Page 25 of Oath
Or worse…
SomeSons of Anarchymeets some Walter White knockoff. Neither were very appealing.
I was also really overdressed for any of the above. The Tom Ford suit had a cut that allowed for better weapons coverage. It also tended to soften expectations. Win-win in my book.
The bartender eyed me over a stream of blue smoke she currently exhaled. Despite the presence of air conditioning—the old condenser rattled to life noisily and the ancient fans circulating air—the bar was warm. Thankfully, it was mostly empty. There was no way either could keep up with a packed crowd in this space.
O'Rourke was already there, his silhouette framed against the shuttered windows that barely let in any light. “Two beers, Sandy.”
After stubbing out her cigarette, the bartender opened a cooler and pulled out two icy beer bottles. She set them on thebar, her flat stare sweeping from O’Rourke to me then back again.
“Thirty minutes,” she said. “Not one minute longer.”
She left the bar to flip the lock on the front door behind me, then she turned and headed back behind the bar and then out through what passed for their kitchen. This wasn’t a place you came for food, so I was happy enough with the bottles of beer.
Retrieving the cold bottles that had already begun to sweat, I crossed to where O’Rourke had taken the chair that put his back to the wall. Nice of him to leave me all the other open spots. The tension in the room was palpable, a living thing that seemed to coil around us like a snake ready to strike.
"Voodoo," O'Rourke acknowledged with a nod, his voice a low rumble. "Glad you could make it."
I didn't respond, just stood there, my eyes locked onto his. It had been a long time, not long enough in my book, but still a long time since we were face to face, much less preparing to have a conversation.
"Why am I here, O'Rourke?" I finally asked, my voice steady despite the churning in my gut. None of the guys had been happy about this meet. Not about the fact O’Rourke wanted it or that I was going to deal with him alone.
They liked it even less when I made it clear that they could be backup only—because I wasn’t a fucking idiot—so they were parked a couple of miles away. The location was too desolate and wide open so they couldn’t be any closer.
With a sigh, O’Rourke dragged out his chair then popped the bottle top off before he took a long drink and sat. “To have a beer.”
I just stared at him and set the unopened beer on the table. “I only drink with friends.”
“You used to be more fun,” O’Rourke said, an air of disappointment lingering around the words.
“Tick tock,” I reminded him. “Talk or I walk.”
The man paused with his beer halfway to his lips, then he shook his head with a chuckle. “Fucking poet.” He took another long slug, then set the bottle down. “I’ve got an opportunity.”
“I care, because?”
“Because,” O’Rourke said, his smirk firmly in place. “The people whohiredme are not the ones footing the bill. Unfortunately for them, I vet everyone who tries to engage my services.”
“What happened? Did you manage to get a prosthesis for the conscience you amputated?”
O’Rourke chuckled at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did. The man could fake warmth like the best of them, but I’d seen too many corpses and too many blown operations to ever mistake it for real. He leaned back in his chair, tilting it just slightly so the front legs left the floor. His beer hung lazily from his fingers.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I almost walked away from this one. Almost.”
I didn’t answer. I let the silence stretch. He hated that.
“It’s funny,” he continued, his tone suddenly casual, light, like we were old friends reminiscing and not two men who’d tried to kill each other before breakfast a few years back. “You do a little digging, start turning over rocks, and surprise, surprise—guess whose name keeps slithering out from under them.”
I said nothing. Just watched him.
He grinned like he’d scored a point. “I haven’t even told you what the job is, and you’re already giving me that look. The one like you’re deciding whether to put a bullet in me now or wait until you’ve had your next cup of overpriced coffee.”
The bastard sipped his beer again, long and slow.
“So?” I said flatly.
“So what?”
