“Listen, asshole. I’ve no idea who you are, or what you’re after, but you’re in the wrong fuckin’ place. Do you have any idea who owns this joint?”
I smile. Bingo.
“Yes. Does he have any idea you’re dealing drugs out the back of this place?” Both men’s eyes go wide. “What am I saying?” I continue, feigning stupidity. “Of course he does. Because he’s the worst kind of piece of shit there is, isn’t he?”
In the blink of an eye, I whip one of my Berettas out from behind me with my right hand and place the barrel against the forehead of the man now in charge. The music stops, the girl on the stage stands still, and everyone’s eyes are now on me. Luckily, I’m not the self-conscious type.
“What’s your name?” I ask, calmly.
“J-Justin,” he replies. Any confidence he once had now departed.
His friend shifts anxiously back and forth next to him. In another swift movement, I produce the other Beretta in my left hand and place it right between his eyes.
“And you…” I say to him. “Name?”
“Eight Ball,” he replies quietly.
“Eight Ball? Really?”
He nods silently, almost ashamed.
“Fine, whatever. Listen, I’m an old acquaintance of your boss’, and I’d like to get a message to him. Anyone gonna tell me where I can find him?”
Tammy, who’s standing off to the side, watching on more with curiosity than fear, steps toward us.
“Hey, Mister, you want some advice?”
I look at her, somewhat bemused.
“Sure,” I say.
“These guys won’t tell you shit. They’re more scared of Mr. Trent than they are of you. You’re wastin’ your time here.”
“Tammy, shut your goddamn mouth!” shouts Justin, who then addresses me. “You’ve got no idea how much shit you’re in right now.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bartender suddenly duck down behind the counter.
Well, he’s getting his gun…
He quickly re-appears holding a shotgun, which he levels in our direction. Time slows down for me as I look on, assessing every possible outcome and planning my response.
He’s holding an Ithaca, which is a versatile pump-action model designed to fire many different caliber rounds. The shotgun itself is a close-range weapon, and when it fires, it sprays the buckshot in a conical arc toward its target, meaning that the farther away you are from the gun, the less accurate the shot is, but the wider the target area, meaning you’re more likely to get hit but less likely to receive heavy damage. However, if it’s fired close quarters, it’ll blow you in half.
I’ve got maybe three seconds before that guy fires…
I quickly flick my wrists toward Justin and Eight Ball, slamming the butt of each pistol into their noses. They stagger back a few steps but stay standing. Having made some space for myself, I rush to my right, wrapping my right arm around Tammy’s waist as I move, scooping her up with ease, and dragging her with me.
“Hey!” she shouts in protest.
The anticipated blast from the shotgun sounds out, thundering around the near-deserted club, drowning out her voice. She screams as the buckshot peppers a nearby wall, narrowly missing us. I throw her onto the stage and spin around, returning fire with both guns at the bar.
The guy ducks for cover, and as he does I quickly sprint over toward him. He springs back up again to fire off a round, but this time I’m directly in front of him with just the bar counter between us, practically nose to nose. For a split second, he completely freezes, and the color leaves his face. I level one of my pistols and put a bullet in his head, causing a thick spray of blood and brains to explode across the back of the bar.
As his lifeless body slumps to the floor, I turn around to see the bouncers running away in opposite directions. Justin’s heading toward the back, but Eight Ball’s making his way over to the entrance, so I take aim at him quickly and fire. I hit him in his right leg, just below the knee. He stumbles and sprawls over near the steps, his face contorted with pain as he lets out a scream.
Happy he’s out for the count, I turn to see the door to the back office closing. I run over, navigating past the half-drunk, half-depressed patrons who are all rooted to their chairs, probably in a cross between fear and curiosity.
I pause at the door, listening for any movement behind it. I doubt he’ll be lying in wait for me, if I’m honest. I push the door open, pausing momentarily before going through. Just like Josh had said, I’m in a corridor facing to my left. Ahead of me is the door I know leads to the office, with the fire exit just before it on the right. Behind me are the changing rooms. I figure he’ll be heading to the office to make an emergency phone call for some back up.
I walk down the hall and kick the office door open without breaking stride, almost taking it off its hinges. Justin is in the far corner, standing in front of a desk holding a phone to his ear with his left hand and dialing with his right. He turns and looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights. I quickly aim and fire, shooting his left hand, and blowing his first two fingers clean off. He drops the receiver and screams in pain as he crouches down, holding his injured hand.
I re-holster my guns, walk over to him and smash my right knee into the side of his face, right on the jawbone, knocking him clean out. I pick up the receiver and put it to my ear. There’s a deep, angry voice on the other end.
“Hello? What the fuck’s going on there? Answer me, you piece of shit!”
I smile to myself. Wilson fucking Trent…
I physically bite my tongue to stop myself from saying anything. It’s not the right time. Not yet… I simply hang up and look around the office. There’s minimal furnishing, with just the desk and a couple of chairs in the center of the room, and a filing cabinet against the back wall in the opposite corner. A small painting hangs on the left wall as you walk in that has no business being in a place like this. It’s a portrait of a woman sitting on a chair. I’m sure it’s very good, if you like that sort of thing. I mean, it’s not the Mona Lisa or anything, don’t get me wrong, but come on… this is an office in a strip club, not the fucking Louvre. There’s only one reason it would be here…
I walk over to it, inspecting it briefly before pulling the right edge away from the wall like a small door, revealing a decent-sized safe. I walk back over to Justin and slap him hard across the face to wake him up, dragging him to his feet and over to the wall.
“Do you know the combination?” I ask, gesturing to the safe.
He groans and holds his left hand up in front of him, inspecting the wound where his index and middle fingers used to be.
“My fucking hand!” he yells, as panic slowly sets in.
“Oh, relax — you still have another one, which is in perfect working order. And you can use it to open this safe. Now.”
“B-but… But…”
I take out a Beretta and place it against his head.
“Don’t make me ask you again. We all know Blunt and Pike are dead, which means you’re running the show now. So logic would dictate you’re able to open this safe… so, in your own time, asshole.”
He’s almost crying, but he complies, using his trembling right hand to work the dial and eventually open the safe. As it swings open, I pull the trigger, putting a bullet through his head and painting the wall and door with blood, bone, and brain.
I look inside and smile.
There’s a large wad of cash — maybe twenty thousand dollars’ worth of twenties and fifties in bundle, and two large bags of cocaine, each containing maybe five kilos.
I’ve just had a brilliant idea…
I walk out of the office and down the corridor to the changing rooms. I stride in with no hesitation, ignoring the two half-naked women who are holding each other, and quickly find a backpack. I empty its contents out on the floor and, without a word, head back to the office. I clear the safe out and put everything in the bag, then sling it over my shoulder. I take a look around and locate the security camera, which is in the right corner of the room, level with the door. I walk right underneath it, take my baseball cap off and stare directly into the lens, smiling. Then I raise my gun and fire, destroying the device.