Chapter 6: Protection
The bourbon warmth had faded to a dull ache behind her eyes, same as the one in her hand. The bar was silent, finally. Just the low hum of the cooler units and the soft tap of her own fingers as she counted the till. The crisp bills felt insubstantial, a pointless ritual against the weight of Liam’s three missed calls still glowing on her phone screen. A dark SUV. Amateurs, but persistent.
She was sealing the deposit bag when the back door from the kitchen flew open.
It wasn’t the gentle creak of a regular exit. It was a violent, shuddering bang as the steel door hit the wall. Marco filled the frame, his usually impassive face sharp with a tension she’d never seen. No blood, no visible wounds. Just a sheer, animal urgency that froze the air in her lungs.
He didn’t speak. He crossed the space behind the bar in two long strides. His massive hand, calloused and warm, clamped over her mouth, cutting off her startled gasp. The other arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her clean off her feet as if she weighed nothing.
“Quiet,” he breathed into her ear, the word more vibration than sound.
He dragged her backward, not toward the front door, but deeper into the bar’s gloom, past the glowing ice machine that shuddered and hummed. Her heels scraped against the floorboards. The deposit bag fell, spilling a flutter of twenties.
He didn’t stop until they were in the last booth, the one tucked in the dark corner near the restrooms. He practically stuffed her into the vinyl seat, his body a wall between her and the room. The booth was still sticky from some earlier spilled drink. She could smell the synthetic lemon of the cleaner, undercut by the iron scent of Marco’s sweat.
“What—” she started.
A sound cut her off. From upstairs. Not from Val’s office, but from the storage rooms above the kitchen. A heavy, concussive thump. Then another. Then a rapid, brittle popping that her mind, slow with dread, identified a heartbeat too late.
Gunfire.
It wasn’t the loud, theatrical bang from movies. It was faster. Crisper. A deadly string of firecrackers punched through the ceiling.
Plaster dust sifted down, a fine, white snow in the dim bar light. A chunk of ceiling tile dropped onto a table with a sound like a dead bird hitting a windshield.
Jess’s breath hitched, a sharp pain in her chest. Marco’s hand was on her shoulder, pressing her down, his eyes locked on the ceiling as if he could see through it. His other hand went to his waist and came back with a gun. It was blocky, serious. Not a showpiece. He ejected the magazine, checked it with a practiced flick of his wrist, and slammed it back home with a final-sounding click.
The shots upstairs stopped. The silence that followed was worse. It was a listening silence. Then, the vibration of heavy, hurried boots through the floorboards above. More than one set.
Marco’s head turned toward the interior staircase—the one Val used. His jaw tightened. He was calculating, his eyes tracking unseen paths across the ceiling.
He turned back to her. In the half-light, his face was all hard angles and shadow. He took her left hand—the uninjured one—and pressed the cold, hard steel of the gun into her palm. Her fingers instinctively tried to reject it, to curl away from the shocking chill and the terrifying responsibility.
He folded her fingers around the grip, his own hand engulfing hers. It wasn’t rough. It was deliberate. Almost gentle.
“Safety’s off,” he murmured, his voice so low she had to read his lips. “You point, you squeeze. Don’t think.” He adjusted her thumb. “If it’s not me or Val coming down those stairs, you put two in their chest and run for the alley. Don’t stop for anything.”
“Marco, I can’t—”
“You can.” He didn’t let her finish. His eyes held hers. There was no fear in them. Just a grim, solid certainty. “You protected your house with a glass. This is no different.”
Another thud from upstairs, closer to the stairwell. A muffled shout. Val’s voice? Jess couldn’t tell.
Marco was moving before she could process it. He gave her hand one last squeeze around the gun and was gone, melting out of the booth and toward the kitchen, his footsteps silent on the old floor. He didn’t go for the interior stairs. He slipped out the back kitchen door into the alley, planning to circle, to come up the fire escape.
She was alone.
The gun in her hand was impossibly heavy. It smelled of oil and cold metal. Her palm, already sore from the cut, screamed in protest against the checkered grip. She shuffled sideways in the booth, putting her back against the wall, giving herself a clear line of sight to the dark maw of the interior staircase.
The bar’s neon sign, visible through the front window, cast a sickly blue and pink glow across empty tables. The jukebox, thankfully, was silent. Every sound was amplified: the drip of a faucet behind the bar, the frantic thud of her own heart, the creak of the old building settling—or was that a footstep on the stairs?
She strained to hear. The upstairs was quiet again. Too quiet.
Her mind raced, uselessly. Liam. The SUV. The new corporation sniffing around. Val had said they were looking for a weak point. Was this them? Was this the conversation she’d promised?
A sharp, single shot echoed from above. Different from the earlier bursts. Precise. Final.
Jess flinched, the gun jumping in her hand. Her finger rested alongside the trigger guard, exactly where Marco had placed it. Don’t think.
Seconds bled into minutes. Each one stretched, thin and agonizing.
Then, a sound on the stairs. Not the cautious creak of Marco or Val. This was a stumble. A boot slipping on the burgundy carpet. A pained grunt.
Someone was coming down.
Her vision tunneled. The dark staircase opening was the only thing that existed. She raised the gun, both hands wrapping the grip as she’d seen in movies. It shook. The barrel wavered, describing tiny, terrified circles in the air.
A figure emerged from the shadows, leaning heavily on the banister.
It was Val.
Her impeccable blouse was torn at the shoulder, dark with what looked like ink in the low light. Blood. One side of her face was a smear of grime and something darker. She was clutching her side, her breath coming in short, wet hitches. Her eyes, sharp and predatory even now, scanned the bar and found Jess immediately, aiming a shaking gun from the corner booth.
For a fractured second, they just stared at each other. The well-dressed queen of the upstairs and the bar owner trembling in the dark with a weapon she didn’t know how to use.
Val’s lips moved. “Jess.” It was half gasp, half command.
Jess didn’t lower the gun. Marco’s words were a loop in her head. If it’s not me or Val… This was Val. But she was hurt. Who was behind her?
“Clear,” Val managed, understanding her hesitation. “Marco’s… finishing up.”
Jess lowered the gun, her arms suddenly boneless. It thumped onto the sticky table. She scrambled out of the booth, her legs numb, and reached Val just as the woman’s knees buckled. Jess caught her, stumbling under the unexpected weight. Val was all lean muscle, trembling with adrenaline and pain.
Val’s weight was solid, real, anchoring Jess to the moment. The coppery scent of blood cut through the bar’s stale-beer smell. “Easy,” Jess murmured, more to herself than to Val, as she half-dragged, half-guided the woman to the nearest barstool.
Val slumped onto the stool, her elegant posture collapsed into a pained hunch. One hand pressed hard against her left side, dark fabric growing slick. “It’s a graze,” she said through gritted teeth, answering the unspoken question. “Stings like a mother.”
“You’re bleeding on my floor,” Jess said, the words automatic, a stupid deflection from the panic rising in her throat. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling. “Marco?”
“Tidying up.” Val’s gaze was glassy, but her voice held its familiar sharp edge. “Two of them. Amateurs. Loud ones.” She sucked in a breath. “Corporate, like we thought. Had badges and everything. Cheap suits.”
Jess’s mind flashed to the dark SUV. Amateurs, but persistent. They hadn’t waited. A cold knot tightened in her stomach. She looked at Val’s bloody side, the torn silk, the stark vulnerability. This was the signal, all right. Loud and clear.
“Don’t just stand there,” Val snapped, but the force was draining from her words. “Check the front. Make sure the sign is off. We don’t need any... civic-minded pedestrians.”
Jess moved to the door, her legs stiff. The “Closed” sign was already flipped. The street was empty, washed in the eerie glow of the malfunctioning neon. She locked the front door, the deadbolt’s thunk too loud in the quiet. Turning back, she saw Val trying to stand, faltering, her knuckles white on the bar’s edge.
“Stop,” Jess said, her voice finding a firmness she didn’t feel. She crossed the room. “You’re leaking all over the place.” She looked at the hand Val held to her side. “Let me see.”
Val’s eyes, dark and defiant, locked onto hers. “It’s fine. You should go home, Jess. Seriously. Before he comes down.” She tilted her head towards the ceiling. “You don’t need to be part of the... aftermath.”
“You’re not fine.” Jess’s own cut hand throbbed in sympathy. “And I’m already part of it. They were in my bar.” She took a breath. “There’s a med kit behind the bar. The good one. Steri-Strips, coagulant gauze. Let me get it.”
Val hesitated. A tremor ran through her, betraying the shock setting in. Pride warred with practicality on her ashen face. She looked at the dark stairwell, then at Jess’s determined, worried expression. The offer hung between them, another thread in the complicated tapestry of their arrangement.
“Just... make it quick,” Val muttered finally, the words ground out in concession. She leaned back heavily against the bar, her eyes closing. “And for god’s sake, don’t use the cheap whiskey as a disinfectant. I know what’s in your well.”
Jess almost smiled. Almost. She turned and walked behind the bar, her hands steady now with purpose. She knelt, her knees pressing into the sticky floor, and pulled the large plastic kit from its place beside the extra napkins. Its contents rattled as she lifted it.
When she stood, kit in hand, Val was watching her through slitted eyes. “You’re stubborn,” Val said, a faint, pained ghost of her usual smirk touching her lips.
“Takes one to know one,” Jess said, popping the latches. The sterile smell of alcohol wipes and bandage packages floated out. She laid out gauze pads, a roll of medical tape, a small bottle of saline. “Now, let’s see the damage.”