Ashen Rayne (Shadowlands Book 1) (4 page)

“And you know this how?” Smoak asked.

The bartender let go of the coin and popped the register. He pulled a card from inside and dropped it in front of Smoak.

“Because he owes the house five-hundred bucks. Anyone who gets in hock for that much leaves his license or his teeth,” the bartender replied.

Smoak let go of the coin and picked up the license. Coussy’s scarred face looked at her with menace from right next to his address. Assuming it was current.

“Thanks,” she said, pocketing the license. “I owe you one.”

“What about Scar’s tab?” The bartender asked. “Are you bringing back the license?”

“Nope. I’m sorry. His bill won’t be collectable. Chalk it up to bad luck.”

Smoak turned and walked past the stage, slowing to drop twenty dollars at the woman’s feet before slipping out into the Miami sun.

Miami Court wasn’t the worst neighborhood in Little Haiti but not the best. The houses, though colorful, were old with yards choked by weeds and enough broken-down cars to start a good-sized salvage yard. Angry Pit bulls and Rottweilers roamed the streets looking for water or shade, and only a handful of people were outside in the afternoon heat. Those that were looked drunk, high or both.

Coussy’s address turned out to be a teal green ranch at the end of the street. Smoak parked her bike on the opposite side of the road and lowered her mirrored shades to survey the property. Four muscle cars were parked in front of the house, heat radiating off their immaculate paintjobs, while a yellow El Camino sat in the middle of the front yard. What had once been a beautiful garden was now a mix of sand, beer cans, and dead weeds. Beyond that was the house with its leaning porch, boarded up windows and bullet holes. Yellow police tape still flapped in what little breeze reached this far inland. He’d been arrested in his home. Too bad he hadn’t resisted.

A man and a woman stood outside next to a black 1968 Camaro, his face buried in her neck beneath her hair. They were moving slowly, almost dancing. It took but a moment for Smoak to realize they were having sex right there in public. She shook her head and slid off the bike, heading toward them at a nonchalant pace as if she was walking home. She drew her fighting knives as she walked and managed to get next to the couple without being noticed. She placed one blade against the back of the man’s neck, and slid the other between their bodies, just over a very delicate piece of his anatomy.

“How many men are inside with Coussy?” Smoak asked.

“Wha? Who are you, mah?” the man asked. His accent was so thick he was hard to understand.

“I’m the woman holding a knife to your dick. How many are inside?”

“More than you can take!” the woman said.

“Shut up if you want to keep that pretty face,” Smoak growled. “Last time, bub, how many people are inside?”

“There be eight inside, mah,” the man stuttered. “They have many guns.”

“And Coussy? Front or back?” Smoak asked.

“Scar be in back with he girl,” the man said.

“Thank you. I’m going to sheath one knife now. You move, you lose that tiny pecker of yours, and she goes home with a limp, got it?”

Both of them nodded, and Smoak slid her blade back into her boot. She produced two coins and held them out.

“Put these in your mouths and get in the car,” she instructed.

The couple did as they were told. The coins vanished into their mouths, and they climbed into the car as Smoak stepped back and lowered her shades.

“You have two options. Take the car and the gold, forget I was here and get the hell out, or spit out the coins and try to help Coussy. I promise you, if you don’t take the first option, I’ll take my gold back and you won’t see another sunset.”

The man paused, and then started the Camaro’s engine. Smoak watched the car do a U-turn and head back toward the city before turning away and looking back at the house. It was still as silent as it had been when she’d pulled up. Odds were, the man getting his rocks off was on sentry duty while his buddies slept off last night’s festivities.

“Cake,” Smoak said to the world at large.

She drew her other combat knife and walked down the path and up the two rickety steps onto the porch. She looked around the neighborhood once more, and then kicked the door with all her strength. She was through before it crashed into the opposite wall, her purple eyes searching for threats. She was in what was once a small living room with plaster walls and a single ornamental fireplace. Mismatched sofas, the stuffing coming through the threadbare upholstery, sat opposite each other near the fireplace next to a television Hugh Hefner would envy. A muted porno flick was playing on the massive screen and Smoak shuddered. Genitals that big looked like something out of a fifties’ industrial film about oil drilling.

Two men lay passed out on the floor between the sofas. Smoak pulled injector darts from her belt and dosed them both, sending them even deeper into la-la land.

She stepped over the second man’s sleeping form and listened at the door to the next room. She could hear snoring and the faint sound of music from within. She tested the knob and found the room unlocked. She opened the door and quietly pushed through, her instincts telling her there were three people in the gloom. Her eyes adjusted quickly and she spotted them, two men and a woman.

One of the men was asleep in a chair, a beer bottle still in his hand and a hash pipe in his lap. The other two appeared to have fallen asleep while having sex and were now stuck together on the room’s narrow bed. Smoak dosed the man in the chair, and then turned to the sticky couple. She put one of her needles in the back of the woman’s neck and lifted the man’s head by his hair. It wasn’t Coussy. It was an older man with a tiny mustache. His eyes flicked open at the pain in his scalp, and he opened his mouth—a second too slow. Smoak injected him before he could utter a sound.

“Sleep tight,” she whispered.

Smoak left the room and passed back through the living room. Two doors led out of the room, one faded pink, the other white and split almost all the way down the middle.

The pink one covered in dirty finger marks and what looked like ketchup was probably the kitchen while the other had to be the back of the house. She turned away from the kitchen and crept towards the back, both knives clasped in one hand while she reached for the knob with the other.

She clasped the cold iron and paused, listening. She heard the familiar sound of a shotgun being chambered, and she dodged to the side just before the heart of the door vanished in a cloud of gun smoke and shrapnel.

“I know somebody out ‘dere, Rufus saw you comin’ in da house. Who ‘dere?” a voice called out.

“Death,” Smoak replied. “Care to put down the shotgun?”

“Death is not welcome in ma house!” the man replied.

Smoak separated her blades and held them loosely in her hands. “Death doesn’t ask for permission, Coussy. Drop the shotgun and let’s do this the easy way.”

Another shotgun blast took out the wall next to her head, and she frowned at the hole.

“Why do they always choose the hard way?”

Smoak flipped her knives so the blades caressed her forearms and peered through the hole. She could see Coussy holding a sawed-off shotgun. He was trying to pull the spent shells from the barrels, hissing as the hot metal burned his fingers.

Smoak crept forward under the hole and leaned against the wall next to the door. She was about to kick it in when the remaining door opened and an enormous black man stepped through, an M-16 assault rifle cradled against the fat of his belly. He turned toward Smoak, and she threw one blade underhanded, catching him in the throat. He fired a burst into the floor before falling to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth and throat.

“Richo, you kill the
Mabuya
?” Coussy called.

“Richo won’t be with you for the rest of his life,” Smoak replied. “He’s bleeding to death on my boots. The good news is you’ll be joining him in about thirty seconds.”

“
Mabuya
! You killed ma brother!” Coussy screamed.

Two more shotgun blasts shook the room, ripping holes in the wall and decorative fireplace. Smoak knelt against the wall and shook the ringing from her ears.

“You shouldn’t have killed a family in your lust for money. From where I sit, you’re the
Mabuya
!” she yelled.

She kicked the door and charged through while Coussy fumbled with the shotgun. He managed to get one shell into the chamber before Smoak kicked it aside. The shot went wide, destroying another section of wall in a shower of plaster and sparks.

“Oi! I surrender, mah, I surrender!” Coussy said, raising his hands. “Take me in!”

Smoak stepped forward and rammed the blade of her knife through the bottom of Coussy’s jaw, severing his spinal column and penetrating the flesh of his brain. He convulsed like a marionette with its strings cut, and warm blood spilled down her hand. Smoak held him in place and watched the light fade from his eyes, her own dead and blank.

“I’m the angel of death, you child-killing bastard. Not a cop,” she whispered. “Justice is blind…death sees everything.”

When he was gone, Smoak dropped his body on the floor and wiped the blood from her blade on his stained tank top. She then straightened and walked over to the bed where a female form lay, her eyes staring at the ceiling. By the marks on her throat, Coussy had strangled the strung-out young woman sometime during the night.

Smoak closed the woman’s eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. The next life will be better, but try to avoid scumbags like this one, okay?”

She stood and started walking, pausing to retrieve her blade from Richo’s throat. When she stepped outside, she dialed a number by reflex and held the phone to her ear.

“Shadowlands TTY, this is Ash,” a masculine voice said.

“The target is deceased,” Smoak replied.

“Nice, SK. Did you kill anyone else?” the voice asked.

“Just one. The target’s brother, and even his own parents wouldn’t miss him,” Smoak replied. “No clean-up is needed.”

“Cool. I’ll call Chandler and have him transfer our fee. See you back at the ranch.”

The call ended and Smoak slid into the saddle of her motorcycle. She would be long gone before the nitrazepam derivative wore off the rest of the people in the house. The ones she drugged would remember nothing. They would find Coussy and his brother dead, with no explanations. With any luck, his crew would accuse each other, implode and fall apart. One more group of scumbags disbanded to be collected by yet another lowlife, kingpin wannabe.

She shook out her hair, zipped up her jacket and put on the glasses that hid her eyes from the rest of the world. Ten seconds later, she was cruising back toward South Beach at one hundred miles per hour.

Evening fell over Miami Beach and the clubs came to life in a sea of neon with barely dressed tourists bobbing amidst the chaos in their little black dresses and Armani suits. They cruised around in rented Ferraris looking to eat, drink and make merry, never knowing they were in one of the most dangerous cities in the country. Lollipops sat at the corner of Ocean Drive and Seventh Street, in a building that had been there since the mid 1950s. A pink Cadillac sat out front, surrounded by dancers dressed in bikinis and roller-skates, each offering tourists hugs, smiles and photos in front of the iconic landmark.

The club itself was fairly nondescript, with white stucco walls, dark windows in deep alcoves and a single entrance watched over by a bouncer dressed like the tourists in a light suit and loafers. Inside, the club was much different. Pink and purple dance tables with comfortable chairs were set throughout, and four stages, surrounded in pink satin, were arranged where they were visible from everywhere except the front door. A bar sat against the back wall, a pair of bartenders serving bottom shelf drinks at middle-shelf prices to tourists while a DJ booth sat across from the door, enticing visitors deeper into the club.

Ashley stood behind the DJ booth, headphones over her ears for the look more than anything. She’d dressed in a skirt that was only a few inches wider than a belt, a bikini top and stiletto heels that made her legs stand out and drew attention to the rose and barbwire tattoos that ran from her ankles to a point of speculation beneath the skirt. She smiled at a young man who was placing a folded ten-spot in her tip cup and spun up the next theme song.

When the music started, she could feel it in her bones. The sounds of Bullet Boys’  “Lips and Hips" thundered through the club’s sound system loud enough to rattle her eyeballs. A moment later, a tall, athletic blonde woman stepped through the curtain, the oil on her tanned skin glistening in the stage lights.

The blonde was dressed in a black halter-top that showed off the wing tattoos on her back, black shorts that did little to hide her assets and a pair of black chaps that covered the six inch heeled sandals that adorned her feet. A pink-painted smile and rouged cheeks completed the outfit, along with a pair of mirrored sunglasses that left her eyes a mystery to those watching her performance.

Ashley watched Smoak perform with a mixture of awe and love. No matter what she was doing, Smoak put her heart and soul into it. Her dance was no different. She started with a slow strut around the dance pole that showed off her curves and tattoos to the audience at her feet, folded cash ready in their hands. Once the crowd had dropped sufficient money on the stage, Smoak really began to move, spinning and tearing off her chaps to drop them in the lap of a lucky young woman, who was watching with rapt attention. Smoak then grabbed the pole and leapt, whirling around the pole and using her momentum to climb to the top. Ashley watched as her friend wrapped her legs around the brass and leaned back, hanging upside down above the dance floor, her hair swishing below her.

I hate it when she does this,
Ashley groused to herself.
She’s showing off again.

Smoak smiled at her audience and dropped, making the crowd gasp as she came to a halt mere inches above the floor. She gripped the pole in both hands, spread her legs into a split and bounced her rear end, causing the audience to shower her with dollar bills and coins.

Ashley rolled her eyes and went back to her music, letting her friend dance. Smoak would choose Ms. Tonight at some point and drag her back to the apartment along with a roll of fun money. She always came back from a Wetwork job horny.

”Lips and Hips” ended, and Ashley spun up Smoak’s next track, "Pour Some Sugar on Me.” She felt the music start and turned her attention back to the show, knowing the best part was about to begin.

As the song started, it was almost as if Smoak had frozen. She stood in shadow, unmoving, save for her breathing, which was in time to the song. Ashley knew it was part of the act, but there was a mixture of confusion and anticipation from the audience. She could see it in their faces. When the beat started, Smoak began to sway. Then the guitars joined in, and it was as if the woman had been shot from a cannon. She pulled her top off in a violent display of torn pleather and shredded satin and flung it aside, her tanned breasts swaying with every move.

Ashley giggled at the audience reaction, but missed what happened next because her tablet winked to life with a message from the TTY line.

“A woman calling herself ‘Blaze’ is requesting contact,” she read on the screen.

She reread the message and glanced at the music timer. Smoak still had two minutes. She pressed a set of keys and accepted the call.

“This is Ash from Shadowlands. How can we help you?” she typed.

“My sister is missing, I need you to find her,” was the quick reply.

Ashley frowned at the screen and typed, “Have you tried the local police?”

There was a pause, during which Ashley again checked the timer and glanced at Smoak, who was grinding in some woman’s lap. It looked as if she’d found Ms. Tonight.

“The police don’t care. She’s an exotic dancer and Detective Murphy said they go missing all the time. Can you help me?”

Is that asshole still working? I had assumed Daddy sued him into oblivion,
she thought.

“What’s her name?” Ashley sent.

“Rayne Nightingale,” was Blaze’s response.

“I’m going to need her real name,” Ashley said with a frown.

“That is her real name,” came the answer. “Her stage name is Trinity Blu, she works at Diamonds downtown. Please help me, she vanished two nights ago, and I know something is wrong.”

“We’ll do what we can. Do you understand our fee?” Ashley replied.

There was another pause. While Ashley waited, Def Leppard ended and she spun up “Fun in Texas,” not surprisingly for a new brunette dancer named Texxxas. Smoak had already crawled off the stage and was giving the woman she’d chosen a very enthusiastic lap dance.

For crying out loud. One minute she’s death incarnate, the next she’s a bundle of raging hormones. That girl needs a damn hobby,
Ashley thought.

“I understand the fee,” the TTY replied. “I have to help someone else when the time comes. I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll do it, you have my word.”

“You’ll understand when the time comes. We need to discuss the details of your case, please meet our representative in the Colony Hotel lobby. 2:00 a.m. You will be looking for a brunette woman dressed in white. Come alone,” Ashley typed.

She looked away from the small laptop again while she waited for the reply. Smoak was now making out with the woman, who was practically stuffing money down her shorts while they did shots of tequila.

Ashley frowned. If they had a gig, she would need Smoak sober to watch her back. One in five of the people they met with were cops. Or worse.

She hit play on the next song and looked back at her laptop. The TTY was beeping a reply: “I will come alone. I have red hair and will wear black. See you tonight.”

Ashley ended the TTY call and set up the next dancer’s track, only half paying attention. When she was done, she beckoned to one of the waitresses.

“What’s up, Ash?” the girl asked.

“Could you tell Smoak to come up? I have a message for her,” Ashley replied.

“Sure thing. Anything I can get you?”

Ashley smiled. “How ‘bout an orange juice and we pretend it’s a screwdriver? Somebody has to stay sober around here.”

The waitress laughed and stepped down from the booth to do as she was asked. She returned a few moments later with the orange juice and an annoyed-looking Smoak. Ashley placed wads of folded cash on the girl’s tray and waited for her to leave before turning her attention back to Smoak.

“She was really cute, Ash,” Smoak said with a pout.

“Who? The new waitress? Not bad if you like the skinny Midwestern look,” Ashley replied.

“No…the brunette with all the cash,” Smoak said. “That chick is loaded and smells like chocolate. She could have been the one.”

“Uh huh. She’s about as interested in a meaningful relationship as a horny rabbit. Forget her, I need you sober tonight.”

Smoak frowned. “Chandler?”

Ashley shook her head and glanced at her music timer. “Nope. We got a TTY call on the 800 line. A girl named Blaze says her sister has gone missing, and the cops are being less than helpful in pursuing the case.”

“Anything like those other missing girls we started a file on?” Smoak asked.

Ashley nodded. “It sounds like it. I’m going to do some searches, there can’t be that many dancers named Rayne working the clubs.”

“Is that her stage name?” Smoak asked.

“I asked the same thing,” Ashley said with a smile. “Her stage name is Trinity. She’s a topless over at Diamonds.”

“When is the meeting?”

“Tonight at two, the Colony lobby café,” Ashley said. “I’m going to hand the booth over to Rikki and head to the office to do some research. I suggest you get your butt home and sleep off that tequila, just in case.”

Smoak grinned. “Guess I’m sleeping solo, unless you want to…”

“Go home, slut!” Ashley said, flushing. “I’ll catch up with you at the Colony. Don’t be late. I don’t want my ass hanging out in the cold.”

“I’ll be there,” Smoak said, settling her sunglasses in place.

Ashley watched her friend leave, amazed at how she changed gears without apparent effort. Gone was the dancer flirting with everyone in sight, replaced by a cold, nearly invisible woman who passed through the club and into the dressing room without a backwards glance.

“So much for Ms. Tonight,” Ashley muttered.

She waved to Rikki, a tall, painfully thin waitress with stark white hair and red eyes who also served as DJ on the late shift. It would take about ten minutes to get Rikki set up for the rest of primetime and another twenty minutes to change and get to the office. She would be cutting it close.

The Colony Hotel, designed and built in 1935, sat on Ocean Drive like a beacon of ancient beauty, with its art-deco façade, pristine neon lettering and antique awnings over comfortable deck chairs that looked out on a park and the not too distant ocean. Even at 2:00 a.m., the chairs were full of partiers; women in Valentino dresses cut too short and men in unbuttoned Armani shirts sipped drinks and watched the palm trees sway in the early morning breeze.

Ashley had dressed in a white pantsuit and pumps, sans blouse. Her only concession to a top was a long gold chain that swayed gently between her breasts as she walked. The outfit might have caused comment anywhere else. On Ocean Drive, she looked right at home.

She passed under the awning and into the hotel lobby, where a blast of cold air kept out the heat of the night. To her right was a small café area with turquoise tables and white wicker chairs. To her left was a sitting area with leather chairs of the same color and a handful of brown lacquer tables. At the far end was a staircase, an elevator that dated back to the ‘30s and a quarter-circle reception desk. An older gentleman with a crown of white hair smiled when she entered, and she smiled back before taking a seat at a table that gave her a good view of the front door.

Smoak walked in a few moments later. She was dressed all in black; leather pants, sleeveless silk blouse and knee-high boots. Ashley winked at her and opened her laptop. She knew Smoak would be lounging on one of the nearby sofas, eavesdropping on the meeting and sending her messages while acting as sentry. Cops had shown at meetings on several occasions, doing their level best to catch the women doing something illegal. They didn’t take too kindly to Smoak’s method of dealing with the bad guys.