30. Closing time
Chapter 30
Closing time
TOMER
T he burning in my eyes becomes too much to stand. No amount of eye drops can soothe the sting at this late hour. My body longs for sleep, but my mental toughness perseveres.
I’ll sleep later. When all the fuckers who hurt Lettie are in the dirt with worms invading their carcasses. Even that feels too good for them.
Backing away from the desk in my home office, I stretch before heading to the other room to swap out my contacts for glasses. When I return, my face is washed, coffee mug is full, and focus is restored.
With the help of my Redleg peers, three of the fuckers are in jail, bringing the total number of arrests to four once you include Davidov. This morning, Detectives Patterson and Salgado showed up at Lettie’s apartment with lineup photos. She identified all three of them without hesitation and agreed to testify. In addition, she confirmed the identities of the other three from the house, Skidmark included. We just need to find them. And we will.
I watched the whole thing through the surveillance system, pride and awe filling me as she did what she had to do without shedding a tear or showing any fear. Lettie didn’t need me with her. Whether it was her friends supporting her or her internal strength shining through, she was confident and steady.
Big Al’s gonna love her. She’s a rock. Just like him.
At least she is regarding her abduction. When the topic of my betrayal comes up, she breaks down, making it painfully obvious which event is making her suffer the most.
Her apartment’s live security feed is always on my third monitor. I shouldn’t watch this much. It’s an unhealthy distraction, taking the focus away from my mission. Yet I keep doing it because I deserve the pain. I don’t want to cower from her suffering. I caused it, therefore, I should pay the price alongside her. The only positive is I’m no longer lying to myself by justifying my actions as a measure of her protection.
However, I loathe the shame coating my skin from watching her without her consent again. Although it’s not sexual, it’s still an invasion of privacy. And I promised myself I’d never do that again.
I should tell her. Maybe she’d feel safer knowing I’m still looking out for her.
Nah.
That’s bullshit. Another lie to justify my behavior.
Telling her would serve to remove my guilt, not bring her reassurance.
My inbox dings with an incoming email from Detective Salgado. After clearing her background earlier, I provided her and Patterson with the names of the other three traffickers, including Skidmark.
I scan her reply quickly, fixating on the key details.
Arrest warrants have been issued for the remaining three individuals on your list in addition to Yevdokim Ivanovich.
This afternoon, we showed their driver’s license photos to a few of the other victims. We’re confident they’re the right perps. If you get any additional information regarding their whereabouts, please forward it immediately. Attached are more recent photos for use in facial recognition searches.
We’re waiting on the state attorney to determine what to do about Vanessa Eldridge; given she was trafficked too, there are other considerations.
At the end, Salgado adds what’s fast becoming her customary reminder.
For your safety and to preserve our ability to deliver justice to the victims, please continue relaying information to us for investigation rather than taking matters into your own hands. Especially in terms of identifying upper members of the organization.
She knows I’m planning to deliver justice of my own. Part of me thinks she’s supportive. Whether it was the glint in her eyes when she left here the other day or the cryptic messages she’s sent ever since. I suspect she’s including those little notes in our official communications to cover her ass.
Whatever.
Even if she outright forbids me from interrogating them, it won’t stop me. I’m aware my plans aren’t legal. Don’t give two fucks. Morality and legality aren’t the same thing. Plenty of things are legal, yet despicable. Fighting for what’s right isn’t always clear-cut. It’s messy. The gray areas spill over freely.
Whether sanctioned by the government or law enforcement, this is a war.
And I won’t hesitate to take out the enemy.
So when I get a hit on my facial rec program an hour later, my heart rate spikes, and adrenaline floods my system.
Skidmark, real name Kadin Dean, has finally shown his ugly face tonight in east Tampa.
He was caught on a security camera outside a convenience store where he stopped for cigarettes. From there, the footage shows him walking across the street into a dive bar. So far, he hasn’t exited the bar. The clock is ticking.
Picking up the phone, I get Jonesy on a secured line and lay it out for him. After what Leo told me, the former SEAL is on board with getting his hands dirty. As much as I’d love to do this on my own, I could use the backup. Leo was right; I’m emotionally compromised. Jonesy is a formidable partner. As long as you aren’t a coffee cup, but that’s another story.
His sigh crackles the phone line. “Can’t help, man. Not sure how much longer we’re going to be waiting for the bomb squad to show.”
I grit my teeth in a mixture of frustration and confusion.
Before I can question him, he explains, “Mia’s home security system went offline again tonight. Aaron and I were nearby, so she and Klein sent us over here to check it out. Whoever was here left before we got here.”
Interesting. “What did you find that requires a bomb squad?”
“A package on her bed.”
“Holy shit. What type of package?”
“Don’t know. Small box. Wrapped. Bow and everything.”
Fuck.
I toggle over to my other program, ensuring my home system is operational. All looks good on that front.
“All right. I need to run. Stay safe.”
“T, I’d be there for you if I could. Don’t go alone. Either wait until I’m done or get someone else to back you up. Okay?”
“Got it,” I answer in a clipped tone before ending the call.
While I’m concerned for Mia, she’s safe with Klein. They weren’t at her house when the break-in occurred. Jonesy and Aaron have the package situation in hand. Hopefully, this latest hack of Mia’s system will give her what she needs to identify the person responsible. As much as I may want to be there for her tonight, I can’t.
If I wait much longer, I could lose the tango.
Calling Sawyer, Leo, Shep, or a few other guys doesn’t feel right. It’s late, and they have wives and girlfriends to protect. Quickly checking tracking in the Redleg system, I see Big Al is at Madeline’s again. So he’s out too.
Looks like I’m flying solo.
Skidmark has been a ghost since the night we left him tied up on the floor of that nightmare house.
He hurt my sugar bear. A lot.
And now he needs to pay.
Decision made, I grab an assortment of gear, weapons, and tech. Once in the car, I disable the GPS beacon. In a flash, I’m on the move, heading to a dive bar on the other side of Tampa.
Shit. Damn. Fuck.
The bar is virtually deserted. Unsure whether it’ll have a positive or negative impact on my mission. Less witnesses or people to get in the way. Yet harder to blend in. Can’t exactly breeze into the bar unnoticed to scope it out when there’s only a handful of patrons.
I expected this place to be busier on a Saturday night. Only three cars here. They close in fifteen minutes, assuming this is the kind of place that keeps business hours and honors alcohol-serving laws. Low probability there.
The small, dirty windows lining the building’s exterior are cluttered with neon signs, making it impossible to see inside. Even with my binoculars. Good thing I brought better toys.
After parking in an abandoned lot a couple of blocks away, I fire up my tablet and connect it to my infrared drone. We used this toy when we rescued Kri and her foster daughter from one of Lenkov’s strongholds a few months back. Handy little fucker—the drone, not Kri’s daughter. That would be weird.
Good thing Klein keeps a steady stream of experimental gadgets coming through. He’s always up on the latest tech. We ordered six more after that op.
Launching the drone out the window, I navigate it via an app on my tablet to the bar and circle the perimeter to check for heat signatures.
I spot five people, plus a cat. Based on the size and shape of the figure, I suspect a female is bartending with the feline lingering near her feet. Not sure that meets health department regulations, but it’s not my problem. Two larger figures look to be playing darts on one side, probably males. And a couple sits at a table in the corner.
Oddly enough, my instinct is to be more concerned about the cat than the humans inside this shit hole. So much for the newfound empathy Lettie taught me. Must have taken it with her when she left.
The idea of hurting a pet repulses me to my core. A memory of the black dog at Sue and Leo’s yesterday pops into the front of my mind.
Shaking my head, I actively force my thoughts back to the mission.
After switching from infrared to HD camera mode, I attempt to see inside the bar through one of the windows. At most, I get glimpses of body parts. An arm or a back. The top of someone’s head—black hair, not red. Nothing helpful.
So much for that.
I fly the drone back to my position and tuck it away quickly in my gear bag. A minute later, I’m driving around to the rear of the bar with my headlights off. Pulling my ballcap low, I exit the car. Quietly, I approach the back of the building and hover by the rear door near a dumpster.
The smell of rotten trash and soured liquor hits my nostrils, making my stomach clench. When I crack open the back door an inch, stale cigarette smoke meshes with the other foul odors. Shaking off the disgust, I focus on identifying sounds from inside the bar.
A low thrumming of bass from the music system.
No loud conversations.
No singing.
No clatter of dishes or glassware.
Nothing other than the music and some muffled voices.
Taking out my pen-sized listening device, I zero in on the conversations inside, listening through a single earbud. Moving the laser pointer from one side of the building to the other, nothing significant stands out. Unfortunately, I don’t know what Kadin’s voice sounds like, which leaves me unable to determine where to head once I’m inside.
Undoubtedly, Lettie would know his voice. And that thought sickens me.
It’s decision time. Do I wait for him to come out or enter to retrieve him?
Glancing at my watch, I decide to give it five minutes since it’s approaching closing time.
If the bartender exits for a dumpster run, I’ll painlessly subdue and question her.
If Skidmark or the others leave the bar through the front, I’ll hear it and can follow in my vehicle. Fortunately, it’s a small place so I won’t have any trouble hearing the front door to the bar opening or a car ignition starting in the front lot.
And so I wait.
Four and a half minutes to go.
My mind shifts through scenarios, preparing for a myriad of outcomes. As the clock ticks on, a familiar steadiness settles in my chest, preparing me for battle. Nothing better than real-life experience to enable you to find a sense of calm in a dangerous situation. Fortunately, I have a lifetime of tumultuous moments to call upon. From the time I was a child until I was a trained killer with the flag on my shoulder, navigating volatile circumstances has been second nature.
Ninety seconds left.
After visualizing various scenarios, I click the trunk latch on my vehicle’s key fob. I need it open when I return with my target.
Seventy-five seconds.
I tap at my KA-BAR knife, holstered on my belt.
Seventy seconds.
Glancing at my vehicle, I visualize my exfil.
Sixty seconds.
Pulling my SIG out of my appendix holster, I check the safety and ammo before tucking it back inside my waistband.
Forty-five seconds.
Visions of Lettie spring across my mind unprompted, fracturing my practiced concentration. I see the bruises. The welts. The burns.
Blinking it off, I enter the bar through the back door before the five minutes are up.
Fuck waiting. I want him now.
My undetected entry puts me in a supply room. Plastic cups, napkins, and paper products fill the metal shelves on both sides of the narrow room. Cleaning supplies along the bottom.
Silently creeping to the doorway leading to the back of the bar, I take a quick peek into the room, hoping to spot Skidmark’s reddish-orange hair. No luck so far. He isn’t one of the men standing by the dartboard and pool table. I suppose he’s seated with the female in the corner.
Fuck .
Enough women have been hurt because of that sick bastard. With her there, my options of getting him out of the bar are less.
When the bartender bends down to grab something out of a cooler, I seize the opportunity to dash out of the supply room, bypassing the bar, and end up in a hallway with my back to the wall. Three or four steps to my right, the hallway opens to the game area, where the two men are laughing and carrying on. Two steps to my left is a unisex restroom. A partition conceals me from the bartender and the table where the tango should be sitting with the unidentified female.
An idea takes shape for how I can enter the customer area while appearing like a patron leaving the restroom.
Reaching to my left, I open the bathroom door, hoping it’ll slam audibly. It does.
Two seconds later, I stride from the hallway with the cap pulled down to shield most of my face. The men playing darts pay me no mind.
The bartender looks up from the cooler. “Didn’t see you come in, handsome. It’s past last call, but if you drink fast, I won’t tell.” She throws a coaster on the bar and winks at me.
In my peripheral, I notice the redhead fucker at the small table with a dark-haired female. His seat positioning has him looking away with only the side of his face visible. He makes no move toward me.
Slowly, I approach the bar and make limited eye contact with the bartender. “Bottle of Bud, please.” I toss a ten on the counter, acting nonchalantly to avoid drawing attention.
Sitting on the stool, I keep my ears open to all sounds around me. The hushed conversation from Skidmark’s table. The laughter from the two men in the game area. The low hum of the coolers behind the bar. The bartender singing along to the music under her breath.
Having my back to the main room feels wrong on so many fucking levels. There’s no mirror lining the wall to provide a view behind me. Can’t stay like this, even if it blows my cover.
Once she sets the beer down, I grab the bottle and spin around on my stool, putting my back to the bar. With one eye on the door and the other focusing on Skidmark’s side of the room, I take a slow sip.
As soon as the cool liquid hits my lips, an unusual sense of panic spikes through me. On reflex, I spit the beer back in the bottle out of fear it’s drugged.
For the first time tonight, my pulse speeds up, and uneasiness surrounds me. I set the bottle down on the bar behind me and take a deep breath, attempting to regain control.
What the fuck was that about?
The moment when Lettie threw the iced tea across the kitchen at her apartment the other night sails through my mind, making me long to comfort her. I can only imagine how she feels.
Fucking hell. All these emotions are wrecking my concentration. Try as I might, I can’t seem to keep them at bay for long.
Refocusing my eyes, I commit the faces of the men playing darts to memory just in case.
The toes of my left foot tap repeatedly inside my boot as more of that fucking unease floods my system.
My target rises from his chair and ambles toward the bar. Since I pulled off my face covering during Lettie’s rescue, there’s a good chance he’ll recognize me. I look away slightly, hiding under the brim of my hat.
“I’ll have another, Tiffany.”
His voice is now etched into my mind. I can’t wait to hear him screaming for death.
“Already told you it was last call,” the bartender tosses back.
“Oh come on,” he cajoles. “One more while we’re waiting for our ride.” English is perfect. No detectable accent, Russian or otherwise.
Unfortunately, if he’s got a ride coming, grabbing him becomes more of a challenge. I need to get him out of here before they arrive.
The bartender has no fucks to give him. “Wait outside for all I fucking care. Darryl’s almost here to pick me up. Bar is officially closed.”
The slime ball ambles close, resting his forearms on the sticky laminate surface. He bends at the waist and whispers, “Don’t embarrass me in front of my boss’s best girl, Tiff.”
My hands tighten into fists at his proximity.
I could kill him in less than two seconds. Slash his throat before he even knows I’ve moved a muscle. Jab the point of my knife squarely into his ear. Kick his knee out and snap his neck on his way to the floor.
No cameras in here. It could all be over in a breath.
However, I need to get intel out of him. No matter how enticing the idea of him dead on a dirty bar floor may be, he can’t talk if I’ve severed his vocal cords or sent him to meet his maker.
Damn.
I’ll stick to the plan. Can’t let my fucking emotions complicate shit.
Tiffany leans over the bar, lowering her voice and infusing grit into her tone. “I don’t give a fuck if she’s the queen of IKEA. Read my lips. Pay your tab and fuck off out of here.” Straightening her spine, she raps her knuckles on the bar behind me to get my attention. “That goes for you too. Pound your beer.”
I nod at her and pretend to drink my Budweiser.
She cuts off the music and whistles, getting the attention of the two other customers. “Closing time. Finish your drinks and go.”
Grumbles of protest emanate from the game area.
The female who was drinking with my target stands and backs away from the table. She’s dressed nicely in a gray blouse and a knee-length black skirt. My eyes nearly bug out of the side of my head when I notice a large bump at her midsection when she turns to grab her purse from the back of her chair. Taking a second look, it’s evident she’s pregnant.
Was she drinking fucking alcohol? To each their own and all, but that’s a little fucked up.
My eyes fall to the table, and I’m relieved to see a can of what appears to be some type of flavored sparkling water.
As my outrage lessens, Kadin’s words to the bartender swirl around my head.
Boss’s best girl.
Is she possibly Savin’s sister, Katia? The one who the elder Lenkov got pregnant? Or is Skidmark referring to a different boss?
As discretely as possible, I memorize her features. The curve of her nose. The deep set of her brown eyes. Her fair skin tone. Build. Height. Later, I’ll need to describe her to Savin or see if he has a picture. She could be the key to getting to Lenkov.
Wish I could take her right now. Either to help her escape and start a new life or use her for leverage. She presents lots of possibilities. I should’ve brought another guy like Jonesy suggested. With a little help, I could have grabbed her and Skidmark at the same time.
Oh well. Probably not the best idea to abduct a pregnant woman. Even if she’d be safer with me than Lenkov. I’ll stick to the plan and nab Skidmark. Best to confirm who she is before I attempt to grab her.
With the music off, every sound is amplified. When I give up on pretending to drink the beer and set it down on the bar, there’s a rustling coming from the back supply room. My arm hairs stand on end.
Craning my neck for a better view, I’m met with the inky eyes of a tall, slender man entering from the back of the bar where I came in. He’s greasy and unkempt. And seemingly pissed off.
“Woman, what did I tell you about leaving the back door open?” he bellows at Tiffany.
He stumbles a little before putting his hands on her hips to steady himself.
He’s drunk.
Assuming he isn’t also on drugs, he won’t be hard to take out. The two guys playing darts also seem intoxicated. Unreliable witnesses and easily disabled. Aside from the pregnant female, the only sober witness is the bartender. She’s a waif, so unless she pulls out a gun, she’s not a concern. If she does, I can shoot faster.
Now or never.
I spring into action while Skidmark unfolds bills from his wallet to pay his tab. Standing abruptly, I feign intoxication and stumble toward him, reaching out for my beer bottle at the same time. Sending my arm flailing, I knock the bottle over in his direction, hoping it spills on him, thus sending him to the restroom to clean up.
Fuck yes. The beer hits my target.
“Whoops. S-s-sorry about that,” I slur. No one has ever mistaken me for an actor, but playing drunk can’t be too difficult if Vanessa pulled it off.
That bitch.
“What the fuck?” Kadin hollers, running his hands down his shirt where the beer is soaking in.
Unfortunately, it’s not much liquid. Too bad it was a beer bottle instead of a glass with a larger opening. Could have been a better spill. Hindsight.
He cusses under his breath, patting himself dry with a handful of cocktail napkins the bartender gave him.
Fuck off, Tiff. Not the time to suddenly care about customer service.
“Bathroom,” I suggest in a rushed mumble. “Help clean you in there.” I put my arm over his shoulders, attempting to move him in the direction of the bathroom.
He thrusts his elbow into my side. “Get the fuck off me, asshole.”
Putting my back toward the bartender, I return my arm to Skidmark’s shoulder and manhandle him to my side. Before he can blink, I’ve got my knife under his chin. “Say another word and die. Put up a fight, and your boss’s girl will be dead in five seconds. My guys are right outside and will end her on my signal.”
“What the fu—” he starts.
I press the knife harder against his skin to shut him up. “Shh. Now we’re going to the bathroom together. Nice and easy, or she dies.”
“Okay,” he agrees reluctantly.
Lowering the knife from his chin, I move it to the side of his rib cage, where it’s better concealed by our bodies. Glancing over my shoulder in Tiffany’s direction, I holler, “I’ll help him clean up.” As we head toward the hallway, I add a stumble to sell my bullshit.
“Good. Keep walking,” I seethe in his ear.
His cheap cologne gets caught in my lungs. I fight the urge to cough and push him away to escape the sickening scent.
Rounding the edge of the bar, I grab an empty glass from the clean glass rack and toss it over my shoulder toward the pool table. As anticipated, the sound draws the bartender and her boyfriend in that direction, leaving my path to the rear door clear.
Moving swiftly, I drag him behind the bar, through the supply room, and right out the exit to my car. I kick open the unlocked trunk. “Get in.” After shoving him downward, I use my now free hand to retrieve my sidearm.
He sweeps his gaze from side to side, hoping to find a way to escape. Not happening, asshole.
I jam the muzzle of the gun under his chin. “In.”
He puts his palms out and shirks backward, folding himself into the trunk. Once he’s in, he studies every inch of my face.
The moment he recognizes me, his face blanches, and he lets loose a frightened gasp.
“Recognize me, fucker?”
“Oh shit,” he warbles, fear choking his airway.
A wicked grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I didn’t want to hurt her. We had no choice.” Evidently, he knows I’ve come for payback.
“Don’t care. You touched her. And now you’ll die.”
Without another word, I knock him out, sailing the butt of my gun into his skull.
The thud might as well be a Zen-like chant for how it soothes my psyche.
Unfortunately, I can’t take a moment to soak it in since I need to exfil before someone notices we didn’t hit the bathroom.
When I’m sure we aren’t being followed, I pull off the road in a dark spot. It should be mostly camera-free. Quickly returning to the trunk, I empty his pockets and hog-tie him in case he wakes up on the drive. After gagging him and tossing a bag over his head for fun, I power down his phone and slide it into my back pocket.
Before shutting the trunk, I cut out the emergency release lever so he can’t escape.
Shout out to Sammy Mason for ensuring I didn’t make that fucking mistake. This asshole won’t be going anywhere.
Except to Hell as soon as I’m done with him.