Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(37)

Uh-oh.

The guy she’d been straddling sits straight up, realizing his lap dance is over, in a drunken stupor as his bloodshot eyes narrow at me.

“Who the f*ck are you?” he asks, but I don’t have a chance to answer before a distinct rat-ta-tat-tat sound echoes through the club, the harrowing rattle of incessant gunfire.

AR-15, I’m guessing. My chest tightens. Son of a bitch. Is he being robbed? Again?

“Oh god,” Scarlet says, finally finding her voice. “No, no, no…”

There’s a tremor to those words. Terror coats every syllable. Never took her for the kind to buckle in the face of danger. She sure as f*ck didn’t balk when it came to me. The commotion gets louder, people fleeing from the club, racing down the hall toward the back exit before doubling back, like that way is blocked.

Whoever it is has the place surrounded.

Sitting ducks.

Scarlet retreats deeper into the room. It’s only seconds. That’s it. Mere seconds of pandemonium. She jumps behind the bar to the far left of the room, cowering there, shielding herself from view. I take a few steps that way, not completely approaching, just coming close enough that I can see her.

No, it’s not a robbery, and it’s clear she senses it, too

It’s more like a massacre.

I know a thing or two about those.

I stand there, shoving my hands in my pockets, staring at the doorway as someone bursts in. A man dressed in all black, wearing a ski mask. Huh. The drunk from the lap dance freaks out, yelling, “Who the f*ck are you?”

Unlike when he asked me, this guy is kind enough to respond. He answers right away with a bullet to the face, no hesitation.

Who the f*ck are you?

BANG.

Scarlet doesn’t move at all, doesn’t make a sound, as the gunshot echoes through the room, a big, burly motherf*cker pulling the trigger, dropping the scumbag with a single shot.

He turns to me next, pointing the gun, finger still on the trigger, but this time, he pauses. Eyes narrowing, he studies my face before shouting something out in a foreign language, a single word sticking out of the gibberish: Scar.

My hands clench into fists in my pockets as I force myself not to go for my gun. “I guess my reputation precedes me, huh?”

He looks like a bear, I think, the burly motherf*cker, as he shoves the ski mask up, offering me a glimpse of his face. He doesn’t respond with words or a bullet, which I think is answer enough.

Someone else joins us, a bit shorter and smaller, otherwise similar in features. No ski mask, this one. No gun. He’s not even dressed in all black, instead wearing a dark gray suit. He carries himself differently, too, an air of confidence surrounding him, much of his skin covered in dark tattoos.

That would make him the leader.

That’s pretty easy to see.

It’s peculiar, though, almost surreal, a strange sense of déjà vu assaulting me. If I weren’t witness to this, I swear to f*ck, I’d probably suspect myself, too. It feels too familiar, like watching a cheap reboot of a classic. Either this is a case of great minds thinking alike, or this guy has been studying my playbook.

The moment the newcomer yells, spouting off something foreign to his guys, Scarlet reacts. I see her tense from the corner of my good eye. She presses against the bar, trying to fade into the shadows, as she mouths something to herself, over and over and over, still not making a sound.

Look, it doesn’t take a genius to put four and six together and come up with ten, you get what I’m saying? Cowering woman. Foreign McFuckFace with his own little massacre squad. It’s like I’m in the midst of yet another Die Hard sequel.

Does that make me Bruce Willis? I don’t know.

But I am willing to bet that makes ol’ Bebop and Rocksteady here our dastardly villains. And doing that basic math in my head, I’m saying it all adds up to the Russians.

The men chatter back and forth as I observe them before someone says that damn word again. Scar.

He turns to me then—their leader, ol’ Bebop—and stares me down as he steps closer. “The notorious Scar. I have heard much about you.”

“Good things?”

“Horrific things. Murder. Mayhem.”

“So... good things,” I say again.

He laughs. “The best things.”

“Good to know,” I say. “I’m not sure I can say the same about you, though.”

“You have not heard of me?”

I was going for I hadn’t heard any good things, but we’ll go with that. “Afraid not.”

“Oh, but I am sure you have,” he says as he smiles. “You just do not know it was me they spoke of. Reputation is not important to me. I do not care what anyone thinks as long as I get what I want.”

“And what is it you want?”

“Depends on which day it is.” He laughs again. “Today, like most days, I am looking for a girl. Maybe you have seen her?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Does she have a name?”

“Morgan,” he says. “She is a very pretty girl. You would not forget her if you saw her. She has the sweetest smile.”

That she does.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I tell him.

“That is a shame,” he says as he glances around the room. He can’t see behind the bar from there, but if he comes any closer, Scarlet is f*cked.