“So, we need to have a little chat with your girlfriend?”
His eyes widen, worried. I can’t figure out if he’s concerned for her or himself. “Danny, come on.”
Yeah, maybe he’s sticking his dick in another woman, but how did they get to know each other in the first place? It’s all rather convenient if you ask me. I get my face up in his, fisting his jacket again. “I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, how cozy is this?” a female voice asks. One I can’t claim to recognize.
Higham’s bloodied face drops, and I hear a few quiet curses behind me. I look back, still with Higham in my grasp. Collins is standing in the club. Her smile salacious. “Oh, we finally get to chat,” I say, smiling. It’s as salacious as hers.
She pouts, looking at Higham in my grasp. “Assaulting an FBI agent? I’ve only been here five seconds, and I already have a reason to arrest you.” She pulls out her cuffs and dangles them. Fuck me, I’ve met some cocky cops in my time, but this female is taking the fucking cake.
“It’s fine, Collins,” Higham says. “This is FBI business, not MPD. I’m handling it.”
“Your face suggests otherwise. Have you asked them about the explosion at Brad Black’s address?”
“Gas leak,” I say flatly.
“Yeah,” she purrs. “Do we believe them, Agent Higham?”
Fuck, I want to punch her. This woman does not give two fucks about who she upsets on her path to success and recognition. She wanders over, and James steps into her path, looking down threatening. She’s not fazed, or if she is, she’s doing a really fucking good job of hiding it. “Oh.” She looks him up and down. “You must be the one they call The Enigma.”
“You can call me James.”
“How’s Beau?”
Historically, such a simple question asked has ended in tears. So how’s he going to handle this? “Well, she’s not a cop anymore, so I think we can safely say she’s good.”
Collins laughs. “Perhaps not so good when I arrest her for the murder of Marek Zielińska. I believe you all know him as The Shark.”
My eyes shoot to James. Oh fuck.
“Very interesting CCTV footage has come to light,” she goes on, wandering up and down, thoughtful, like Poirot used to do when he was detailing to an audience how he came to figure out who the murderer was. It’s fucking annoying. “Very interesting indeed.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She stops pacing and rests all her weight on a hip. Cocky. “Then explain how I know you dumped the bodies in the incinerator bin. Explain how I know that you were hiding your girlfriend from The Shark with your body pressed to hers against the wall? Did it turn you on?” She grins. “Your girlfriend killing someone for you? Did your dick get hard?”
Jesus. She needs to stop.
James steps into Collins, breathing down on her. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Yes, that’s definitely a threat,” I say, getting up, leaving Higham to shuffle to his arse and prop himself up against a nearby booth.
“Then I’ll take you both.” She produces another set of cuffs. “I’m doing well today, aren’t I?”
“Blinding,” I retort, joining James. Intimidating much? She asked for it. “I present my wrists to her, as does James. “Which one of us are you taking first?” I ask.
“I think I’ll call for backup. I sense a bit a friction, if you know what I mean.” She pulls out her mobile and steps back, taking her phone to her ear.
“Where’s your partner?” I ask.
“What?”
“You sorts. You usually travel in pairs, don’t you?” I tilt my head in question and laugh. “Oh, I know. No one can work with you, can they? Because, like us, they end up just wanting to smash your fucking face in.” I look at Higham. “Am I right, or am I right?”
He looks away.
“I think you’re right,” James says, his eyes lasers on Collins.
“I like my own company.” She goes back to her phone.
“Or don’t like sharing the credit.”
She shrugs. “I’m competitive.”
“Be careful, Collins. That competitiveness might be the death of you.”
She smirks. “Another threat?”
“Yep,” James says.
“You clearly like living on the edge. How’s your girlfriend. After she was shot?”
Fuck.
Another cop is about to be squashed, and it won’t be me firing the punches this time.
“I heard she and Burrows have been getting friendly again.” Collins raises the phone to her ear, and I ask myself with true wonder if she realizes who she is poking? What he’s truly capable of? Or does she really think she’s above us because she’s holding a badge? This one isn’t fitting in our pockets, that’s for sure.
“Incoming!”
The guys at the bar all dive off their stools, and James rugby tackles me from the side, taking me off my feet. I look up, stunned, dazed, fucking confused. Fuck! Volodya and a gang of heavies are forming a line that spans half the space, and they are all armed with machine guns that start spraying the club.
“Move,” James hisses, crawling combat style to a nearby booth and getting himself behind the wood, sitting up and pulling his gun.
“That looks rather insufficient.” I join him, arming myself, and peek out, popping off one of the brutes. I have a quick scan. A very alive Collins has found her way to the end of the bar, her gun poised, ready to take a shot. It’s a crying fucking shame. Volodya could have done us a favor.
“Danny!”
I look toward the other end of the bar and see Mason. He holds up an AK47 and then slides it across the floor to me, followed in quick succession by another. I don’t know where the fuck they’ve come from, and in this moment, I don’t care. I toss one to James, load, and lean out, firing on the fuckers on a roar. I watch three drop and the others scatter like ants, and I retreat to reload, just as James takes my place and starts popping bullets.
There’s a brief pause in noise, and I hear a door open. I look up and see Brad. His shoulder still strapped, his good hand holding a harpoon. A fucking harpoon. “Get back in there,” I warn.
“Fuck off.” He fires, and I follow the arrow’s path until it ploughs straight through one of the Russian’s eye sockets, pinning him to the wall behind him. Jesus Christ. Brad retreats behind the door and James gets up on his knees, resting the tip of his gun on the top of the booth seating.
“Where are the others?” I ask, joining him, scanning the place. Ten men walked in. There are only six lying on the club floor, and none of them are Volodya. “Pray do tell me they’ve not left, because I need that fucker dead now.”
My phone dings in my hand, and a message from Otto appears. A link to a live stream. I click and see the club fill my screen. “They’re in the round booth nearest the door.”
“Give me a cigarette,” James orders.
Good idea. I fish them out of my pocket and light one for him, putting it between his lips before sorting myself out. I breath in the nicotine. Breathe it out. “Ready?”