a stakeout when I see one.”
“Congratulations. So do I, and you’ve been following me since the Oxford. But we’re done.” She looked up at him from underneath her lashes. “Right here, right now. I’m walking out of here, and if you touch me one more time, I’m going to take deep, personal offense. No more nice girl just because we’re old school chums. Do you understand me?”
Well, when she said it like that, he guessed every guy in the bar would understand her.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyebrow arched again, and she started to step by him—but he stopped her with a simple lift of his hand, being damn careful not to deeply and personally offend her.
“I just have one more question,” he said. “Do you know who Dovey Smollett works for?”
“No.” She shook her head and gave him a small, indulgent smile. “Dovey and I haven’t kept up.”
She started to move again, but his hand stayed where it was, blocking her path, but still not touching her.
“I do.”
Her look said she wasn’t impressed and didn’t give a damn.
“He’s a local guy,” he said anyway, whether she wanted to hear it or not. “He makes book up in Commerce City, a guy named Franklin Bleak.”
CHAPTER
SIX
Esme’s heart caught in her throat, and for a moment, she was frozen in place. But just for a moment.
Bad news,
she told herself.
Take the hit, and move on, very carefully.
Goddammit. Franklin Bleak.
Commerce City, five A.M ., a warehouse on Vogel Street—the payoff had been set. So why was the bookie pooching the deal?
Only one reason came to mind, and the bad feeling she’d had in the office suddenly got a whole lot worse. Strong-arming people for money sometimes required a little extra leverage. A wife or child, or both, worked pretty good. A guy who might be willing to sacrifice himself could usually be spurred a little harder to come up with cash when his other choice was having his family take the hit for him, possibly quite a bad hit. If they owed money to Franklin Bleak, the prognosis could be elevated to “definitely bad.” The Commerce City bookie had a very unsavory reputation, and thus the .45 for tonight’s work. Even with the money to pay her dad’s debt, she’d known presenting herself to Bleak in her father’s place entailed a certain amount of risk. For her own peace of mind and to keep potential problems at a minimum, she’d purposely left her dad out of the night’s proceedings.
But now. Hell, the risk factor had just gone through the roof—which in no way meant she didn’t still have to deliver the money. It did mean she couldn’t afford even one loose end, not so much as a thread out of place. She needed to tighten up her plan, get her contingencies in place and lock them in, and for that she needed the name Thomas had promised her father, and she needed Dax. She hadn’t planned on walking into a Vogel Street warehouse with eighty-two thousand dollars without guarantees. If the name Thomas delivered didn’t do the trick, the information Dax had gone to Colorado Springs to get was her backup—and if that didn’t work, then it would be just her and Dax, and that was as close to an ironclad guarantee as a girl was ever going to get.
At least it had been. Now she had to wonder if the only guarantee was to walk away. Come up with another game plan.
Dax had gotten her out of Bangkok—but it had cost him. She didn’t know what. He’d never said, not in eighteen long months, no matter how many times she’d asked, no matter how obliquely she’d approached the subject—but the price of her freedom, whatever back-room deal he’d cut with Erich Warner, had cost him, and now this damn deal was twisting in her hands.
That bastard Bleak had sent somebody to snatch her off the damn street, and if it hadn’t been for John Ramos, that somebody might have succeeded.
So what did Bleak want here? His damn money? Or blood?
Goddammit.
Something had gone wrong somewhere, and she needed to
“Congratulations. So do I, and you’ve been following me since the Oxford. But we’re done.” She looked up at him from underneath her lashes. “Right here, right now. I’m walking out of here, and if you touch me one more time, I’m going to take deep, personal offense. No more nice girl just because we’re old school chums. Do you understand me?”
Well, when she said it like that, he guessed every guy in the bar would understand her.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyebrow arched again, and she started to step by him—but he stopped her with a simple lift of his hand, being damn careful not to deeply and personally offend her.
“I just have one more question,” he said. “Do you know who Dovey Smollett works for?”
“No.” She shook her head and gave him a small, indulgent smile. “Dovey and I haven’t kept up.”
She started to move again, but his hand stayed where it was, blocking her path, but still not touching her.
“I do.”
Her look said she wasn’t impressed and didn’t give a damn.
“He’s a local guy,” he said anyway, whether she wanted to hear it or not. “He makes book up in Commerce City, a guy named Franklin Bleak.”
CHAPTER
SIX
Esme’s heart caught in her throat, and for a moment, she was frozen in place. But just for a moment.
Bad news,
she told herself.
Take the hit, and move on, very carefully.
Goddammit. Franklin Bleak.
Commerce City, five A.M ., a warehouse on Vogel Street—the payoff had been set. So why was the bookie pooching the deal?
Only one reason came to mind, and the bad feeling she’d had in the office suddenly got a whole lot worse. Strong-arming people for money sometimes required a little extra leverage. A wife or child, or both, worked pretty good. A guy who might be willing to sacrifice himself could usually be spurred a little harder to come up with cash when his other choice was having his family take the hit for him, possibly quite a bad hit. If they owed money to Franklin Bleak, the prognosis could be elevated to “definitely bad.” The Commerce City bookie had a very unsavory reputation, and thus the .45 for tonight’s work. Even with the money to pay her dad’s debt, she’d known presenting herself to Bleak in her father’s place entailed a certain amount of risk. For her own peace of mind and to keep potential problems at a minimum, she’d purposely left her dad out of the night’s proceedings.
But now. Hell, the risk factor had just gone through the roof—which in no way meant she didn’t still have to deliver the money. It did mean she couldn’t afford even one loose end, not so much as a thread out of place. She needed to tighten up her plan, get her contingencies in place and lock them in, and for that she needed the name Thomas had promised her father, and she needed Dax. She hadn’t planned on walking into a Vogel Street warehouse with eighty-two thousand dollars without guarantees. If the name Thomas delivered didn’t do the trick, the information Dax had gone to Colorado Springs to get was her backup—and if that didn’t work, then it would be just her and Dax, and that was as close to an ironclad guarantee as a girl was ever going to get.
At least it had been. Now she had to wonder if the only guarantee was to walk away. Come up with another game plan.
Dax had gotten her out of Bangkok—but it had cost him. She didn’t know what. He’d never said, not in eighteen long months, no matter how many times she’d asked, no matter how obliquely she’d approached the subject—but the price of her freedom, whatever back-room deal he’d cut with Erich Warner, had cost him, and now this damn deal was twisting in her hands.
That bastard Bleak had sent somebody to snatch her off the damn street, and if it hadn’t been for John Ramos, that somebody might have succeeded.
So what did Bleak want here? His damn money? Or blood?
Goddammit.
Something had gone wrong somewhere, and she needed to
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