Page 25

The Royals and I plan a rendezvous at Farley’s the week after my birthday. I’m careful to suggest an evening when Matthew is working. If Paul is bothered by my subterfuge, he doesn’t say so. He’s been on his best behavior as of late.

When we arrive, Paul heads to the back room to check on our cache and exchange some stashed scratch. Abe follows him while Tony and I walk up to the bar. A few patrons perch on stools at the far end of the counter, but overall, the place is quiet.

“Hey, Farls,” Tony greets our friend, reaching over the counter to clasp the bartender’s hand.

“Good to see y’all.” Farley bobs his head, his crinkled eyes teasing a smile. “What’ll it be tonight?”

“What do you think, Kat?” Tony turns to me. “A cask of wine and a handle of whiskey?”

“Comin’ right up.” Farley winks before turning around.

Abe joins us at the counter just as Farley is handing over our bottles. He reaches for his billfold, but the bartender stops him.

“You know your scratch is no good here, Abe. I’ll put it on your tab.”

“Thanks, Farley,” Abe answers.

“Hey, when’s he gonna move that powder out?” Farley jerks his head toward the stockroom, where Paul is still puttering around. “Makes me nervous, having that stuff back there. ”

I assume he’s talking about bootlegged gunpowder, a frequently passed and traded commodity through the back of the tavern.

I examine the shoddy wooden roof and walls of the pub, silently agreeing with Farley.

This place could go up in flames with barely a spark, and the gunpowder will more than finish the job.

“Not sure, boss,” Abe admits.

Farley shakes his head. “I don’t like it. It’s risky, that is.”

We take our bottles to a table in the middle of the room.

Eventually, Paul emerges to join us. His eyes are shaded by a fedora, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.

His chest strains beneath a pair of brown suspenders.

He looks a little loose, a little dangerous, a whole lot tempting. Too illicit for his own good.

“Everything jake?” Tony asks, lighting up a cigarette.

“Yeah.”

“Farley wants the powder out,” Abe says.

The barback’s watchful eyes snap to attention as he listens.

“Okay.” Paul glances sidelong at me, then away. “I’ll move it when we leave tonight.”

Abe nods at Farley, who returns to mopping his counter.

Tony pulls a deck of cards from his pocket and starts dealing. The pack is well-worn from many nights of use. I couldn’t even begin to estimate how many hours we’ve spent playing poker here. Far too many to count.

I accept my first hand from Tony and settle in. Abe takes a swig from the whiskey and passes the bottle around.

Tony and Abe make absolute fools of Paul and me in the initial rounds, but as the night progresses, I rally. Paul continues to take a walloping though. His hands get worse and worse as the moon rises.

“Lady Luck is not on my side tonight,” he says, dropping his cards after his umpteenth fold of the evening .

Sometime around midnight, the tavern empties out, but we stay to play a few more hands.

Farley putzes around behind the bar, going through his closing routine.

I’m busy laughing at something Tony just said, so I don’t immediately notice the door kicking open.

What I do notice is Paul’s body as it snaps to attention beside me, his posture tight.

“Sorry, fellas,” Farley calls to the newcomers, stepping out from behind the counter. “We’re closing.”

A gun goes off, and I scream. Farley falls to the floor. Eyes shut, a bullet wound blooming in his chest.

Six men rush in.

Abe jumps up from our table, headbutting the nearest intruder’s gut.

Two assailants swarm him. Together, they wrestle Abe to the floor.

The other three men line up in front of Tony, Paul, and me.

Tony rises to his feet, but the click of a cocking revolver in his face forces him back into his seat.

I glance under the table and see Paul’s knife in his hand, but it’s useless.

Instead of fighting back, he ducks his head, hiding his face under the brim of his hat.

With a quick move, he pops his collar around his cheeks as well.

“Gentlemen, m’lady. Put your hands where I can see them,” the man with the gun drawls.

Heart racing, I comply. I place my palms flat on the table and glance at Abe on the floor. There’s just one man standing over him now, but he’s got his boot resting on Abe’s ribs and a gun pointed at his head. Abe is pinned on his side, a trickle of blood dripping from his lip.

“Once we get what we came for, we’ll be on our way. Just sit there politely and nobody else needs to get hurt.” The gunman spits at Abe while two henchmen crack the register open.

Silently, I wonder if these men know Farley’s is one of our safe houses. They haven’t made any move toward the back room, so hopefully, this is just a terrible coincidence. These things happen in the bayou. So many gangs, fighting for scraps …

Just empty the register and leave, I silently plead.

Paul nudges my foot beneath the table, but he keeps his head down.

“Magpies,” he whispers, barely releasing his breath. He tilts his head toward the gunman in front of Tony. “Craig.”

My heart stutters.

I recognize the name. Paul gets his Magpie tribute from Craig—he’s the survivor, the one we let escape the night we took down Damien Keller.

The years have worn him down, weathered and hardened his face and body.

I can only hope the same is true of us. The gang doesn’t seem to know who they’re holding, but if Craig recognizes Paul…

I fidget nervously in my seat. Only two of the Magpies have guns, the one trained on Abe and the one in Craig’s hand. The rest are only packing knives.

“Sit still, princess.” Craig’s attention shifts to me. Paul presses down hard on my foot.

“S-s-sorry,” I mutter, quickly looking down.

Interested now, Craig walks over to me. He sweeps my dark hair back from my face and runs his grimy fingers down my cheek. I grit my teeth but don’t move. Paul’s head is still down, but his fingers fist on the tabletop, knuckles turning white.

“What’sa matter, fella? You don’t like me touching her?” Craig’s focus shifts to Paul for the first time. He bends down for a better look and inhales sharply. “Holy shit!”

Paul rises to lunge, but Craig is quick. He swings the revolver directly against Paul’s forehead. With a sharp flick of the barrel, he knocks the fedora off Paul’s head. It tumbles back and flutters to the ground.

“Sit the fuck down, Paul ,” he hisses. His gaze sweeps the room, looking at me, then Tony, then Abe. Slowly. Calculating.

“No guns in my bayou, Craig,” Paul says, trying to distract him. “You know that. ”

Craig ignores him, continuing to stare at Abe. “Four people. Four…wolves?” Disbelief is etched on his face. He has the attention of his whole band of thieves.

“Check ’em,” Craig calls out. “Him.” He points to Abe, pinned on the floor.

Keeping the gun trained on his head, the Magpie looming over Abe bends down. Slowly, he lifts the side of his shirt, revealing the wolf tracks inking their way over Abe’s ribs.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Craig hoots, rubbing his jaw. “We caught ourselves some wolves tonight, boys. Pat ’em down. All of them. Can’t be too careful.”

One by one, each of us is searched. They pull knives from Abe and Tony, one each. And three off Paul. They toss the contraband on the bar, saving me for last.

“Stand up.” Craig swings the gun from Paul to me. I rise slowly and step away from our table as two men descend. Their hands rove all over, lingering in places where they know damn well I’m not packing anything.

I stiffen at their touch. “I don’t have anything on me, Craig. Call your dogs off.”

“Patience, patience, little wolf. Can’t be too careful.”

His men continue groping, and Paul snarls from the table. Craig watches Paul’s rapidly darkening face with delight.

“Isn’t this fascinating, fellas?” he calls out. “I think we’ve discovered a little game.”

The men pause.

“You really don’t like it when we touch her, do you?”

Paul. I stare hard, warning him. He’s going to get us in much deeper trouble if he doesn’t ramp up his poker face .

“Is she your bitch, Paul?” Craig walks over and presses the cold barrel of the gun to my temple. I hold my breath, but I don’t close my eyes. I keep them pinned on Paul, willing him not to give the game away.

“Yes…” Craig breathes. He takes my jaw in his hand, turning it from side to side. “You’re the real prize, aren’t you? Paul’s infamous Cat Burglar.”

He’s so quick I don’t see it coming. He backhands me across the face. Hard. My cheek and jaw sting, then burn. Branded in the shape of his foul fingers.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” Paul whispers from his seat. His tone is calm, but it promises murder.

“You’re not really in a position to make demands, Paul, but I can see you’re getting upset.

I don’t want that. We’re all friends here, right?

Old friends from the bayou. You don’t want me to hit her?

Fine. I don’t have to hit her. What do you think about this instead?

” He tugs me close, pressing his hips into mine.

His hand skates up the side of my ribs, reaching. Teasing.

I school my expression into a mask of calm. I don’t want Paul to see me getting upset, and I certainly don’t want to give this cretin even a second of satisfaction.

“Is this better?” Craig asks. His hand settles on my backside.

“Enough!” Paul slams his fist on the table.

Paul… I inwardly groan. Tony closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

We’re well and truly fucked now.

“Enough,” Paul repeats, more quietly this time. His gaze is locked on Craig. “I’m the one you really want. We both know it. I’m the kingpin, and I’m sitting right here. Either take your shot, or put the gun down so we can sort this out like civilized men.”