Meredith Fletcher - Beneath The Surface

“Hanging with a friend for a couple months. Just till I get some cash up. The last girlfriend I had cleaned me out. Packed up my stuff, emptied the bank accounts and took off with my best friend.”

“Ouch, dude,” one of the other guys said. “Not exactly a happy camper.”

“I’ve had better days,” Rafe said. The story was actually true, but it had happened three years ago. He’d learned his lesson. Women and a job that meant long out-of-the-country trips really didn’t work out.

He hadn’t tried for anything steady since, but he hadn’t been completely put off toward women. It wasn’t their fault. The job was hard, and he wasn’t extremely skilled at relationships.

In the window reflection, the bartender glanced at the clock over the bar. “Maybe you could take that beer for a walk.”

Rafe grinned and shook his head at the guy at the table. “Man, I don’t understand why Tommy here doesn’t play to a full house every night.”

The guy at the table laughed. “You’re right. But so is he. It’d be better if you finish up that beer.”

“Hospitality’s about to run dry, I guess.” Rafe wondered what was going on.

“Okay,” Allison said in his ear, “now I’m definitely getting antsy.”

Rafe was, too.

“Don’t mean to push you out the door,” the man at the table said. “You come around here another night, I’ll buy you a beer myself.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Rafe upended the bottle and drained it. He placed it on the counter as he turned to face the bartender.

“Got a men’s room around here, Tommy?”

“Got the alley out back,” the bartender said. “Just look out you don’t hit any bums. They come up swinging sometimes.”

“You’re a funny guy,” Rafe said.

A piercing scream rang out from the back room.

Rafe glanced toward the back of the bar.

“Sure wish you hadn’t stuck around long enough to hear that,” the guy at the table said. He reached under his jacket and Rafe knew he was going for a pistol.

Before Drago could pull the trigger on the pistol, Shannon kicked him in the crotch. The big man staggered back and remained standing.

That surprised Shannon. She’d felt certain the kick would have put Drago on the ground. Seeing him still standing wasn’t good.

Drago cursed at her and tried to take aim again.

Moving on instinct, Shannon grabbed her opponent’s hand in both of hers. She wrapped his thumb with her left hand and wrapped his pinkie with her right. She pulled and twisted, hoping to break either the finger or the thumb.

Despite the hold she had on him, Drago was simply too strong. He curled his hand into a fist again and nearly trapped her hands. The whole time he cursed at her.

Adrenaline slammed into Shannon. She soaked it up, knowing it would help her only momentarily, then leave her weak.

Instead of trying to maintain her grip and lose the battle only a little slower, Shannon kicked Drago in the crotch again. He partially blocked her with a thigh, but she still struck home. Another yelp escaped his bared fangs.

Panicked now as the pistol swung back toward her, Shannon let go with her right hand and raked her nails across Drago’s face. Bloody furrows opened up across his right cheek and eye. She thought she might have gotten him in the eye, as well.

He screamed and it came out unbelievably high-pitched. But he stumbled back and fired the pistol. The report sounded incredibly loud in the enclosed space. Partially deafened, Shannon turned and fled to the door.

Be open! she thought frantically. She couldn’t remember Drago locking the door. Her hand closed around the doorknob. She twisted and yanked. The door came open in a rush.

Another shot banged out and a vibration shivered through the door. A hole opened up only a few inches from Shannon’s head. She shoved through the door and stumbled out into the hall.

High-heeled sling-backs are so not made for running. Shannon still gave her effort her best, though. Out in the hall, she kicked out of them and ran barefoot. I can come back for the shoes. Right now I just need to find a cop.

Gunfire broke out ahead of her.

The bartender went for something under the bar. Rafe pulled the expandable baton from its holster, pressed the release button and felt the weapon chug as it moved instantly from seven inches in length to sixteen.

“Rafe,” Allison said. “What’s going on?”

“Butt out,” Rafe said. “I’m busy.” Praying that his knee held together and the brace kept it strong, Rafe twisted around and smashed the baton across the bartender’s wrists.

A cut-down double-barreled shotgun dropped from the bartender’s hands. Rafe only caught sight of the weapon for an instant. The bartender tried to back away. With the baton’s extended reach, Rafe leaned over the bar only slightly and whipped it against the side of the man’s head.

The bartender’s eyes rolled up into his head and he sat down hard. Rafe would have been willing to bet that the man was out before his butt hit the floor.

In the mirror, Rafe saw that the man at the table had gotten his gun out.

The man didn’t offer a chance for last words or even spend any of his own. He pointed the pistol, not even bothering to aim.

Rafe dived over the bar and hoped it was made of good wood. His leg quivered, and he thought for a moment it was going to buckle under the effort and his weight. His rehab trainer had told him the knee was going to come back slow.

He didn’t quite clear the bar, but he managed to get up on top of it. He rolled across as the guy tracked him with the pistol. Bullets missed him by inches. He rolled over the edge and dropped.

More bullets pounded the bar but didn’t penetrate. Bottles behind the bar shattered. Alcohol leaked down from the shelves and pooled on the floor. The worst of it was the broken glass. Slivers embedded in Rafe’s flesh and raised dots of blood.

He ignored the pain and lunged for the shotgun. His hands curled around it and his finger came to a rest on one of the double triggers. Instead of trying to rise up and become a target, he stayed prone.

The man at the table called out to Rafe. “You still alive back there?”

Rafe didn’t answer. C’mon. Step out here and give me a target.

“You moved too quick, buddy,” the man said. “Tells me you come in here expecting trouble. You ain’t no dockworker.”

Rafe watched both ends of the bar. He caught a glimpse of movement at the end that fronted the hallway leading back to the bathrooms and storage area. Allison had also uploaded blueprints of the bar to the notebook computer he had in the car.

A quick swivel brought the shotgun muzzle around to cover the spot. He almost pulled the trigger when he spotted the face peering around the corner. Then he caught sight of the blond hair.

Shannon Connor stared at him with fear-rounded eyes.

“Get out of here!” Rafe ordered. “Run!”

She fled at once, and bullets tattooed the corner of the wall where she’d been standing.

Shoe leather scraped the wooden floor at the other end of the bar. Rafe tracked the noise with the shotgun, leveled it with a snap and squeezed the trigger.

The swarm of pellets slammed into the chest of the young man drawing a bead on Rafe. The impact knocked him backward. He continued the fall to the floor without a sound.

An alarm sounded in the back. Rafe assumed Shannon Connor had escaped through the rear door. The alarm was from a panic bar.

The man who’d been sitting at the table cursed. More bullets hammered the bar.

“I’m alive and mobile,” Rafe said out loud. He knew Allison would be wondering. He didn’t know how she sat on the other end of the connection without saying a word. “Shannon’s running for it. Out the back way. See if you can find her for me while I get out of here.”