The Ripple Effect (Rhiannon's Law #3)(14)

Private Number.

Shit.

I was pretty sure this was another call I’d been expecting, although the timing was crap. So much for distracting myself with work. I popped the phone open and pressed it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“You inquired about an unmarked Browning?”

Yes, sir. The call I’d been waiting over a week for.

I’d only met Bane once—after I’d asked a few regulars at the shooting range about buying guns under the table. He hadn’t been friendly when he’d walked up, introduced himself and had gotten a smartass comment from me about his name. Nope, Bane was all business. And his name did suit him—as in the bane of someone’s existence. Not only was he big, he was friends with several thugs who practiced shooting at West Side. Thugs who happened to be gang members who pointed him in my direction. Dangerous, deadly, and likely to chew you up and spit you out. Bane in a nutshell.

Fortunately, despite the company he kept, he seemed to stay out of petty gang shit. He was a businessman first and foremost. Our initial meeting had clued me in to the fact that he didn’t want any trouble. He kept it clean, didn’t ask questions, and had remained professional. As if that wasn’t incentive enough to do business with him, he could also get anything a client requested if the price was right.

“That’s right, I did,” I said, hoping he’d finally come through.

“I have two.”

I stepped into the back and walked toward the cooler. “I’m definitely interested. I can meet you this afternoon.”

“Maybe I’ll have them then, maybe I won’t.”

I bit my tongue. It wouldn’t be in my best interest to call him an *. I hated being backed into a corner. “So it’s now or never?”

“I didn’t say that. You seem to think you’re my only client. Consider this a courtesy call.”

“Do you have silver ammunition?”

“Two boxes. Custom.”

Fuck. I needed a weapon with silver ammo. I might stop a vampire in its tracks or slow down a demon using blessed bullets, but silver was a guaranteed deal. I lifted my head, staring at the numerous liquor bottles on the shelves. It would take hours to get things straight. Deena would kill me if something was missing when she worked the bar tonight. What were the odds of her discovering I hadn’t done my job?

I cringed, thinking about my shitty f*cking luck.

She’d find several things missing. Likely, I’d get a furious phone call about how hard I failed at life. Her wrath was something I’d have to face. There was no way I could pass up Bane’s offer. I needed weapons. Perhaps more than I needed my job. Ironically, I might not have to worry about demons. Deena could very well kill me before any hideous creatures got a chance.

“Where do you want me to meet you?”

“China Town. Behind Cleaver’s Pizza.”

The call ended, and I slid the phone into my pocket.

First I would meet with Bane and, hopefully, leave with a shiny new toy. Then I’d make a trip to my apartment to prepare for my stay at Disco’s. I’d purchased a suitcase that concealed my weapons shortly after our breakup. Even then, I’d known things were about to change. My morality wasn’t what it used to be. I had killed men in cold blood, depositing bullets right between their eyes, and I hadn’t so much as blinked.


My fingers drifted to the pendant around my neck.

I knew Marigold Vesta’s amulet was becoming an obsession, one leaving a dark essence on my soul. Did that really matter? My life was already in danger. I was indebted to a fallen angel. If I didn’t revive her, I would have to give her my body and die in the process.

I was f*cked, f*cked, and did I mention f*cked?

There wasn’t time to waste thinking about my life’s torments. Instead I walked out of the room behind the bar. The cleaning crew didn’t notice me. They never did. They wanted to do their job and leave. Couldn’t say I blamed them.

Despite the wretched cold of winter, the sun warmed my face as I left the club. Christmas would be coming soon, along with snow.

For a moment, I wondered if I’d live to see either.

****

Bane was standing beside a van parked around the back, waiting for me when I arrived at Cleaver’s Pizza. He was dressed casually in jeans, a T-shirt, and a black baseball cap—probably to blend in with the locals. No one paid me any attention as I walked alongside the building and stopped at the vehicle’s back. Bane headed around to greet me, giving me a brief nod.

Alrighty then. So far, so good.

At some point in his life Bane had been a decent looking guy. He was over six feet tall—all muscle—and had a heart stopping smile that went nicely with his ice-blue eyes and blond hair. Unfortunately his nose had been broken numerous times, and a winding scar from his forehead to his chin ruined him from the neck up. If the puckered tissue bothered him, he didn’t let on. He appeared to be comfortable in his own skin. Hell, I was positive he enjoyed frightening people with a sadistic sneer that made the scar stretch and widen.

“I see you made it,” he said. No smile, no hello—only a level stare.

“It didn’t sound like I was being given a choice.”

Bane snorted, glanced around, and pulled the van’s back doors open. As promised, two Brownings sat side by side on the dingy flooring, their obsidian metal clean and unscratched. Four clips were lined above the guns—fully loaded—and two boxes of bullets were beside them. Just above was a double holster, the leather pristine and free of markings.