Page 79 of Sinful Beauty

The entrance to the business doubles as the entrance to the parking garage. There’s a small office to the side of the garage on ramp and my guess is there are spots reserved for the automobiles used by the car service. I pull in, get a ticket as if I’m a parking customer, and drive through the garage slowly, scanning the cars and plates. There are no limousines, which means we either have the wrong business or they park them elsewhere.

I park in a spot near the exit in a reserved spot. It doesn’t matter that it’s reserved, because I don’t plan on being here long.

A bell rings when I push open the office door. There’s a desk, presumably to greet customers, but it’s empty. The space suffers from poor ventilation and lack of cleaning. The marred walls could use a fresh coat of paint. A small table with an ashtray and old papers is to my right.

Voices carry down the hall.

I scan behind the desk, as a precaution, then proceed toward the voices, hand resting on the rough plastic grip of my gun handle.

The conversation is in German. I listen, picking up enough to know they’re discussing a futbol game and it’s nothing worth listening to. They sound relaxed, like two buddies shooting the shit on break.

The door to the room they’re in is open, and I call out, “Hello. Is anyone here?”

One man cusses in German. The other chuckles.

When I appear in the doorway, neither man appears surprised. One is an older chap with thin hair, a pouch, and he’s wearing a flannel with worn slacks. No discernible weapon, and a posture and physique that says he doesn’t do more than sit at a desk. The other man is Tobias. He’s taken off his suit coat, and it hangs on the back of the chair. There’s no visible gun, but he’s fit. Penny didn’t mention a militia background, but he has that look.

“Didn’t hear the bell ring. You got a parking garage issue?” Mr. Flannel is up and out of his chair, back bent, heading toward the door.

Tobias responds in German with a smirk, “You wouldn’t hear the bell ring if you were sitting where you’re supposed to be.”

“Wait a few more years. Your hearing will be shot, too.”

“I’m here to speak with Mr. Muller.”

With the drop of a name, both men pay me more attention. I offer a cordial, calming smile. “A project I need to speak with you about. If you don’t mind, Tobias,” I say in English.

The two men exchange glances, and the older man shuffles down the hallway, apparently discerning I mean no harm. He couldn’t be further off the mark.

I shut the door behind me and pull out my gun.

A shit-eating grin spreads across the wanker’s face. In perfect English, he says, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re about, do you?”

“Oh, Tobias, I have quite a good grip on the situation. The questions is, do you?”

He pushes up from his chair and I tsk. “You don’t want to do that. Sit still and put your hands flat on the table.”

His amusement transforms into an annoyed glare. I circle him, see the gun tucked into his back, and grab it.

He shifts and I slam the side of his gun into his head. He flinches and I growl, “I told you to stay.” I hold the gun up, threatening to wallop him with it again. “Now put your hands flat on the table.”

He wisely obeys.

I discharge his weapon, set it aside, and pull out my blade.

“Who do you work for?”

“You’re in my place of work.”

“I’m not here to play games. Who hired you to pick up Lucia Oliveira this morning?”

He pushes the chair back and lunges.

With one swift kick, my foot lands hard on his chest, sending him and the chair clattering backwards.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

He comes at me again. I pivot, missing his fist, cock my fist into his jaw hard enough his head snaps back. I clock him to the left, then the right in his abdomen. He curls forward, and I loop an arm around his neck tight enough to squeeze, but not crush, his windpipe.

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