Chapter 10 #2
Dario fought for maybe five seconds, panic and pride playing tug-of-war in his nervous system.
I kept the pressure until his legs started to fail, then let him down easy.
I braced his body with my knee and held him upright until I felt the wet warmth blossom against my forearm, a final release.
I rolled him behind the dumpster, out of the sight line, and pulled the blade free.
“Now you know why I brought you on,” Selene said. “Fucking badass.”
“One more to go, Boss.”
The phone buzzed where it landed, a pitiful vibration echoing off the alley walls. I crushed it under my boot.
Selene didn’t flinch. Her back was pressed to the brick, scanning the street for witnesses. Her jaw was locked, and her knuckles had gone white around the cigarette she’d forgotten to light. She met my eyes, then flicked her gaze to the body.
“You got blood on your jacket,” she said.
I methodically wiped the blade on Dario’s sleeve. “It’ll wash.”
Selene finally took out her lighter, thumbed the wheel, and drew in a breath deep enough to hollow her chest. “He didn’t even look up,” she said.
“They never do.”
She kept her eyes on the corner, didn’t ask what happened next. She knew.
I left Dario where he was and waited, watching the digital on my wrist: 12:22. The window was shrinking. A car crawled past on the far side of the street, then another, but neither slowed nor showed interest. Selene moved closer, her boots barely making a sound.
“You need help with the next one?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Just watch the street.”
The next door opening was softer, almost apologetic.
Colt came out hunched, glancing over his shoulder before he even stepped into the alley.
He wore a vest over a flannel, a ball cap low on his brow, face shadowed but jittery.
I heard the scuff of his shoes as he hesitated, saw him clock the smashed phone at his feet.
“Dario?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the dark. “Hey. You fuckin’ out here?”
He took a few careful steps, scanning the edges. I could see his hand moving to his waistband, a twitchy readiness.
“Dario, don’t fuck with me, man.” He was close now, the whites of his eyes flashing in the pink neon spill.
I stepped out. Not dramatic, not rushed. Just a body materializing from shadow, face neutral.
Colt reached for the gun at his belt. That was the mistake.
I took two strides, planted my foot, and drove my forearm into his throat, pinning him to the wall.
The collision rattled the downspout and sent a chunk of brick dust to the ground.
He fumbled with his grip, got a hand around my wrist, but he didn’t have leverage.
I brought the knife up under his chin, the tip dimpling skin.
He froze, smart enough to know the next move wasn’t his. His breathing was wet, panicked.
I said, “You piece of shit, running girls out of a storage unit.”
He shook his head, but the denial was just theater. “I’m just the driver, man. I don’t know nothing. I just—please. I got kids.”
I pressed the blade until it drew a thin line of blood. “I know what you are. I know what you did, and both are death sentences in my book, bitch.”
He tried again, tears flowing in a pathetic litany. “I’m just a driver, please, please don’t—”
I drove the knife in, fast and straight, right through the larynx. His knees went first. I held his collar until the struggling stopped, then let him crumple. His cheek left a red smear on the bricks on the way down.
I looked up. Selene was halfway down the alley, her hands at her sides, fingers curled. She wasn’t shocked, just hollowed out. Her breathing had gotten loud enough for me to hear it, a hard draw in, sharp exhale.
She stepped around Colt’s body, stared down, and then back up at me.
I waited.
“Two of the girls he ‘managed’ died in that fucking storage unit,” I said. “Like I told you and the others, I only kill those who hurt women.”
Selene considered and then nodded. “I get it, Spade. But you've got to keep a distance between this and the club. We've got your back. Just keep it on the down low.”
She nudged Colt’s shoulder with her boot, then crouched and searched his pockets, her hands steady. “He’s got cash and keys. Should we take them?”
“Leave the cash. Take the keys.”
I wiped the blade on my jeans. The pink neon flickered off, then on.
Dario’s canvas bag was still on the ground, spattered but intact. I bent, unzipped it. Inside: a fat roll of bills, a cheap .38, a stack of motel keys, and two vials of something clear with a Russian label. I pulled the vials and pocketed them. Selene watched, keeping silent.
The bodies didn’t look human anymore. Just weight and meat.
Selene’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen, then held it out to me. “Joker’s asking for a status.”
I took the phone, typed: Done. No issues.
Selene watched me type, then looked down the length of the alley to the van parked in darkness.
“You really don’t feel anything, do you?” she asked.
I said, “I feel relief. I feel like I saved those women in that storage unit and those who would have come after them.” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s a cause the club should take on. Vegas is full of this shit. We could stop it.”
She let that hang in the air, then turned toward the van. “Come on. I’ll drive.”
I hefted the canvas bag and followed, the weight comfortable in my hand.
Selene got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I climbed in, shut the door, and set the bag at my feet. The heater hummed, blowing away the stink of death with something worse.
She drove in silence for a block. At the light, she turned to me, her mouth soft for the first time all night.
“Where’s the storage unit?” she asked.
I gave her directions, and thirty minutes later, we were standing in front of unit 180. We unlocked the door and stepped aside as ten young women filed out, dehydrated, crying, and looking for someone to trust.
“We get them in the van and take them back to the casino,” Selene said.
Minutes later, we were back on the road.
The girls in the van were silent, staring at the dash as if the numbers on the radio meant something.
Most of them were too strung out to make sense of where they were, or where they’d been.
The youngest one, maybe fourteen, tried to light a broken cigarette with a spent book of matches, then gave up and pressed her head to the window.
Two older girls spoke soft Russian; the others just breathed, little more than mammals waiting for the next shoe to drop.
I sat shotgun while Selene drove, kept my hand out the window, letting the wind dry the stick of blood along my wrist. When we hit a red at Charleston, she pulled a crumpled pack of Winstons from the cupholder and stuck two cigs in her mouth, offering me one.
I took it. She lit them both off a Zippo so old it was more black gunk than chrome.
“You still want to be left alone after this?” she asked, eyes on the traffic, and not on me.
I waited, trying not to let hope show. “You said you’d consider it.”
Selene shrugged, lips curled around her cigarette; the cherry glowed with each inhale. “You’re too good at this. We’d be idiots to let you go.” Her eyes slid to the rearview, at the girls huddling in the back. “You’re not the only one with ghosts, you know.”
She flicked the ash out the window and looked at me sideways. “We could use a new crew of prospects.”
I tried not to smile, but my cheeks remembered how. “You want me to run it?”
Selene barked a short laugh. “I want you to be yourself. But if you train a few more Spades for me, I won’t stop you. Fuck, I might even pay you.” We crossed Las Vegas Boulevard in silence, a new plan coming to light.