Dark Lover

Even to Wrath's poor eyesight, the warrior was a thing of beauty when he fought. All fists and kicks. Rapid motion. Animal reflexes. Power and endurance. He was a master of hand-to-hand combat, and the lessers hit the ground again and again, the length of time it took them to get up growing longer and longer.

Wrath went back to the first lesser and knelt over the body. It writhed as he went through its pockets and took all the ID he could find.

He was about to stab it in the chest when he heard a shotgun go off.

Chapter Twenty-nine

"So Butch, you gonna hang around until I get off tonight?" Abby smiled as she poured him another Scotch.

"Maybe." He didn't want to, but after a couple more he might change his mind. Assuming he could still get it up while he was drunk.

With a shift to the left, she looked behind him at another guy, shooting the man a little wink while flashing some cleavage.

Covering her bases. Probably a good idea.

Butch's cell phone vibrated on his belt, and he grabbed it. "Yeah?"

"We've got another dead prostitute," Jose said. "Thought you'd want to know."

"Where?" He leaped off the bar stool like he had somewhere to go. Then sat back down, slowly.

"Trade and Fifth. But don't come over. Where are you?"

"McGrider's."

"Ten minutes?"

"I'll be here."

Butch pushed the Scotch away as frustration tore through him.

Was this how he was going to end up? Getting drunk every night? Maybe working a PI or a security job until he got fired for being a derelict? Living alone in that two-room apartment until his liver kicked it?

He'd never been one for plans, but maybe it was time he made some.

"You didn't like that one?" Abby said, framing the shot glass with her breasts.

Reflexively, he reached for the damn thing, brought it to his lips, and tossed it back.

"That's my man."

But when she went to pour him another, he covered the top with his hand. "I think I'm done tonight."

"Yeah, right." She smiled when he shook his head. "Well, you know where to find me."

Yeah, unfortunately.

Jose took longer than ten minutes. It was a good half hour before Butch saw the detective cutting through the crowd of drinkers, a grim figure in his casual clothes.

"Do we know her?" Butch asked before the man could sit down.

"Another one of Big Daddy's. Carla Rizzoli. A.k.a. Candy."

"Same MO?"

Jose ordered a vodka straight up. "Yup. Throat slit, blood everywhere. There was some residue on her lips like she'd been foaming at the mouth."

"H?"

"Probably. The medical examiner's going to do the autopsy first thing tomorrow."

"Anything found at the scene?"

"A dart. Like you'd shoot an animal with. We're having it analyzed." Jose polished off the vodka with a quick tilt of his head. "And I heard Big Daddy's pissed. He's looking for revenge."

"Yeah, well, hopefully he'll take it out on Beth's boyfriend. Maybe a war will drive that bastard out of hiding." Butch set his elbows onto the bar. Rubbed his achy eyes. "Goddamn it, I can't believe she's protecting him."

"Man, I never saw that one coming. She finally picks someone-"

"And he's a total lowlife."

Jose looked over. "We're going to have to call her in."

"I figured." Butch focused his eyes by squinting. "Listen, I'm supposed to meet her tomorrow. Give me a crack at her first, will ya?"

"I can't do that, O'Neal. You're not-"

"Yeah, you can. You just schedule her for the day after."

"The investigation is moving forward-"

"Please." Butch couldn't believe he was begging. "Come on, Jose". I've got a better shot than anyone at getting through to her."

"Why's that?"

"Because she watched him almost kill me."

Jose looked down at the grotty bar top. "You've got one day. And nobody'd better find out, because the captain will have my head. Then no matter what, I gotta interrogate her at the station."

Butch nodded while Abby came dancing back over with a Scotch bottle in one hand and a liter of vodka in the other.

"You're looking dry, boys," she said with a giggle. The message in her lusty smile and her vacant eyes was getting louder, more desperate, as the night crawled to an end.

Butch thought of his empty wallet. His empty holster. His empty apartment.

"I gotta get out of her," he muttered, sliding off the stool. "I mean, here."

Wrath's arm absorbed the shotgun's load, and the impact twisted his torso like rope. He went with the force of the hit, spinning to the ground, but he didn't stay down. Moving fast and low, he got the hell out of the way, not giving the shooter a chance to nail him again.

The fifth lesser had come out of nowhere. And it was packing a heavy load in that sawed-off.

Behind a pine tree, Wrath quickly took stock of the injury. Nothing too deep. Some skin and muscle stripped off his biceps. Bone was intact. He could still fight.

He took out a throwingstar and stepped into the open.

And that was when a tremendous flash of light illuminated the clearing.

He leaped back into the shadows. "Aw, Christ!"