the dozens of doors. Goldie and Otto are waiting for me.

  “I don’t like it here,” Otto mutters.

  “Why? Because your pierced, bearded mug looks out of place surrounded by all this fancy shit?” Goldie asks on a laugh.

  He grimaces and glances up and down the corridor. “Where the fuck are we, anyway?”

  I head off, nodding to Ringo, the guy who was here to meet us a few hours ago. He’s an ugly fucker with a nose bigger than my apartment block and skin with more craters than the moon. He grunts and nods in return, and Goldie gives him a sideways glance.

  “You could fit Miami up one of those nostrils,” she mutters as we take the marble staircase down to the foyer.

  “I’ll let that slide because you’re a girl,” Ringo calls, his face poker straight.

  Goldie comes to a grinding halt on the stairs, her face murderous as she glares at him, her nostrils flaring. He winks at her. It’s the worst thing he could do.

  “Who are all these men?” she asks, stomping on, taking in numerous men in various positions.

  Men. That’s exactly what they are. Men we need. Surviving the deadly world I’ve put myself in with only Goldie and Otto at my back was easy when it was just us. Now there are too many enemies. Now, there isn’t only us three. I need an army to win this war. And I’ve found one.

  “Where’s Lawrence?” I ask, knowing Beau will ask after him as soon as she comes round. I had to bring him, not only because he’s an utter mess, but for Beau.

  “Unpacking in his room.”

  I head to the right at the bottom of the stairs as instructed and approach the double doors. More heavily carved wood. And here we are.

  I do what’s right and knock before I push my way in, but I don’t find who I’m expecting. Spittle looks up fast, his eyes rooting to my face, taking in every bit of me. “Who the fuck are you?”

  I can only smile. “Be careful,” I murmur. “Haven’t you heard that looking me in the eye turns you to dust on the spot?”

  He frowns. Then every muscle in his face seems to give up, his expression falling. “Fuck, no.”

  I take myself to the sofa and lower as Otto closes the door and takes up position with Goldie. “Isn’t it nice to put a face to the name?” I ask. He takes a sip of his drink—a big sip—as I cock my head. “Are you nervous, Spittle?”

  He laughs, uneasy. “Christ alive, I’m sitting in The Brit’s old mansion with another deadly Brit. What do you think?” He gets up and starts pacing, taking regular swigs of his Scotch.

  I can feel Otto staring at my profile, and I turn my eyes onto him, my lips straight. He shakes his head in disbelief. “What the fuck are we doing in a dead mob boss’s mansion?” he asks.

  I don’t answer him. He’ll find out soon enough. Returning my attention to a pacing Spittle, I follow him up and down by the window a few times before I get bored of watching him go back and forth. “Will you sit the fuck down?” I say curtly. He’s across the room in a heartbeat, his arse on the couch.

  “Did you . . .” he stutters. “Have you . . .”

  “Killed Brad Black?” I ask. “Yes. He’s about as dead as The Brit.”

  Eyes like saucers, Spittle struggles to his feet. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

  “Sit the fuck down,” I shout, my fingers clawing into the arm of the couch to restrain myself. He drops like a stone to his arse, just as the door swings open and a guy appears, a young bloke, with dark eyes that contradict his pale blond hair. “Nolan,” Spittle says, rising from the couch again, out of respect I expect, since I’ve just told him to sit the fuck down.

  “Thanks for coming, Spittle.” The guy, Nolan, grins at him, before takes me in, his broad chest lifting ever so slightly. “So what do we call you?” he asks, a sardonic smile on his face. I hear Otto huff his displeasure, and I roll my eyes.

  I stand and, again, do what’s right. This guy, albeit young, maybe mid-twenties, works for Brad Black. There’s a reason for that. “James,” I answer, offering my hand.

  He strides over and takes it, his assessment of me never wavering. “And everything meets your expectations?” he asks, motioning in the general direction of the house.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Your woman will be safe.” As he utters the words, a couple more men appear at the door, Ringo and another, who I’m yet to officially meet. And someone else emerges between them. A woman. A middle-aged lady with a friendly face and warm smile. “And cared for,” Nolan adds, smiling fondly at the woman. “This is Esther.”

  She approaches and offers her hand. “Danny Black was my son.” Her British accent is as soft as her features. Was my son. “Anything you need, please, just ask.”

  “Thank you.”

  “British,” she says, smiling, truly pleased. “We’re taking over Miami, it seems.”

  “We?”

  Her lips purse, though she’s still smiling. “And what do I call you?”

  “The Enigma,” Spittle calls, and we all cast interested looks his way. “Why’s everyone so fucking cool about the company we’re in?”

  “Found your way around again soon enough, didn’t you?” Nolan says, looking at him like the piece of shit we all know him to be. “Bet you thought I’d asked you here for some help to find Brad’s killer.”

  Spittle raises his drink and finishes it on a gasp. “Jackpot.” He slumps back down on the couch, waving his glass in the air before him. “As you were.”

  Esther backs up. “I’ll go check on your lady.”

  Lady. I smile to myself. Not Beau. “Thank you.” I don’t think I’ve shown so much appreciation in such a short space of time.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Otto whispers, moving into my side.

  “Yes, please do share,” Goldie pipes in. “I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of The Addams Family.”

  Brad Black strolls in and stops abruptly when he clocks Spittle on the couch. His arms come up, all welcoming. “Spittle, my friend, guess what?”

  “What?”

  He grins, and it’s fucking wicked. “I’m not dead.”

&nbs
p; Spittle sags. “So you lured me here to kill me, I expect.”

  Brad heads for the desk across the room, but rather than taking the chair behind it, he pulls another out from this side of the room, turning it and lowering. He catches my interested expression, but his face remains deadpan as he gives Spittle his attention. “So you sent The Enigma to kill me? I’m deeply hurt, Spittle. After everything I’ve done for you.”

  “You’ve made my life a fucking misery, that’s what you’ve done.”

  “I expected way more begging than this,” Brad says over a laugh. “So, The Bear?”

  “What about him?”

  “How friendly are you?”

  “No one gets friendly with bears.”

  “Well, that depends,” Brad muses, kicking his ankle up onto his knee, “on the bear.” He pouts. “But if you’re gonna be a bear, then be a grisly, eh?” He beams at Spittle, who is suddenly twitching. Actually twitching. His eyes start to roll, and his face starts pulling some pretty fucked-up expressions. Then, quite dramatically, he plummets forward and hits the carpet face first, his body thrashing around.

  I stare at him, as does everyone else in the room, and for a few minutes, no one says a word, just watches him convulse. I cannot believe what I’m seeing.

  “Take him,” Brad orders, and Nolan moves in, his muscly form preparing to drag Spittle’s short, sturdy frame out of the office. “I’ll decide what to do with him another time.”

  Nolan doesn’t take Spittle’s legs. He takes his head, and starts yanking it, tugging him along in short sharp bursts. “For fuck’s sake!” Spittle cries, rolling onto his back. “Don’t you men have any humanity in you? I was having a fucking seizure.”

  “You were having a brain malfunction, Spittle,” Brad seethes, standing from his chair. “A bit like when you ordered The Enigma to kill me.”

  “I was cornered,” he argues. “For fuck’s sake, what was I supposed to do?”