Allie Krycek (Book 4): Savior/Corruptor

by Sisavath, Sam

  “Yeah, I’m cherry.” Mitch glanced over at Allie again. “Be careful. I don’t like the looks of this one.”

  Mitch’s buddy scoffed. “This little thing?”

  “She’s not that little.” Mitch narrowed his eyes at Allie before saying again, “Be careful with her.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “Look at the bitch.”

  Mitch’s buddy turned around to do just that. “And?”

  “She’s not running.”

  “Yeah, I see that. I think she wants in.” He walked the rest of the way toward Allie, giving her a better look at him.

  Mitch’s buddy was taller—over six feet—and bigger than her. They both were. Even with their thick leather jackets, she could tell they were carrying more muscle than fat. Their faces were grizzled, like tan leather. The one in front of her had a scar that extended from the right corner of his mouth and halfway up his cheek. It looked like an old knife wound that hadn’t completely healed and never would.

  A million things raced through Allie’s mind as she watched the biker stride toward her. Despite the fresh broken nose, he was oozing confidence, and why shouldn’t he? She was just another woman, standing outside a dingy bar along the state highway. She hadn’t seen a cop car for miles, and in fact had only spotted two from the local Wells City Police Department in all the time she’d been here, both parked along the side of the road waiting for speeders. If she screamed now, there would be no help coming. She doubted the couple necking in their vehicle in the parking lot behind her would even hear her, and certainly no one inside the Don’t Stop In would get a whiff with Garth Brooks crooning on the other side of the wall.

  So she was all alone out here. No, not really. The girl was there too, but she wasn’t going to be of any help. The poor kid was terrified out of her mind. Whatever reasons she had come out here (“She came here willingly. This was her idea. Daddy’s little girl got the urge to take a walk on the wild side. Not our problem she changed her mind at the last minute,” Mitch’s buddy had said earlier.), she had changed her mind.

  Too late, as it turned out, because the bikers were having none of it.

  It wasn’t too late for Allie to turn around, though, not that she would have. Not in a million years and not a million lifetimes. There was the very real possibility of being hurt, yes, but the alternative was more than Allie could bear.

  So her eyes snapped left and right, looking for weapons.

  Any weapon.

  The options were limited. There were a few potentials, but none that would stop a big brute in an MC jacket. If she were smart, Allie would turn and run before the man with the broken nose reached her. If she were smart.

  Allie sighed.

  Probably too loudly, because Mitch’s buddy stopped about three yards away and cocked his head slightly to one side. “What’s the matter? Don’t want to party with us anymore?”

  “No,” Allie said.

  “Well, it’s too late for that.” He glanced back at Mitch. “Ain’t that right—”

  Allie wasn’t sure about the rest of his question, because before he could finish, she had grabbed the two-by-four leaning against the side of the Don’t Stop In and smashed it across the side of the biker’s head. The thin (Dammit, why did it have to be so thin?) lumber shattered into a dozen pieces as soon as it found its target.

  But it’d done its job, and the big man staggered sideways from the blow. It was probably more out of shock than actual pain, but it was what Allie had been hoping for.

  Mitch’s buddy stumbled his way to the building, reaching for the siding with one hand while the other groped for his temple. While he was doing that, Allie snatched up the aluminum trash bin on the other side of her, thought, Please be empty. Please be empty!

  It wasn’t quite empty but wasn’t completely full either, and Allie was able to pick it up with some effort and swing it from right to left, letting momentum do most of the heavy lifting. The rim of the trash can was stiff and cold, and its side was already dented badly. She added another huge crater to it when she crashed it into the biker’s face as he was pushing off the bar and whirled around. He might have been about to say something else, but all she heard was the clang! of aluminum crashing into a human face.

  Mitch’s buddy fell to his knees, screaming as he grabbed at his face. His nose was bleeding again, this time even more profusely. “Fuck! Fuck!”

  Allie dropped the bin and turned toward Mitch.

  The biker still had the girl pressed against the Don’t Stop In, one beefy hand palming the back of her head like she was a basketball. He was practically grinding her face against the ugly wall. It looked painful, and the girl wouldn’t be able to escape that grip in a million years. Not on her own, anyway.

  “Get up,” Mitch said to the other biker. “Get up, pussy!”

  Mitch’s buddy tried to do just that, staggering up on wobbly feet before falling back down. He screamed again, blood pumping through his fingers. The entire lower half of his face was now covered in a grotesque red mask. Allie hadn’t actually intended to do that, but she’d take it.

  She looked at Mitch. “Let the girl go, asshole.”

  “Fuck you,” Mitch said.

  “Not tonight. You’re not fucking anything tonight. Unless it’s your buddy here.”

  The biker smirked. “You think I’m scared of you?”

  “I know you’re not.” Then, off Mitch’s confused expression, “Guys like you are never afraid of girls like me. That’s your problem. And your mistake.”

  Mitch’s confusion turned into a big, wide grin. “So you want this, huh? You want this that badly?”

  “Let the girl go.”

  “Fine. But you’re taking her place.”

  The biker stepped back, letting go of the girl at the same time. She fled as soon as she was out of Mitch’s grasp, throwing a quick glance back—and locking eyes with Allie—just before she vanished around the corner of the building.

  Smart kid.

  Allie wished she could have blamed the girl for running off. After what she had been through and the things that were about to happen to her, it was the right decision.

  “Man, I’m gonna enjoy breaking you,” Mitch said. He stalked toward Allie. “When I’m done, I’m gonna pass you off to the boys. We’re going to keep you for days. Maybe weeks. We’re—”

  The boom! of a shotgun blast, followed by the very loud (and familiar) sound of the same weapon reloading, shut Mitch up and froze him in place.

  Allie spun around to find the bartender from the Don’t Stop In standing behind her with a pump-action shotgun. Her first instincts were to run, but her second was to dive for the weapon in his hands.

  But she did neither as the bartender said to Mitch, “I’m sorry. You were saying something? Something about your boys and blah blah blah? I couldn’t really hear over the sound of this shotgun.”

  Allie turned back to Mitch. He hadn’t moved since the last time she saw him.

  “Well?” the bartender said from behind her.

  “This is none of your business, barkeep,” Mitch said. “Go back inside where you belong.”

  “Barkeep? Damn. You really put me in my place, boss. But the only one going anywhere is you and your boyfriend there.”

  Mitch’s lips twisted into a snarl. “You know who I am?”

  “You’re an asshole. What of it?”

  “Boy, Casper is gonna—”

  “Do shit about this because you’re trying to commit a crime in public. Hell, he’d probably thank me for stopping your dumb ass.”

  Casper? Allie thought.

  Then: Like Casper the friendly ghost?

  But she didn’t interrupt the bartender or Mitch. They seemed to know one another, and the bartender certainly knew more about the area and its inhabitants than she did. Besides, the look on Mitch’s face told her that the bartender’s argument had been more than persuasive, so whoever this Casper person was, he apparently scared Mitch more than t
he shotgun.

  “You should have stayed out of it,” Mitch said as he took a step back.

  “Get outta here before I decide to point this thing at something other than the sky,” the bartender said.

  “You should have stayed out of it,” Mitch said again.

  “Yeah, yeah. Pick up your boyfriend and go before I change my mind and redecorate the side of this place with your brains. Damn siding’s looking pretty sad lately anyway, so that might be a big improvement.”

  Mitch’s buddy stumbled to his feet and staggered backward until he was standing beside Mitch. Neither one of them made a move to go anywhere, though.

  “Git!” the bartender shouted.

  Mitch’s buddy turned and ran off first.

  Mitch backpedaled, slowly, and grinned at Allie. “Catch you later, little lady.”

  Not if I catch you first.

  Mitch finally turned and ran after his friend to where they had parked their bikes. They fired up the Harleys while the bartender walked up to Allie and picked up the trash can.

  “Sorry about that,” Allie said.

  The bartender shrugged. “The way I see it, you made proper use of it tonight.”

  He smiled at her, and she returned it.

  “What were you doing out here in the first place?” the bartender asked. “I mean, besides picking a fight with a couple of Devil’s Crew bikers. You knew who they were, right?”

  “No,” Allie said. “It didn’t seem important at the time.”

  The bartender looked after the Harleys, still making noise as they faded up the highway, before turning back to her. “Word of advice? Try to avoid those guys in the future. They’re bad news.” He kicked at some pieces of the shattered lumber that she’d used on Mitch’s buddy until they vanished into the shadows. “You ran out of there pretty fast.”

  “You followed me outside?”

  “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  “So what are you doing out here?”

  “One of the regulars saw what was happening and told me after he came inside. I don’t go walking around with a shotgun for my health, you know.”

  “Good thing you did tonight.”

  “Yeah, good thing.” Then, “So what are you doing out here? You, uh, still owe me for the beers, you know.”

  “Put it on my tab.”

  “You don’t have a tab.”

  “I’m opening one.”

  Allie took the two pieces of flimsy toilet paper out of her jacket pocket and showed it to the bartender.

  He took it. “What’s this?”

  “Read it.”

  He did, before looking back up at her. “This real?”

  “As real as that shotgun of yours.”

  The bartender chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Allie asked.

  The bartender held up the shotgun. “Shells are filled with blanks. The owner won’t let us carry a loaded weapon on the premises. Something about liability and insurance.”

  Allie stared at him, unsure how to respond to that revelation.

  “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” the bartender said.

  “This time.”

  “Let’s hope there isn’t a next time.”

  Allie glanced toward the highway, but she couldn’t see or hear the Devil’s Crew MC bikes anymore.

  “Yeah, let’s hope,” she said quietly.

  Three

  The barfly was still at the bar with his head resting on the counter when Allie and the bartender (Pete, he had introduced himself outside) returned. Pete put the shotgun away underneath the bar, then picked up a wet towel and expertly cleaned the countertop around the drunk without ever touching him.

  “What now?” Allie asked.

  Pete looked over. “Don’t worry about those bikers. They show up now and then to cause trouble, but they usually stay beyond the city limits. They don’t exactly get along with the Wells City PD.”

  “No. I mean, what about the note?”

  “Oh, that.” Then, “What about it?”

  “Are you just going to ignore it?”

  “I’m not exactly sure what I can do about it.”

  “Well, I can’t just ignore it.”

  “Like you couldn’t just ignore the girl in trouble out there?” Pete asked, because she had already told him what had happened.

  “Exactly like that.”

  “Maybe you should.” He shrugged. “Things like this can get complicated real fast. Maybe take it to the police.”

  “Take what to the police? Two pieces of toilet paper?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’d laugh me out of the station.”

  “Well, what, then? I don’t know what you can do.”

  Allie glanced over at the barfly to make sure he wasn’t eavesdropping. If he was still conscious or had heard any part of their conversation, he hadn’t bothered to open his eyes or pick his head up out of curiosity. She thought she could hear him snoring over another country and Western song in the background. She didn’t know this tune; not that she knew a whole lot of country songs to begin with.

  She focused back to Pete. He was young—late twenties, with short black hair that almost looked like a buzzcut, which made her wonder if he used to be in the service—with broad shoulders. Despite the stained and dirty apron, he was in good shape, verging on athletic. He’d been friendly and professional enough when she first showed up, and she’d seen the way he worked the crowd. Pete was good with people. Even better with a shotgun.

  When she didn’t say anything, Pete sighed. “What did she look like? The woman who wrote that?”

  “Blonde,” Allie said. “I think early thirties. She came in here with a man. Maybe her husband.”

  “A lot of women come in here with men who may or may not be their husbands. More than half of them are blonde. You’ll have to narrow it down.”

  “I can’t. That’s all I know.”

  “It’s not much.”

  “No, it’s not. But I can’t just ignore this.”

  “Can I see it again?”

  Allie took the two pieces of still-joined toilet paper—though how long that would be the case, she didn’t know—out of her jacket pocket and handed it over to him. Pete stared down at it for the second time. Maybe, like her earlier, he was just making sure he’d read it correctly the first time. Now that they were back under better lights—not that much better but slightly better—Allie could make out his soft blue eyes as they scanned the words already burned into her skull.

  When he was done, Pete fixed her with a hard penetrating stare. “She gave this to you?”

  “She put it under my coaster before she left.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Pretty sure is not completely sure.”

  Allie sighed. “It was under my coaster.”

  Pete nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “That’s why I was outside,” Allie continued. “I was hoping to catch her, but she was already gone.”

  “Who is she?”

  “You tell me. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Blonde, you said?”

  Allie nodded. “Petite, maybe five-three. Couldn’t have been more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. The man she came in with was tall. Maybe six feet. Not big but not skinny, either. Like you.”

  “Me?”

  “In good shape.”

  “Oh.” Then, “What were they wearing?”

  “She had on a white coat and miniskirt. He was wearing a black blazer. I didn’t get a good look at him, just the woman. She was wearing a lot of makeup.”

  “You noticed that? That she was wearing a lot of makeup?”

  “It was hard to miss.”

  “I guess that’s a girl thing.”

  “Sure.” Then, “So, do you have any idea who we’re talking about?”

  Pete shrugged. He picked up a dirty mug and began wiping it down with a rag. She was brie
fly annoyed by that—was he suddenly disinterested?—but quickly realized that wasn’t it. She could see that Pete was still thinking, and keeping his hands busy was less a dismissal of her dilemma and more his way of staying occupied while his mind continued to work on the problem.

  So she didn’t say anything and gave him the time he needed to mull over the descriptions of blondie and her husband. She had to admit, it wasn’t much to go by. Allie put the note back into her jacket pocket in the meantime. At this point, it was the only proof she had that she wasn’t making all this up

  A new song had come on the jukebox in the back, but this one didn’t get any takers. The couples remained at their tables. The Don’t Stop In didn’t have much of a clientele to begin with—three couples, two solitary figures nursing drinks in corner tables, and Allie and her barfly Romeo—but with an empty dancing floor, it looked practically desolate.

  “I think I know who the blonde might be,” Pete finally said. “Sarah Marshall. That would make the man with her Tom Marshall.”

  “It took you a while to come up with their names.”

  “That’s because they’re not regulars. I was a little surprised to see them in here earlier. Not too surprised when they left ten minutes later. This isn’t exactly their kind of establishment.”

  “What is their kind of establishment?”

  “The kind where you spend more on one dinner than an entire night drinking in here.”

  “Are you sure about the woman? Sarah Marshall?”

  “It has to be her,” Pete said. He nodded, but she wasn’t sure if that was to convince her or himself. He glanced at Allie’s jacket pocket—or specifically, at the unseen note inside it. “You sure that was her who left that behind?”

  “I saw her standing at this exact spot when I came out of the bathroom.”

  “She was paying their bill. That could just be a coincidence.”

  “It could be, but I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “But why would she leave you something like that? You know her or something? I thought you were new in town.”

  “I don’t know her. At least, I don’t think I do.”

  Pete grinned. “You’re not sure?”

  “I don’t know her,” Allie said, with more conviction this time.