Page 79 of Bullseye
He’s stuttering, which means he’s terrified. That’s good. God knows what they’ve said about me here.
Stepping back, I distance myself but keep my gun drawn on the man. “If you signal anyone on the way to Ironclad, I will pump a bullet into your skull. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Now, walk.”
Following the man down a long, dingy, empty hallway, I hear the booming bass and pulsating rhythm of Mammon ahead. Drawing a deep breath, the odor of stale beer and old piss collects in the back of my throat, making me gag. Damn, this place is disgusting. Thankfully, we don’t have to walk through the actual club, and we hang a left at the end of the hallway. Walking down another narrow hallway, this one lined with filthy, ripped, brown carpet, I wonder why, with all the money Ironclad has, he doesn’t make his work environment a little less… putrid. If you never knew the club part of Mammon was here, and you only saw these hallways, you might think they belong in a building slated for demolition.
Keeping my heart rate under control, we walk up to another door at the end of the hallway. Taking another breath to calm myself, I prepare for what’s on the other side. Closing my eyes for a moment, I visualize what’s ahead. A large room with a couple of couches, and a door leading to Ironclad’s office. But what matters is that there will be several men on the other side of this door—and they’ll all be happy to kill me. Really happy to kill me.
However, I’m betting on the fact that they won’t. Because if I’m right, Ironclad needs me to do a job for him that only I can do.
Opening my eyes, I know that he has been watching me through his cameras ever since I was outside the club, so there’s no element of surprise here. I tap the end of my Ruger on the man’s head. He opens the door, and we step in.
Sure enough, three more of Ironclad’s men—each bigger than the next—are standing there, waiting for me. And fuck, these guys don’t seem the slightest bit intimidated by me or my rep. One with a bald head and a bandaged ear steps forward. “Bullseye.” He clasps his hands in front of him.
“I’m here to see Ironclad. It’s official business from Don Bordono.” I stand taller, showing I’m not intimidated by these punks.
“We were expecting you.” He walks to Ironclad’s office door. “Come on.”
This is it. The only way I’ll live through this is if I was right, and Ironclad needs me.
He puts a hand on the door and a strange sensation—like a chill from the inside—passes up and down my body. It’s an eerie, finite feeling, and behind my closed lids, my brain is flooded with memories.
It’s not that my whole life flashes before my eyes, but my life with Seneca does. I see her—at the range that first night, flirting with me as we play darts at Hoppa’s Taphouse, fisting the sheets in her hands as I make love to her… and I bask in the feeling of being lost as I look into those big, beautiful gray eyes.
My every memory is Seneca. So, maybe my entire lifehasflashed before my eyes—because my whole life is her.
Without her, there is no reason to live.
Oh, Sen, baby. Be in there. Be okay.
The lug with the bandaged ear pushes open the door to Ironclad’s office, and I move to step inside, but he puts out his hand, and it lands against my chest with a thud.
“Your piece.”
Handing him my gun, I stand still as he pats me down. Thankfully, I’m smart enough to know not to bring more than the one piece to Mammon.
“He’s clear,” the mountain of a man calls out. He pushes me through the door to Ironclad’s office, and it closes behind me.
Shit. I haven’t been here in a while, but it hasn’t changed much. Looking around, I take in the large semicircular office desk in the middle of the floor with at least a half-dozen leather chairs on my side and one large leather office chair on the other, the array of computers on the desk, the wall of technology and screens showing all parts of the club, and tall armoires lining the opposite wall with Asian-influenced screens dividing the back parts of the oversized office. A door to a private bathroom is hidden behind one of those screens. Every time I step in here, I would swear I was standing in the office of some mega-rich asshole in Silicon Valley, and not Ironclad’s office where he runs his illegitimate businesses and meets with Lucifer’s Riders.
With its cleanliness and spaciousness, it’s a complete contrast to the rest of the club. It’s exactly as I remember it—but it’s also empty. Which means, there’s no Seneca.
Shit. Was I duped? Or just plain wrong?
It’s only another second before one of the back doors to the office opens and out comes Ironclad dressed in his signature tight-fitted charcoal suit and thousand-dollar shoes. He’s always impeccably dressed and groomed, and today is no exception. His goatee is short and his hair slicked back into a tiny ponytail.
Like the gentleman he loves to pretend to be, he steps into the room, and turning, he offers his hand to the woman behind him.
Seneca.
She steps in, and her eyes lock on mine.
Doing my best to communicate without speaking, I widen my eyes and shake my head. Ironclad isn't stupid. He knows who she is to me, but he doesn’t know how much she means to me. She drops her chin and looks at the ground. Good job, Sen. Good job.
Ironclad looks from me to Seneca and back again. “Oh, come on now, man. You two are not really trying to pretend you don’t know each other.”
