No sign of Sam’s car out front, where he would usually park. There’s another familiar looking vehicle, parked a block and a half away.

  Seeing the flat, black club doors shut is no surprise. None of this is unexpected, but it all makes my heart sick. I have keys and keycodes to let myself in. What is it about an atmosphere in an empty space that makes you think somebody else is there? That feeling, the tickle on the back of your neck when you step into an empty house, and some silent instinct, like a silent sigh in the back of your mind, makes you think you’re not alone?

  In the Marines, we learned to trust our instinct. The admiral’s speech on our graduation reminded us, ‘Little cues and clues, half the time they’ll be wrong or you’ll misread them. But all you did was pay attention, so no harm done. The other half the time, they’ll save your ass. Maybe the platoon. And possibly the mission. Listen.’

  Familiar portraits line the walls of the hallway that Declan named the Heroes’ Walk. Inspirational figures from military history. General Patton, Alexander the Great, Churchill, Julius Caesar, Boadicea, Hannibal, Joan of Arc, Napoleon, Lord Nelson, and Admiral McRaven all of them faces to swell the chest of any current serving or veteran members of the armed forces from any nation, and for special forces particularly.

  As I pass the wise and wisened looking faces, I wonder if it’s my instinct warning me of another presence in the club, or if it’s simply the pit, the yawning void of Declan’s loss and absence that I’m feeling.

  The stretch of hallway that leads upstairs to the VIP room and to Declan’s office features heroes of special forces and military intelligence. Some of those few whose names can be known and whose pictures are shared. Among them, Virginia Hall, T. E. Lawrence, and the ‘Ace of Spies,’ Sidney Reilly.

  Like most servicemen, Declan and I maintained a distrust and a low-level loathing for spies. When I pointed out to him that many of the covert operations we undertook together could be under the category of spying, he gave me his mischievous glint and said, “Necessary evils.”

  After that, we always said we should start a punk band and call it Necessary Evil.

  His presence is strongest when I open his office door. I swear I can still smell him in here. There’s nothing obviously out of place. The portrait of Gloria, still straight, with pride of place on the wall facing Declan’s desk.

  For a few moments, I sit in his chair. Whenever the two of us were in here, telling tall tales and depleting his stocks of single malt, he would have me sit and swivel in the chair as he perched high on the corner of the desk, looming over me with proprietorial sweeps of his arm.

  Even with the memory of him so near, my spirit is flat as I twist the chair. That’s when I see the yellow printed page in the wastebasket.

  FORMERLY DECLAN’S

  NOW UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

  Intrigued, I pull out the crumpled paper. A card attached to it has the name, Deuce McMahon, and the title Clark County Supervisor, Las Vegas Entertainments.

  McMahon? Coincidence, or could they be related? The Fobbit was certainly enough of a dick that he might have thought it would be a good idea to name his son, ‘Deuce.’ It certainly wouldn’t be a surprise if his offspring went into the family business of piloting a desk while they gouge the taxpayer. I wonder if he’s taking after his pa, gouging in both directions, too.

  Behind Declan’s desk, in his office, I don’t feel that odd sense of someone else being here.

  That tells me I’m not imagining it. There is somebody here, and they’re somewhere else in the club.

  I step into the club's showbar. The lighting for when the place is closed is odd and minimal. Mostly the low downlights around the bar and the dim lamps in the edges of the floor. It’s barely enough to see and safely get around the sleek, curved, echoing space. All the sumptuous detailing is dark; the polished, black marble bar top in a half-circle, the round stage.

  Behind the showbar, a large, ornate mirror reflects the space, making it seem larger and even more lavish when it’s full of people and the the lights are all on. Now, it just makes the place spookier.

  More than any other part of the club, the showbar seems strange and unreal without any people and with only the low, diffuse lighting. It’s hard to make out any more than the silver frames of the black-and-white portraits of military heroes. I know them all by heart, though. Just seeing the frames makes me almost choke Like every part of Declan’s, they’re a tribute to the bravery and camaraderie that the club celebrates. A fusion of ancient and modern, of grit and glamour.

  With the club closed, the portraits and the eerie lighting make the round room feel like a mausoleum, a hall of ghosts.

  Declan’s pride was the polished hardwood dance-floor that surrounds the black and silver stage at the center of the room. At the back of the stage, heavy red velvet drapes with gold embroidery, hang behind the crossed swords of the Declan’s logo.

  A mocking chuckle echoes through the room.

  “Joey? Joey Calhoun?”

  Junior steps out into the dim light of the raised stage. Lit from below, he looks like he’s in a horror move. He saunters out with a smirk. My fingers curl around the grip of my pistol, but I won’t draw it. Not yet.

  Junior. Cups his hands around his eyes to peer out. I move quietly around the room.

  I say, “Deuce McMahon, I assume?”

  I move in the dark, keeping him looking around.

  “Are you McMahon’s son? You look a lot like him.”

  Each time I speak, I move again. Keeping him unsettled and guessing.

  “You sound like him, too.”

  Blinking and leaning forward, he says, “I am proud to call Tommy McMahon my father and to carry on his good name.”

  “His good name? HAH! You cannot be serious.”

  So, he thinks it’s fun to hide in the darkness. The difference is, in the Marines, we learned how to really use darkness as cover. I move again, keeping him guessing.

  “If it weren’t for my father, so many of the great entertainment businesses in Las Vegas would not have flourished and grown to the world-beating fame and glory that they now have. He brought professionalism to Las Vegas entertainment.”

  He chuckles again.

  “I’ll be taking over Declan's," Jr. announces, his voice cold. Then, “And I think I'll take your club, too, Joey."

  The heavy door swings open. As the wedge of light sweeps across the floor, I’m caught in the top of the triangle.

  Deuce’s icy blue eyes rake over me. “Well, isn’t this cozy? So glad you came.”

  Through the open double doors, Sam is forcing Daisy ahead of him, with a gun jammed in her back. Her smoky blonde hair is mussed, and her green eyes dart around the room, and she’s wearing some peculiar fancy dress, like she’s auditioning for a millennials’ revival of Grease. She is so fucking hot in it, though, I could fuck her right now. Those white shorts show off her ass way too well. Just too tight, and just too loose. Damn.

  And that loose too-bright top, draped over the ski-slopes of her tits.

  "Joey." She breathes my name like a sigh of relief, and I see hope in her eyes.

  “Hey,” Sam says with an ugly grin, “How’s it all going, ‘boss’?” and he waves his gun.

  “Nice to see you, too, Sam," my voice is cold as ice. “I thought you told me you were here already.”

  My grip on my gun stays still and ready, even though every fiber of my being wants to wrap my arms around Daisy and shield her.

  "Detour,” Sam sneers, “Stopped on the way to collect a package.”

  Sam slaps Daisy’s ass as he shoves her onto the stage and toward Deuce. She stumbles, but Deuce grabs her and puts his gun on her. Hard. I’ll see he pays for that.

  “Hey, baby. We were interrupted. Now, I need to know where you’ve kept all your photographs. Especially the last ones you took of your daddy.”

  Sam snarls. “Just get on with it, okay?”

  “This won’t take long.”

  “All my pictures are in the cloud, as well as on a board on the internet.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to go and get them all pulled down, won’t we.”

  Sam shouts, “Move it along, Deuce.”

  “It's all going to plan," Deuce says, sniggering a gleeful grin spreading across his face.

  Sam says, "Sure it is, Deuce. Just not to your plan." Deuce's face crumples with shock as Sam raises the gun at him and Daisy.

  I step in front of Daisy, blocking his line of fire, my own gun pointed at Sam.

  I watch Sam closely, every muscle in my body tenses, ready for whatever move he makes next. The tension between Daisy and me crackles through the air like electricity, adding fuel to the already volatile situation.

  "Joey, don't," Daisy pleads.

  Over my shoulder, I say to Deuce, "You trusted Sam? When you knew he already turned on me?"

  Sam’s narrowed eyes flick between me and Deuce. "I thought Deuce was going to be taking care of you."

  "Plans change," I say, just to buy time.

  "Seems like it," Sam retorts, his gaze fixed on me.My mind races, trying to figure out a way to handle the situation. How did we get here?

  Sam’s waving his gun around like he thinks it could be fun to use it. “Put it down, Sam," I tell him, my voice dark. "We know Deuce had sniper training, Sam. And some experience. And you know that I did. How about you, Sam? How’s your aim in low light?”

  Sam shakes his head, feigning regret. "Shame how it turned out. I got here, Deuce had Daisy, and he shot her. Joey, you shot Deuce, but not before he had time to get a shot back at you." He sighs dramatically. "I was just too late."

  "You got it all figured out," Daisy hisses, her eyes narrowed in anger. Sam takes aim at her.

  "So, where do you figure that leaves me, Sam?" Detective Ransom emerges from the shadows, gun aimed at Sam. "Detective. Thank heavens you're here!" Sam exclaims, his voice dripping with insincerity.

  Deuce grabs at Daisy, jamming his gun hard against her head. She yelps in pain. I’ll make sure he pays for that.

  Sam darts around me to aim at both of them. He dodges, trying to get a clear shot at Daisy and Deuce. I keep both feet planted as I turn, following him, tracking the bridge of his nose with my gun barrel.

  Calmly, I tell him, “Give it up, Sam. You’ll probably need to get all three of us, and probably Ransom, too. You've got no chance."

  Ransom rushes forward. "He's right, Sam. You haven't committed any serious crimes yet. Give it up while you still can."

  I wish Ransom hadn't said that. Deuce is going to be easily spooked right now, and he has committed at least two murders, that I know of.

  He’s too unpredictable now. I move, locking eyes with Sam, keeping the gun steady. With my other hand, I grab Daisy by the waist and sling her to the ground in front of me.

  Still with my eyes on Sam, I swing my gun back to Deuce's head.

  Ransom jumps to tackle Sam, knocking him to the ground. Face down. Sam's gun slides away.

  I turn to eyeball Deuce. Our eyes lock. Deuce lifts his gun to my face.

  I smile and shake my head.

  “So,” I say, “Rat Jr. huh?"

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My heart races as Joey turns to face Deuce.

  "So, Rat Jr., huh?" Joey's voice is low, lethal, his eyes narrowed with barely contained fury. Deuce smirks, aiming his gun with shaking fingers, pointing it at Joey's unmoving, chiseled face. The glint of the barrel, menacing in the dim light.

  "Joey..." I whisper, but his eyes don’t move from Deuce’s.

  Joey’s voice is eerily calm.

  “This is for Declan.”

  Raw pain and loss etch on Joey’s face in the split second as he squeezes the trigger, a flash of memories, a friendship forged in blood and loyalty.

  The gunshot echoes like a muffled thunderclap inside the room.

  Deuce shakes sideways like a rag doll in slow motion. He crumples. Drops to the floor. His lifeless body slumps onto the stage with a dull, collapsing thud. My stomach churns, but I’m transfixed.

  Joey steps closer, a glow in his eyes, ice in his voice.

  "This is for Daisy's daddy.”

  He fires again. The bullet drills between Deuce's lifeless eyes.

  I'm witnessing and feeling the lengths Joey will go to protect the things, the people he cares about. It terrifies and arouses me, sending shivers down my spine and tingling heat in my core.

  I flinch at the third gunshot.

  Joey snarls, "And that's for kidnapping Daisy."

  Waves of shudders ripple through me. I’m torn between the urge to rush and embrace him, and fear of the darkness that opened up within him.

  "Joey," I need him to look at me. I call his name again. Finally, he turns. His gaze locks with mine. The intensity seizes my breath and it snags in my throat.

  He turns, like he stepping from darkness, out into the light, from a cold, dark night, into a bright, golden morning.

  “Are you alright, Daisy?" he asks, softly, like he’s transformed. I nod, unable to find my voice.

  My eyes flick over his powerful body, his muscles flex beneath his shirt. He holds the gun at his side and the tension has gone. The automatic is no longer a deadly threat, it’s a precision machine, tool in the hand of an expert.

  He touches the side of my face. I want my arms around him, I want to feel his body next to mine I want to feel his heartbeat. I know that despite the violence surrounding us, there is no man I would rather have by my side.

  The moment stretches out. My heart pounds in my ears.

  I move to bring us closer, but he lifts his hand. Raises one finger. Then he turns. My heart aches.

  Joey strides to Sam, still down with Ransom’s knee on his back. Sam’s mouth twists against the dance floor and he snorts like a bull as his eyes blaze at Joey.

  The muscles in Joey's jaw clench and work as he stands to look down into Sam’s face. He straightens his arm and the gun is is gun aimed at Sam's head.

  "Joey," I whisper. I can’t find my voice to call out to him. He wouldn’t hear me, and I couldn’t bear that. Not now.

  His fingers flex and relax around the gun's grip. Stretch … and grip. Slack, and stretch. And grip. He’s torn between pulling the trigger and walking away. And he’s glowing with rage.

  Ransom sees it. He lets Joey work off at least some of his energy before he clears his throat, then his voice is soft, soothing the edge and lowering tension in the air.

  "You know, Joey, what I just witnessed will go into my report as a public-spirited citizen, heroically overcoming an armed and dangerous suspect in several killings."

  Joey's eyes are dark, teeming with conflict. However I study his face, I can’t gauge his thinking. His breath is shallow. His arm is rigid. He looks down at Sam, then back at Ransom, an edge sawing into his voice. "Sam hasn't committed any crimes, has he?"

  Ransom blinks. He has to think this through. Now I can see it. I get it. Joey is asking, Do you have anything to charge him with?

  He knows that the right thing is to leave Sam in Ransom’s custody and let the law take its course. But there’s no evidence of Sam breaking any laws.

  Ransom asks Sam, “Did you kidnap Daisy to bring her here?” Sam smirks up at Joey.

  "She got in the car of her own accord."

  Stretch, flex… and grip.

  My cheeks burn with humiliation and anger. Joey's eyes stay on Sam as he says, "Did he use force to get you into the car?" His voice low, dangerous.

  I want to tell him that Sam forced me, that he threatened me. But the words stick in my throat, trapped by the weight of the truth. I could tell him that he tricked me. Even that’s not really true. He fooled me. And he did it so easily. I feel like it’s almost my fault more than his.

  Looses. Relax. Stretch. And grip.

  And, yes, it was me who I was putting in danger. But I endangered Joey, too. And I played into the hands of the man who killed his friend. He killed my daddy, too, but that only makes me all the more clumsy and stupid for letting myself get taken and used by them.

  My body trembles, jarred by the raw mix of emotions raging through me - fear, desire, and an overwhelming need for safety.

  "Tell him, Daisy," Sam taunts, and my blood boils.

  “Tell him?” I find my voice at last. “Tell him that you told me you were acting as his friend and I was dumb enough to believe you? You think it’s going to help you if I tell him that?”

  Grip. Relax. Grip. Stretch. Grip. “Enough!" Joey snaps, cutting off my response. His grasp on the gun tightens, and now I'm very aware of the bulge in his pants, evidence of the fierce arousal this twisted encounter has ignited in him.

  My body responds in kind, aching for him to take me right here, right now, amidst the chaos and danger.

  "Joey," I breathe, my voice trembling with desire. His eyes meet mine again, and I see the same hunger reflected back at me.

  Grip. Relax. Grip…

  "Get her out of here," Ransom orders Joey, keeping his own gun on Sam.

  Still Joey won’t move.

  I go to him. I stand close enough that he feels me, not so near that I’m crowding him.

  “Sam betrayed you. I know. He schemed against you. I know.” I look down into Sam’s eyes, “He’s a pig.” I spit in his eye. Something I never did in my life before. Something I hope I never do again. But I won’t regret it. “He’s worse than a pig. He’s a piece of shit.” I look up into Joey’s face. His eyes are still on Sam’s “But, Joey, he’s not worth you going to the chair for, or even to jail.” I move around so I’m more in his sight and my voice is straight in his ear, “ More than that, he’s not worth me losing you for. Let it go, Joey. Please.”

  Stretch. Twirl. Grip. Relax.