Page 10 of Love In The Shadows

I chuckled, thankful I wasn’t holding my glass, as the bourbon inside would have gone swirling with the shaking of my hand. “Not anymore.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Richie fired back, not letting up.

“Like I said, I’ll shoot straight with you. I’m an ex-Navy SEAL. I got burned out with politics getting in the way of doing my job. After the Navy, I did some contracting work with the CIA, but they’re even more fucked up than the military thugs. Anyway, I made a few contacts along the way, and one of them made me a tempting offer. So now I’m left holding the bag, and I need to liquidate these items quickly and quietly.”

Talking to a man like Richie was like a carefully choreographed dance. One misstep and the entire thing looked sloppy, unpolished. And Richie was definitely the kind of man who required polish.

He took another slow drag from the butt of his cigar and then leaned over to drop it in the ashtray on the table next to my drink. “So, this is legit?”

I nodded. “You heard me right.” From the look in his eye, I’d piqued his interest.

Richie considered me for a moment. “All right, Starr. I’m a straight shooter too. I don’t fuck around. I'm also a careful man, and I don’t do business with people I don't know and trust. But I do enjoy a good story, and yours seems interesting, so please continue.”

I nodded. In truth, I knew Richie was a bad motherfucker. I knew he’d chopped off his cousin’s head two years ago when he flipped and started feeding the feds info on the family business. His Uncle Paul was the official head of the family, but he was taken down in a raid in Vegas due to that snitching. So Richie was the number two man—but he still ran the whole show.

Over the last two years, and for the rest of his natural life…plus thirty years, Uncle Paul had taken up residence in a Federal Max Security prison designed to make it impossible for him to pull strings on anything. And now, for all practical purposes, he was nonexistent.

“Like I said, Richie, I have a warehouse full of weapons. I've got 3000 AR-15 assault rifles, all fully automatic with every size clip and accessory you could dream of with enough rounds to take out everybody in California.”

I tossed down the last of my drink and continued, “I also have 12 dozen RPG launchers with enough grenades to blow up half of Manhattan. 2000 Glock 9's with oversized clips. Fuck, I even have a few dozen shoulder-fired rocket launchers that can shoot down a helicopter or take out a tank. Mr. Dalton, what I have is war power. What I don't seem to currently have is the whole war part.”

Richie rubbed a hand over his jaw again. He was usually clean-cut. The day and a half worth of stubble was clearly driving him crazy. After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll need to think about your…predicament a bit and talk to some people. No promises on whether or not I'll be able to help you. "

I grinned. “Understood.”

“Tomorrow night, here at the club. Like I told you before, we handle a lot of business here. Be here at ten-thirty. Bring me something to look at, and I'll hear you out.”

“I’ll be here,” I replied. I threw back the fresh bourbon that some half-naked bartender with fake tits had set down in front of me. No point in letting good shit like this get dumped down the drain.

I pushed up from the couch and extended a hand to the still-seated Richie. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’m sure we will have a long and prosperous future.”

Richie shook my hand, then held it tightly for a moment longer than necessary. His dark eyes trained on me. “I hope you’re right, Starr. I don’t like to waste my time. But, if you show up and make an idiot out of me, I’ll make sure Elise was the last piece of ass you’ll ever have.”

Richie’s ominous parting words echoed through my head on the drive back to my hotel. I’d moved to a cheap hotel just off the Hollywood tourist area, but I took the scenic route to ensure no one was following me. The place was a far cry from The Beverly Hills Hotel, but I didn’t care. It was clean, had decent in-room coffee, and a soft bed. That was all I really needed.

Couldn’t complain.

But as I entered my room, the silence was deafening. I’d spent the last three nights with Harlowe, letting the blonde keep me from thinking…about anything. Before that, it was Phoebe, a busty brunette I met in the beer aisle of the local corner store. We’d spent two nights banging on every flat surface in her apartment a few blocks from my hotel.

Tonight, though, I was alone. I slipped out of my suit jacket and went to the mini-fridge, pulled a beer from the cardboard sleeve of the six-pack, and cracked it open on my way to the bed. I flipped through the dozen or so channels when I found some deep-sea fishing show. I didn’t care about the show. But the calm voices helped take the edge off my shot nerves.

The meeting with Richie had been more intense than I’d expected. I could only imagine what tomorrow would be like. Of course, I knew I’d have to show the goods at some point—but the thought of what was ahead had me re-thinking the entire plan.

“Damn,” I sighed, raking my hands through my hair.

I knew what I was getting into. At least, I thought I did—but now that I was hurling myself into the middle of the Sanderson syndicate affairs—I realized I had no fuckin’ clue.

Things could go upside down, sideways, or just plain fucked up.

I blew out another long sigh and followed it up with a long pull of my beer.

This was why I shacked up with random women from bars and corner stores. Buried between a pair of lush thighs, I didn’t have time to think about all the unpleasant things the Sandersons would do to me if they knew who I really was. What I was really doing. What I really wanted…

I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw half a dozen messages from a local number. It didn’t take more than half a second to realize they were from Harlowe. The texts started out friendly, then progressed to worried, and eventually ended in impassioned disgust.

“So much for a quick lay,” I said, tossing the phone onto the bedside table once I checked to make sure there weren’t any other messages.

Elise, from the club, was a good fuck. I should’ve gotten her number. Maybe she’d be up for a second round. Then again, she obviously knew Richie since he’d asked her about a wire. Did she work for him? Or did he pay her to check?

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