CHAPTER 10
The pendant lights had barely stopped flickering when the alley door opened.
Not the soft click of someone who belonged there—Marcus returning from a supply run, Cole coming back from the locksmith's shop.
This was the sound of a door pushed open with deliberate force, the old hinges groaning in protest. Three men stepped through, and the temperature in the bar dropped by degrees.
Mara's coffee cup stopped halfway to her lips.
The first man through the door was built like a refrigerator—broad and solid, with a shaved head and a neck that had swallowed his collarbones sometime in the distant past. He wore a black jacket despite the warmth of the afternoon, and his hands hung at his sides like he was waiting for an excuse to use them.
The second man was younger, leaner, with quick eyes that swept the bar in a single glance and landed on Marcus with the precision of a hawk spotting prey.
The third man hung back near the door, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.
Marcus had gone still behind the bar. The glass he'd been wiping hung forgotten in his hand, a bead of water sliding down its curve and dripping onto the wood.
The bruise on his cheekbone—the one he'd had when he arrived—seemed to darken, as if his body remembered something his mind was trying to forget.
"Marcus." The lean man spoke first. His voice was almost pleasant. "You've been hard to find."
Cole set his espresso down. The small sound of ceramic meeting wood was deafening in the quiet. "We're closed."
"Didn't look closed." The lean man's eyes moved to Mara, then to Cole, then back to Marcus. "Door was open. Lights were on. Looks like a bar that's serving." He tilted his head toward the espresso machine. "What's that, coffee?"
"We're not open to the public," Cole said. His voice had shifted into that calm register—the one Mara recognized from the firehouse stories he'd told her, the one he used when talking someone down from a ledge or a burning building. "Whatever business you have, it can wait until tomorrow."
The broad man took a step forward. The floorboards creaked under his weight. "We've been waiting. Three weeks now. Leo don't like waiting."
Leo. Mara filed the name away. The lean man—Leo, presumably—held up a hand, and the broad man stopped. The gesture was casual, almost lazy, but the obedience was instant. These men had a hierarchy. Leo was at the top.
"I'm sure Marcus has been very busy," Leo said.
"Drywall. Plumbing. Whatever it is you do in a place like this.
" His eyes traveled over the unfinished walls, the exposed brick, the pendant lights still flickering from whatever had disturbed them minutes before.
"Nice place. Quaint. Lot of history, I bet.
Lot of character." He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Bet you'd hate for anything to happen to it. "
Cole's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his temple.
Mara had seen him angry before—the night Marcus had first appeared, the morning they'd argued about his rescuer complex—but this was different.
This was the anger of a man who'd spent fifteen years running into burning buildings, who'd pulled bodies from wreckage, who'd learned that the only thing more dangerous than fire was another human being with bad intentions.
"Marcus doesn't have your money," Cole said.
"Of course he doesn't. That's why we're here.
" Leo leaned against the bar, his posture almost friendly.
"See, here's the thing. Marcus borrowed fifteen large from a guy I work for.
Very reasonable terms. Very patient. But patience runs out.
" He picked up the glass Marcus had been wiping and turned it over in his hands.
"You know what happens when patience runs out, Marcus? "
Marcus's knuckles were white on the edge of the bar. His voice came out hoarse. "Leo—"
"I wasn't talking to you." Leo set the glass down.
"I was talking to your brother. The firefighter.
The hero." He turned to Cole. "You've got a reputation, you know.
Pulled a woman from a car wreck five years ago.
Saved her life. Very impressive. Very noble.
" His eyes flicked to Mara. "That's you, isn't it? The woman he pulled out?"
Mara's heart slammed against her ribs. She didn't answer. Her hand had found the pendant at her throat—the skeleton key, warm against her skin.
Leo nodded, as if her silence was answer enough. "Thought so. Small world. You know what else is small? The window of opportunity Marcus has to pay back what he owes." He reached into his jacket.
Cole's hand moved toward the back of his waistband. Mara had seen him do it once before—the night Marcus had first appeared, the night he'd reached for the gun on the shelf. But the gun was in the panic room now, locked behind a keypad, and Cole's hand found nothing but denim and air.
Leo pulled out a folded piece of paper. Not a weapon. A document. He smoothed it on the bartop, turning it so Marcus could read.
"This is the original agreement. Fifteen thousand, plus interest. Twenty-two five now, with the late fees. Payable in full by next Friday." He tapped a line at the bottom of the page. "That's your signature. You remember signing this, Marcus?"
Marcus's voice cracked. "I remember."
"Good. Then you remember the collateral clause.
" Leo's finger moved to another paragraph.
"'In the event of default, the lender reserves the right to collect equivalent value from the borrower's assets or the assets of any co-signing party.
'" He looked up. "You didn't have a co-signer, Marcus.
You don't have assets. So that leaves us with a problem. "
The broad man cracked his knuckles. The sound was like small bones snapping.
"Here's how this is going to work," Leo continued.
"You're going to give us the twenty-two five by Friday.
Cash. And if you don't—" He looked around the bar again, his expression almost admiring.
"Nice place like this. Lot of character.
Lot of expensive-looking fixtures. Would be a shame if something happened to it.
Fire, maybe. Gas leak. These old buildings go up so fast."
Cole's voice was ice. "That's a threat."
"It's a business proposition. We're not unreasonable men.
We understand cash flow problems. So we're willing to be flexible.
" Leo folded the paper and tucked it back into his jacket.
"Friday, Marcus. Twenty-two five. Or we come back with a moving truck and start taking inventory.
" He smiled again, and this time there was nothing pleasant about it.
"Nice to meet you both. We'll see ourselves out. "
The broad man backed toward the door. The silent man followed. Leo paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, and looked back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Marcus? Don't run again. We found you here. We'll find you anywhere. Philadelphia's not that big." The door swung shut behind them.
The silence that followed was worse than the threats had been.
Marcus was the first to break it. His hand found the glass Leo had touched, and he hurled it against the back wall. It shattered against the brick, shards scattering across the floor, and the sound of it was like a gunshot in the quiet bar.
"Marcus—" Cole started.
"I'm sorry." Marcus's voice was ragged. His whole body was trembling now, the way it had been the night he'd arrived, the night he'd stood at the edge of the bartop and asked Mara what she wanted. "I should have told you. I should have—I didn't think they'd find me here. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think." Cole's voice was flat. "You never think. That's the problem. You borrow money from loan sharks, you don't pay it back, you show up at my bar in the middle of the night, and you don't think. You just—"
"I know." Marcus sank onto a stool, his head in his hands.
The bruise on his cheekbone stood out livid against his pale skin.
"I know. I know. I'm a fuck-up. I ruined my marriage.
I ruined my life. Now I'm ruining yours.
" He looked up, and his eyes were red-rimmed, hollow.
"I'll go. I'll leave tonight. They follow me, not you. "
"You're not going anywhere." Mara's voice surprised her. It was steady—steadier than she felt. She set her coffee cup down. "You run, they'll find you. They'll do worse than threaten. You heard him."
"Mara's right." Cole rubbed his jaw. The scar on his cheek pulled tight.
"Running makes it worse. These men—they're not amateurs.
Leo's connected. I've heard the name. He works for a guy named Santoro.
Runs a loan operation out of South Philly.
They don't kill people, not usually. But they hurt them.
They hurt the people they love." He looked at Mara, and something flickered in his eyes. "They hurt the things they care about."
"Then what do we do?" Marcus asked. "I don't have twenty-two thousand dollars. I don't have twenty-two hundred. I've got maybe four hundred in my checking account and a truck that's three payments behind."
Cole was silent for a long moment. He moved behind the bar, his movements automatic—sweeping up the broken glass, wiping down the counter, resetting the stools. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. Controlled.
"We need to think. Strategically. Like we did with the tunnels, the chamber, the blueprint." He dumped the shattered glass into the trash. "They gave us until Friday. That's five days. In five days, a lot can change."
"Not twenty-two thousand dollars' worth of change," Marcus muttered.
"Maybe not. But we have assets they don't know about." Cole looked at Mara. "The tunnels. The temple. The chests of toys. The original Mara's jewelry—the pendant Mara's wearing alone is worth something. Probably more than something."