Glancing over her shoulder one last time, Nola tugged the door open and slipped inside. The card store was dark, lit by a faint red glow from a section of lava lamps. On her right was a bookshelf filled with half a dozen picture frames, all with the same stock photo: a graduation shot of a girl in cap and gown, her mom, dad, and brother embracing her in a group hug, like it was the greatest day of their lives.
For a few seconds, she spied the room, moving left to right, dividing it into more scannable sections. Military training told her that the last place you ever want to be is on an elevator. Tactically, it’s like being on a submarine. Plus, around the store, there were no cameras.
She shook her head, knowing better. When things are this easy, it’s always a trap. Whatever they were hiding upstairs, they didn’t want any record of it.
But it wasn’t like she had a choice. Nola continued looking around. If there were stairs, she couldn’t find them.
Hesitantly, she headed for the elevator, spotting a keypad above the call buttons. Crap. She’d need a code. Yet before she could even hit the call button, to her surprise, it lit up.
There was a sound. A metal hiccup. The elevator doors slid open, revealing a bearded man with pale white skin and crooked teeth the color of margarine.
“Yeah, I see her,” he said with a thick Philly accent into a high-tech walkie-talkie. He was big, with a trendy tribal-font tattoo that read Big Sleeps across his forearm.
Nola planted her feet. He had a stupidly oversized luxury watch on his right wrist and leaned forward as he moved. Left-handed. And used to being on the offensive.
“C’mon, girl,” he warned, stepping toward Nola. “You really think we wouldn’t see you coming?”
73
“Can I get you a drink?”
Zig was about to say no, but Elijah had a vibe like an old coach or mentor you didn’t want to let down.
“You said it’s Zig, right? Z-I-G?” Elijah asked, spelling it out. He’d been doing it for years—spelling people’s names as a way to remember them. Comes in handy when you’re tending bar. “And Roddy, yes? R-O-D-D-I-E?”
“With a Y,” Roddy said.
“R-O-D-D-Y. Roddy,” Elijah repeated, handing them two empty pilsner glasses and pointing them to the taps that lined the far-right wall. He even blinked slowly, like he was moving in an unhurried time. “If you got a sweet tooth, the ones on the end are ciders.”
Zig liked cider. But c’mon. Not more than free craft beer.
“I got a room in back that’s a bit more quiet,” Elijah offered as Roddy headed for one of the taps.
“Here’s fine,” Roddy shot back.
You sure? Zig asked with a glance, confused. He scanned the bar. The biggest guy in sight—a heavyset man with a receding hairline and undone tie who was nursing a beer and scrolling through his phone—didn’t look like much of a threat, except to his jalape?o poppers.
Roddy motioned to the far corner of the bar, to a slight gangly man with outdated rectangular eyeglasses. Hanging behind his chair was a nylon messenger bag embroidered with the words PRP Consulting. Certainly not a threat—that is, until Roddy pointed down low and Zig finally got a look at the man’s ankle holster. Definitely carrying.
As before, Roddy didn’t miss a detail. That explained why he’d rather be out here. Better to see what’s coming—in a crowd and near an exit—than be trapped in back.
“It’s not working,” Roddy said, pulling a tap labeled Hop Drop N Roll.
“You need— Here . . .” Elijah said, yanking one of three red wristbands off his wrist and tossing it Roddy’s way. When Roddy put it on, he reached again for the tap and—beep beep—it unlocked, filling his glass with fancy craft beer.