“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I can tell from the splitting headache radiating through my frontal lobe that I drank too much.
I slowly open my eyes to my surroundings. Instead of the nice king-sized bed and memory foam mattress I’m used to I’m on the couch in my office at The Alibi.
“Fuck.” I moan, rubbing a hand across my jaw.
Yeah.
Maybe my drinking is a bit out of control.
Not that I was about to admit that to anyone.
“You’re fucking robbing us?”
That gets my attention.
I swing my legs off the couch to stand, pausing for a moment to let the dizziness from my hangover pass. Grabbing my Glock from the top drawer of my desk I check to see if it’s loaded and head for the door.
The voice currently swearing up a storm belongs to Frank. He has keys to the place as he typically comes early in the morning to open it up for the staff. He’s also my enforcer.
I tuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans and creep out of my office. My office here is on the second floor. From the railing of the stairs, I have a good view of the bar floor. I can see two young figures, probably late teens - early twenties, with black ski masks over their heads holding Frank at gunpoint. I’d laugh at the lunacy of these two if I wasn’t so damn angry.
“Give us all the money.” The one on the right side shouts. He’s a little heavier, or the one on the left is far too skinny. He shakes a pillow case at Frank.
Big Frank isn’t called big because he’s little, he’s genuinely a big guy. Standing at 6’ and 300 pounds, he isn’t someone you want to mess with, but the boys have him outnumbered.
At least they think they do.
I don’t really want blood in my club, but I’m also not about to give these boys any fucking money.
I aim my gun at the one on the right who is still shaking the pillow case. Low enough that it won’t kill him, but it’s gonna really fucking hurt. Then, thinking better of it, I decide to shoot the lamp less than a foot away.
I’d rather shoot these two somewhere where I’ll have less of a cleanup effort.
“Fuck!” the kid shouts.
The other one is distracted long enough for Frank to knock the gun out of his hand and wrestle him to the ground. I take the stairs two at a time to get to the other one.
“Who’s here?” I ask Frank.
“Just Justine.”
Justine is the bar manager. She’s a smart girl who makes extra to keep her mouth shut.
“Justine,” I called out.
I see her peak out from above the bar. “Oh, thank god.” she murmurs.
“Get some tape and then get out of here, hmm? I’ll make sure you’re compensated for your time.” I tell her.
She asks no questions as she fetches a roll of duct tape from the back, grabs her purse, and gets out without saying a word.
Part of being successful in this business is surrounding yourself with the right people. People who don’t fuck with you.
So who the fuck do these two think they are?
We hastily secure both kids’ hands behind their backs, then their ankles to thighs effectively keeping them grounded in a kneeling position.
I shoot a quick text over to the other two guys to get their asses here.
I rip the masks off their faces, tossing them to the side. The bigger one is whimpering and begging already, a mixture of snot and tears running down his red cheeks. Glass from the lamp flung over and lodged itself into his calf. Nothing serious, but obviously the cut had turned him into a fucking child.
“Shh,” I shush, bending down to face him. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I-I’m s-s-sorry.” he mumbles through snot and tears.
“No,” I corrected. “I asked who you are?”
“No one.” the other guy answers. “This was just a stupid prank.”
“Then why is no one laughing?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“G-get A-Annie, p-please.” the first one stutters.
This catches my attention. “Who’s Annie?”
“No!” the other boy shouts, looking to the first in disbelief.
“Outside.” the first one whimpers. “She’s a nurse.”
“Dumbass.” the other looks pissed. “Leave her alone.” He pleads. “She’s not involved in this.”
Well, this is a fun turn of events.
Who the fuck is Annie and why should I leave her alone?
My head is running wild as I sit outside the bar.
My mind is playing tricks on me.
How many places have my fingerprints on them? Can’t they dust these and know they belong to me?
My head is racing with a million different ways this could end badly.
Shoot out.
Cops.
Death. Mostly death. All roads lead to death.
It’s been too long. They told me they would be in and out ten minutes ago. My stomach is gurgling, making noises of distress. I gingerly rest my hand on it. I think I’m going to vomit in here if they don’t come out soon.
My beat-up Toyota Camry is the only thing providing me protection. I dressed the part for today’s adventure in all black from my boots to my black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over my head and I popped a pair of dark-framed sunglasses over my eyes. Every little bit of coverage counts, right? Except none of this matters when I’m driving my own damn car. Maybe I should report it stolen once all this is over.
Once the Irish mob is paid off and Johnny is safe, this will all be worth it.
I think I truly believe that, but my stomach feels differently.
Knock.
Knock
Knock
I jumped at the sound; I was
