bottles on the wall behind him offered a clue as to which sport he’d played.
“We’re closed, mac,” the bartender said.
Rafe looked at the other occupants of the room. There were three of them. They were all in their late twenties and early thirties. Their attire wasn’t far removed from his. One of them wore a Hispanic kerchief wrapped around his head.
All of them gazed at him with predatory interest.
Shannon Connor was nowhere in sight.
“Door’s open,” Rafe responded. He pointed to the window. “Sign’s still on.” He spread his hands. “Look I only want a beer. I just climbed out of one of the warehouses down on the river. My boss nominated me to repack a few shipments going out in the morning. I’m hot. I’m tired. And I’m dry.”
“Sorry, mac,” the bartender said. “Like I told you, we’re—”
“Hey, Tommy,” the oldest of the men sitting at the small tables called out. “Man just wants a beer. Ain’t nothing. Don’t be a chump.”
Grudgingly the bartender looked at Rafe. “What kinda beer do you want?”
“Bottle. Domestic. As long as it’s cold, I don’t care.”
The bartender reached below the bar and brought up a longneck. He placed it on the bar without a word.
Rafe looked at the man at the table. “Can I get you something?”
“Thanks. I’m good.”
Rafe dug in his pocket and brought out a thin roll of cash. “How much?”
“Four bucks.”
“Pretty steep for a working-class neighborhood, ain’t it?” Rafe peeled off a five and dropped it on the bar. “Keep the change.”
The bartender made the five disappear without a smile. Evidently he wasn’t big on repeat business.
“So,” the guy at the table said, “you working down at the docks?”
“Yeah.” Rafe twisted the top off the bottle and tossed it into a plastic bowl on the bar. He turned his back to the bartender because he could track the man in the reflection of neon-washed glass overlooking the street.
“That’s hard work,” the man said.
Rafe shrugged and took a long pull on his beer. “I’ve had worse. Had better pay, too.” He grinned.
The man grinned back at him. One of the other guys laughed.
“You from the neighborhood?”
Rafe shook his head. He tried to figure where Shannon Connor was and whether she was in any kind of trouble.
“Hanging with a friend for a couple months. Just till I get some cash up. The last girlfriend I had cleaned me out. Packed up my stuff, emptied the bank accounts and took off with my best friend.”
“Ouch, dude,” one of the other guys said. “Not exactly a happy camper.”
“I’ve had better days,” Rafe said. The story was actually true, but it had happened three years ago. He’d learned his lesson. Women and a job that meant long out-of-the-country trips really didn’t work out.
He hadn’t tried for anything steady since, but he hadn’t been completely put off toward women. It wasn’t their fault. The job was hard, and he wasn’t extremely skilled at relationships.
In the window reflection, the bartender glanced at the clock over the bar. “Maybe you could take that beer for a walk.”
Rafe grinned and shook his head at the guy at the table. “Man, I don’t understand why Tommy here doesn’t play to a full house every night.”
The guy at the table laughed. “You’re right. But so is he. It’d be better if you finish up that beer.”
“Hospitality’s about to run dry, I guess.” Rafe wondered what was going on.
“Okay,” Allison said in his ear, “now I’m definitely getting antsy.”
Rafe was, too.
“Don’t mean to push you out the door,” the man at the table said. “You come around here another night, I’ll buy you a beer myself.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Rafe upended the bottle and drained it. He placed it on the counter as he turned to face the bartender.
“Got a men’s room around here, Tommy?”
“Got the alley out back,” the bartender said. “Just look out you don’t hit any bums. They come up swinging sometimes.”
“You’re a funny guy,” Rafe said.
A piercing scream rang out from the back room.
Rafe glanced toward the back of the bar.
“Sure wish you hadn’t stuck around long enough to hear that,” the guy at the table said. He reached under his jacket and Rafe knew he was going for a pistol.
Chapter 3
Before Drago could pull the trigger on the pistol, Shannon kicked him in the crotch. The big man staggered back and remained standing.
That surprised Shannon. She’d felt certain the kick would have put Drago on the ground. Seeing him still standing wasn’t good.
Drago cursed at her and tried to take aim again.
Moving on instinct, Shannon grabbed her opponent’s hand in both of hers. She wrapped his thumb with her left hand and wrapped his pinkie with her right. She pulled and twisted, hoping to break either the finger or the thumb.
Despite the hold she had on him, Drago was simply too strong. He curled his hand into a fist again and nearly trapped her hands. The whole time he cursed at her.
Adrenaline slammed into Shannon. She soaked it up, knowing it would help her only momentarily, then leave her weak.
Instead of trying to maintain her grip and lose the battle only a little slower, Shannon kicked Drago in the crotch again. He partially blocked her with a thigh, but she still struck home. Another yelp escaped his bared fangs.
Panicked now as the pistol swung back toward her, Shannon let go with her right hand and raked her nails across Drago’s face. Bloody furrows opened up across his right cheek and eye. She thought she might have gotten him in the eye, as well.
He screamed and it came out unbelievably high-pitched. But he stumbled back and fired the pistol. The report sounded incredibly loud in the enclosed space. Partially deafened, Shannon turned and fled to the door.
Be open! she thought frantically. She couldn’t remember Drago locking the door. Her hand closed around the doorknob. She twisted and yanked. The door came open in a rush.
Another shot banged out and a vibration shivered through the door. A hole opened up only a few inches from Shannon’s head. She shoved through the door and stumbled out into the hall.
High-heeled sling-backs are so not made for running. Shannon still gave her effort her best, though. Out in the hall, she kicked out of them and ran barefoot. I can come back for the shoes. Right now I just need to find a cop.
Gunfire broke out ahead of her.
The bartender went for something under the bar. Rafe pulled the expandable baton from its holster, pressed the release button and felt the weapon chug as it moved instantly from seven inches in length to sixteen.
“Rafe,” Allison said. “What’s going on?”
“Butt out,” Rafe said. “I’m busy.” Praying that his knee held together and the brace kept it strong, Rafe twisted around and smashed the baton across the bartender’s wrists.
A cut-down double-barreled