Terror Stash Page 6

  She found her gaze drawing back to him again. The man strolled up to the bar, digging into his pocket.

  The barmaid saw his approach and instead of dropping the glass she was drying and moving to the bar to take his order, she backed up a step or two until her shoulder bumped into her boss’s chest. She looked up at him, spoke a word or two and shook her head emphatically. Twice. Then she handed him the tea towel and hurried to the door marked with a hand-written ‘office’ sign and shut herself in.

  The manager stepped up to the bar and jerked his chin in a “what will you have?” manner.

  “Hey, Montana, I hear you’re looking for me.”

  Reluctantly, Montana pulled her attention around to the other side of the long table. Rabbit stood at the far corner, in a silk shirt and dress pants. Anyone else in those clothes would have looked out of place in a joint like this but Rabbit seemed to fit. The silver jewelry in his ears and nose helped. So did the tattoo on his neck—a writhing dragon that clawed its way up to his jawbone. He smiled at Montana, showing crooked, broken yellow teeth.

  “Hello, Rabbit,” she acknowledged. “Was I looking for you?”

  Rabbit tapped Greg’s shoulder and Greg immediately climbed off the bench and made room for him. Rabbit settled in his place and carefully placed his bottle of beer down. Unlike the other beer drinkers here, he wasn’t drinking pub draught out of a glass or even one of the labeled beers in a stubby. He had a full-sized dark brown bottle of Emu Bitter.

  He smiled at her again. “Bruce said you were looking for me.”

  She looked at Bruce for clarification, but he shot her a sideways glance and pretended he was in deep conversation with the flower-children people further along the table. No help there.

  Then she put it together and her jaw descended a little before she snapped it shut again. She stared at Rabbit. “You’re Stewart Connie?”

  His grin broadened, displaying missing molars and old silver amalgam fillings that were black with age and abuse. “At your service.”

  “I’ve only ever known you as Rabbit,” she said apologetically.

  Jacko snorted a little and shook his head, half-smiling. “Stewart Connie. Connie. Coney. Rabbit. Stewart, stew. Rabbit Stew. I should have figured it out, too.”

  The smile on Rabbit’s face faded as he stared directly at Jacko. It was a challenge, as clear as a trumpet call.

  Jacko stared calmly back.

  “I believe the lady and I have business to discuss,” Rabbit said.

  “Are you sure you want to settle into business right now?” Jacko said softly.

  “None of your concern, my good man,” Rabbit said with a forced joviality that sent the second shiver of the night up Montana’s back. This was the man who knew Nicollo? She had trouble believing it and could feel all the hope and excitement over finally getting a step closer to her goal starting to deflate. This was probably going to be a dead end. A false hope.

  “Not my concern, no,” Jacko replied. “But I think it’s a concern of yours. Have you seen who’s sitting at the bar?”

  Montana turned her head enough to check the bar. The lone occupant was the Rawn guy, sipping on a glass of beer. There had been at least five people sitting on the tall stools pulled up at the bar before he’d sat down. He didn’t seem to mind that everyone had cleared off and left him alone.

  She snapped her head back to check Rabbit’s reaction to Rawn’s presence and saw his gaze flicker back to Jacko. “Yeah, and?” His face was neutral, but a little tick had started up at the corner of his eye, where two prominent veins also throbbed.

  Jacko smiled a little. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me why he put you in hospital two years ago?” The counter-challenge, direct and brutal.

  “I don’t suppose you want to take a hike before I ram this bottle up your ass, you fucking Kraut prick?” Despite the words, Rabbit’s tone was reasonable, even friendly.

  Jacko sat still and silent for twenty seconds, staring at him.

  Rabbit gave him a wide, wide smile. “That wasn’t a request.”

  Jacko dropped his eyes and picked up his drink. “I’ll see you later, Montana,” he murmured, without looking at her.

  No, stay! Montana held the words back, though. She desperately didn’t want to be alone with this guy, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to talk to her unless they were alone, and if he knew Nicollo, then she might never have another chance like this one.

  She watched Jacko walk away and felt closer to panic than she’d ever felt in her life. Not even when she was twelve and ducking machine-gun fire in Al Khafji had she been torn by such doubt and fear.

  She licked her lips and turned back to face Rabbit.

  “Hi,” he said, with another big smile. “So let’s you and I talk.”

  Chapter Six

  Caden had spotted Rabbit the moment the little shitheel had walked in the door but he bided his time. Time was a resource he had plenty of. So he kept his stool and sipped his beer, genuinely enjoying the strong Australian staple.

  He knew Rabbit had seen him. The South African guy everyone called Jacko for reasons unexplained had drawn Rabbit’s gaze to the bar, warning him. No matter.

  The layer of wavering heat building up under the tin roof didn’t bother him. Singapore was slightly cooler, but the humidity there could make you feel miserable if you let it get to you. After Singapore, the dry, dry heat Australia had to offer was as good as a sunlamp on sore muscles.

  Caden felt a soft touch against the fabric of his jeans. Then another pat. He looked down.

  “Goddamn, look at you.” The cat head-bumping his ankle was the most battle-scarred creature he’d ever seen. It blinked up at him, then rubbed a ragged ear against his jeans. It looked up again, enquiringly.

  “Hey, kitty, I’m the last man on earth you want to adopt. Believe me.” He gently withdrew his foot, hooking his boot over the stool’s foot railing to keep it out of the cat’s reach and went back to his drink.

  The cat hunched down, gathering itself, then took an almighty leap, straight up onto the bar. The waitress, Barbs, backed up with a breathless little shriek of shock. The cat ignored her with graceful disdain, walked along the bar with his bent tail up at full mast and plonked himself down in front of Caden, looking up at him without blinking.

  Caden studied him, astonishment warring with amusement. “Stubborn cuss, huh? I like that.” He reached his hand out slowly, to avoid startling the old warrior, and left it in mid-air for the cat to decide what he’d do with it.

  After a second, the cat stood and rubbed the side of his face along Caden’s fingers. Caden felt rough, dry fur and sharply defined bones beneath. He didn’t know much about cats, so he experimented. He turned his hand over, still moving slowly, and rubbed the cat under the chin then scratched him behind the ragged ears.

  The cat’s reaction was nothing short of amazing. It began to purr and the purr was loud enough to be heard over the white noise of the busy bar. The low, deep motor sound rumbled through the cat’s body and he melted onto the counter, a suddenly boneless bag of pleasure. He rolled over on his back, legs splayed and paws up, opening up his vulnerable stomach to Caden’s scratching. His mouth hung open a little and Caden swore the cat was smiling at him.

  He found he was grinning back and obligingly rubbed the cat’s chest between the bent paws. He felt old scars under his fingers.

  “Put that thing down, will you?” Barbs demanded in her tobacco-abused husk. “It’s probably riddled with fleas and kangaroo ticks, just to start. It’s the meanest tomcat I ever met. For god’s sake, throw it out, will you?”

  He looked up at her. “I don’t think so,” he said softly.

  She visibly swallowed and shrank back. Then she turned and busied herself with furiously cutting seals on spirit bottles, her back to him.

  Caden grinned at the cat again. “So, you’re the meanest one around, huh, mate?” It was the first time he’d ever used the casual Australian endearment. “T
hat makes us a pair, you and me. Scars and all.”

  The cat licked his knuckles. He went on purring as his eyes slowly closed.

  Caden finished his drink with his left hand resting on the cat’s belly, enjoying a small glow of contentment before he had to turn to bloody business.

  * * * * *

  It took barely two minutes for Montana to realize that she and Rabbit were at cross-purposes. None of his responses made any sense. Mystified, she held up her hand. “Let’s start again. The reason I was trying to find you, the only reason I sought you out, is because I have information that says that you know, or possibly even work for, a person called Nicollo.”

  His jaw sagged almost comically. “Nicollo? That’s what you want?”

  “Do you know who Nicollo is?” She held her breath.

  “Sure, I know her.”

  A champagne fizz of adrenaline exploded in her. She had carefully avoided a gender, yet Rabbit referred to Nicollo as ‘she.’ “You do know her.” It was almost unbelievable that a slimeball like Rabbit was her key to finding Nicollo after all these years.

  “Well, well, well. Stewart Connie. The rabbit comes back to its hole.” The voice was deep and seemed to rumble.

  Montana jumped at the sound and looked up. The big man, Rawn, had managed to step up alongside her without her even noticing. She had been too distracted by Rabbit’s revelation. Now her pulse spiked hard again. Harder. This close, the man’s physical presence was overwhelming. He was staring at Rabbit, his powerful arms hanging loosely at his sides.

  Rabbit picked up his beer bottle, took a long drink from it, then wiped his lips. “Rawn,” he offered.

  Irritation prickled through Montana. Not only was her inexplicable reaction to Rawn bothering her, but it was clear that his arrival had completely shifted the topic of conversation. She had been so close, damn it!

  Montana stood up awkwardly, because the attached bench wouldn’t let her straighten out her legs properly. “Listen,” she told Rawn, straddling the bench. “You’re interrupting. I was in the middle of business here.”

  He glanced at her. This time the impact was solid. His eyes were black-on-black. The irises were the same black as the pupil, making them dark windows on whatever soul he possessed, and were framed by thick black lashes. She could almost feel the touch of his direct, unflinching gaze against her flesh.

  He settled his gaze back upon Rabbit. “Oh, Stew and I have unfinished business that goes back a long way further than yours. He’s definitely at the top of my list of priorities.”

  Montana felt the bite of rare temper, exacerbated by the currents surging through her body she was helpless to control. “Wait your turn.”

  “You need a fix so bad you’d stoop to dealing with this turd?” He gave a dry smile. “You don’t look the type.”

  “She ain’t, you fuckin’ gorilla.” Rabbit pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. “Neither of you are offering business I wanna accept, so screw both of you.”

  “Wait—” Montana began, alarmed.

  “Wrong choice, Connie.” Rawn’s low, deep voice overrode her completely.

  “Fuck you!” Rabbit screamed back and the entire bar came to a sudden, throbbing silence, focused on Rabbit and Rawn...and Montana.

  She could feel her overstressed heart thudding hard. Things were getting out of control here. Events were moving into territory that was unmapped, unmarked and dangerous. She was a diplomat, trained to advocate. Yet she couldn’t think of a single thing she might do. None of her training or experience gave her the tools to defuse two men who radiated murderous intent.

  Then Rawn spoke and her opportunity had passed. “You do want to rethink that, don’t you, Connie?” Damned if he didn’t seem amused.

  Rabbit was visibly shaking as he held up his car keys, waving them in front of Rawn. “You think I’m so fucking stupid, Rawn? You think I didn’t know you were in town? You’re the one that’s back where he started, but not me, you ignorant moron.” Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth and his face was red. “You think I’m just going to turn up here without preparations?” He pressed the button on what Montana had thought was a remote control for his car and the triumph in his face sent alarm slamming through her.

  She felt a sudden claustrophobia. It was too crowded in here. Too hot. Her right leg was jammed between the table and the bench. She tried to pull it free and got her foot up onto the bench when Rabbit spoke again. “You think you’re so fucking tough, big guy?” He was crowing his triumph now, his eyes almost blazing with joy.

  The entire population of the bar had surrounded them, backed up to give them room. There was twenty feet of space in the circle around them and into that no-man’s land stepped five men. They were swarthy, three of them with thick beards, the other two with heavy regrowth on their faces.

  They all had knives.

  All the spit in Montana’s mouth dried up.

  It looked like Rawn hadn’t even noticed their appearance. He continued to stare at Rabbit, his face expressionless. “Bad choice, Stewart,” he said softly.

  Rabbit laughed almost hysterically. “You put me in hospital for a fucking month and I left there in a wheelchair. Well, now you get yours. Only you ain’t going to the hospital, asshole. You’re going to the morgue, with my compliments.”

  “Very bad choice indeed,” Rawn concluded.

  Rabbit held his right hand up, the fingers poised to click. Then he clicked.

  It was only much later that Montana was able to reconstruct all of what happened next in the right order. Some of the gaps she had to fill from others’ accounts.

  As soon as Rabbit clicked his fingers and almost before he’d finished, Rawn turned to her, rammed a hand between her upper thighs and landed the other on her shoulder, big and heavy. “Push off with your foot,” he said, low but clear. His eyes really were obsidian black.

  Completely bewildered, she pushed off with the foot that was on the bench. She felt Rawn lift her via the grip on her crotch and shoulder. The speed of the lift told her of the incredible power behind it. She was tossed over his shoulder, over the head of one of the five men surrounding them, to fall into the willing, waiting arms of a dozen people in the crowd.

  Tossed high. Into waiting hands.

  She had been here before. The moment zinged back into her mind, alive and glowing with immediacy, like it was happening all over again.

  “You live, Montana. Live!” Vinnie’s voice, sharp, commanding.

  She reached back for him just as the hands grabbed her, pulled her over the fence. “Daddy!”

  Montana was not a lightweight. She was five foot eight and had spent her adult life in athletic pursuits. She braced herself in mid-air, for despite the dozen waiting hands, she landed hard in the dirt and went sprawling, bringing bodies down with her.

  But she was out of danger and no one was badly hurt. Not yet.

  She scrambled to her feet, spinning around. The circle that had surrounded them had broken up. People were scattering and leaving. Not many of them were stupid enough to hang around to see how a knife fight came out. The stakes, even for a bystander, were too high.

  Yet there were two or three people crowded into each of the corners, too fascinated to let good sense rule.

  She could see the manager behind the bar, speaking into the phone. He would be calling the cops.

  Montana realized she couldn’t bring herself to leave, either. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Professionally, she couldn’t afford to be involved in a situation like this. She railed at herself, swore at herself, pummeled her conscience to try and make herself leave, but her feet stayed still.

  In her mind, again, she heard Vinnie’s voice as she was tossed through the air. Live, Montana!

  Rawn had moved away from the table, bringing the circle of men with him like a planet moves its satellites. Rabbit had bolted and left his minions to finish Rawn off.

  It was already down to four men. While Montana had been flying through the air a
nd picking herself up, Rawn had already dealt with the first one, who lay very still beneath the table she had been sitting at.

  There was a very fine slash across Rawn’s forearm, which oozed pearls of blood. Otherwise, he was untouched.

  “The cops are on their way!” the manager called out, leaning over the bar. If he thought the warning would be enough to end the fight and clear his bar, he was wrong. The four men around Rawn didn’t give any reaction at all. They might have been deaf.

  Rawn just smiled a little. “Oh, I’ll be finished long before then.” He glanced at the manager. “I’ll have a beer to go, though—would you mind knocking the cap off a stubby for me?”

  The man furthest from the bar took advantage of Rawn’s momentary inattention. He surged forward, knife swinging in a long pendulum arc. He was going to drive the point up into Rawn’s guts, but when he reached Rawn, almost magically the man melted away and around him, in a graceful spin that turned his back to the knife-wielder.

  Rawn gripped his own wrist with his left hand and drove his right elbow hard into the man’s exposed solar plexus. Already falling forward, the man arched in a tight bow, throwing his head back. Rawn swung the same elbow around in a circle so fast Montana could hear the wind whistling from its speed. He pistoned the elbow down into the man’s throat, his left hand still clenched around his fist for extra power.

  The man slammed into the ground, his strings cut. He clutched at his throat, making gurgling and bubbling sounds, his heels pummeling the sand in pain and panic.

  Rawn’s call to the manager for a drink had been a feint, designed to draw the men into his reach. He’d been ready for them to charge.

  Rawn took a stride backwards, slid the toe of his boot under the gleaming knife lying in the dirt and flicked it up into the air. He slapped his hand down on the hilt and spun with the knife gripped in his fist to meet the two who had leapt at his back while he was picking it up. Their knives were up high and they fell upon Rawn with ululating cries.