Page 30 of Moros

All we’d managed to do was piss them off and they would definitely try again unless their clients called them off.

That wasn’t liable to happen.

They’d tried and failed twice—that I knew of.

“I really don’t know how any of this is happening,” Ryanne said. “I didn’t mean to put you and your friends in danger. I just wanted a little help and it’s turned into whatever this is.”

“No one is blaming you.”

“Pasha is.” She replied immediately. “She thinks I’m doing this on purpose—that I put a target on your back and that’s not what I wanted to do—that wasn’t my intentions. If you want, I’ll just take this to the cops and take my chances.”

“Shorty, calm down.” I glanced at her as the red light changed to green. “If we’re right and Sloan is involved in any of this, there isn’t a helluva lot the cops can do. Pasha has always watched my back. She’s a little overprotective, but she means well.”

Ryanne made a sound in her throat.

“She knows what this is?—”

“Does she?”

“Yes.” I replied, hanging a left onto Mulligan before a quick right down an alley with graffiti on the walls. “She’s taken care of me for years and when she sees people attacking, her back goes up. It’s fine.”

Ryanne nodded as I pulled to a stop before easing the large truck into a parking spot between a Honda and a Harley.

“When we go in, stay at my side.” I advised. “Don’t wander off. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“Why?”

“You’re a smart woman, Shorty. You’ll see why.”

Shamrock Paddy’s was never the place to bring a woman—well, a woman of worth. I’d brought Pasha here, but only because I needed a favor from the owner. When I tried getting her to remain in the car, she’d only frowned at me, climbed out and strutted herself across the alley and into the place.

Sometimes, she was too brave for her own damn good.

Shamrock Paddy’s was a shady underground bar in a shithole part of town.

The music of the area were sirens and gunshots—as we met at the back of the truck and was crossing the ever running water on the path, a shot rang out.

Ryanne pressed to my side and shoved her smaller hand into my large paw. While I trembled at her touch, I didn’t pull my hand away.

Instead, I left her hand where it was.

The building doubled as the bar, in the basement, and a couple crappy apartments above. The windows held sheets as curtains and graffiti was the new paint.

Usually, the owners would pay to clean the rebellion art off the exterior, but they gave up about five years before.

Graffiti removal was expensive, and it made sense they wouldn’t do it anymore.

Inside, Ryanne eased closer to me as the stench of stale cigarette smoke filled our noses and our eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.

The air was hazy with cigarette and weed smoke, the dull conversations floated through the place like a million bees buzzing.

While I didn’t move until my eyes found Poke, Ryanne tightened her grip on my hand.

The moment Poke saw me, he took off toward a back door that those who weren’t familiar with the place wouldn’t know was there. There were no emergency exits to the haunt—the door led into a back space where people would hide in case of a raid.

There were no one of means there either—just a bunch of people up to no good, getting high and hammered.

Frowning, I used my free hand to pick up a nearby stool and hurled it like a fastball at Poke. It crashed into his back, his arms flailed above his head as his body jerked dangerously forward from the impact. He hit the ground hard, causing a table to topple over.

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