Last Call

  Last Call

  by Sarah Ballance

  Published by For the Muse Publishing

  www.FortheMusePublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and

  events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual

  events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any

  trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are

  assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used

  only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these

  terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of

  this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically,

  constitutes a copyright violation.

  LAST CALL

  Sarah Ballance

  Copyright © 2013 SARAH BALANCE

  Published by For the Muse Publishing at Smashwords

  ISBN 978-0-9889995-0-3

  Cover Art Designed By Elaina Lee

  Edited By Holly Atkinson

  Dedication

  For Allison Stone, who uttered a line so hilarious I had to put it in my book. Granted, when my bad guy spits those words it's not nearly as funny as when Allison does it, but she's prettier than he is. I almost expected it out of him. Allison, however, had me on the floor laughing and — yes — wishing there was a Linwood Stove and Fireplace nearby.

  And for Karen Cherubino, the kind of reader any author would hope for… one who has become a friend. I am eternally grateful for your help with this story.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to my editor, Holly, who squeezed a twenty-fifth hour in her day to work with me on this release… and is probably thrilled she'll never have to see it again.

  I'd also like to thank Nikki "KNL" London for her beta-proofing. No, that's not a real word, but she rocked it anyway.

  And a very special thank you to Elaina Lee, who welcomed me to For the Muse Publishing with open arms… and the patience of a saint.

  Chapter One

  Rhys Clark swore and jerked her foot from the murky puddle that had just claimed one of her new running shoes. Perfect. The day was now officially perfect.

  She blamed Nick Massey.

  Blaming him was easy enough. She didn't know which required more nerve on his part — leaving town or crawling back — but both events left her bitter and raw. And wet, she grumbled inwardly. With the sky spitting rain and the occasional pellet of sleet smacking her face, she should have skipped her evening jog. The street was little more than a concrete alley of shuttered businesses, and the bleak weather amplified the emptiness. But tonight, with Nick hot on her mind, running through the cold was her last ditch effort to return to her senses.

  It hadn't worked.

  Another blast of icy air howled through the narrow street. If she hadn't been standing still, she probably wouldn't have heard the shouting that followed.

  A few months ago, an altercation wouldn't have been unusual in this part of town. But the whole area was under reconstruction. Local crime dissipated to nothing with the razing of several apartment buildings, and until now Rhys had long found her route to be a place of solace. She glanced around as the voices drew closer and more intense. Rapid footsteps smacked the wet pavement. Then the echo of a gunshot cracked the night.

  Where fear left her paralyzed, instinct insisted she get out of sight. She looked around and found an unbroken expanse of concrete wall offering few options. Heart pounding, Rhys ducked into the recessed doorway of a vacant storefront and hoped the deep shadows would keep her concealed.

  Terrifying seconds passed. The sound of her own suppressed breath roared in her ears.

  Voices came, clearer this time. Close.

  "If we screw this up…" The words, terse and hushed, were encapsulated in panic.

  "Shut up," demanded a second voice. "No one messed up. He's as good as dead."

  "You think you're going to sell that without a body? We didn't get paid to lose him."

  "He took one to the gut. He won't get far. We'll find him."

  "He's leaving a trail. Blood. We got the big bucks for a clean—"

  "Shut up."

  A hit? Rhys shuddered, fear scaling her spine. A professional hit would have been silent — something not accomplished by the gunshot or the ensuing conversation — but in this game, experience wasn't always a prerequisite for willingness to pull the trigger. Two years of undercover work had taught her as much.

  So had a bullet.

  Rhys froze, waiting for the voices to pass. But luck was not on her side. Rather than drawing away, the footsteps ceased.

  "Well, well, well," said the confident one. "Looks like our little game of hide and seek is over."

  Hope crumbled. The voice was far too close. Had they seen her?

  She dared not move. Through her lashes, she saw nothing in her narrow view of the dimly lit street but dirty puddles and the occasional bit of trash plastered to wet pavement. She prayed they didn't look her way should they walked past.

  Grunts erupted nearby, followed by the sound of sneakers scuffling on concrete. Then two shots fired, and all sounds of struggle gave way to profane celebration.

  In the same instant, a man fell to the sidewalk in front of Rhys. His eyes, sightless and familiar, bore into her.

  She choked a gasp.

  A man stepped into her line of sight, his weapon at the ready. Before she could stop herself, she locked eyes with him. Big mistake. The decision threw her into a cloud of emotional shrapnel, the past flying at her in shards. She'd been shot once before.

  It hadn't ended well.

  The gunman opened his mouth and formed an ugly grin, his breath coming in visible puffs through yellowed teeth. "Looks like a double header tonight, T," he said, never taking his gaze off Rhys.

  "Whaddya mean?" came the reply. The voice… she blinked until the second man shifted into focus.

  She knew him. From where? She couldn't think.

  She glanced to the dead man, and her vision wavered. Panic shifted her world into a screen of jarred pixels, the flashback jagged and severe.

  "Rhys! Stay with me, Rhys. Do you hear me? Rhys!"

  Blood. So much blood.

  "Nick." She touched his face, feeling stubble beneath her fingertips. Then the weight of her arm was too much; as gravity won he slipped away. The world twisted into a sickening spiral until all that was left was his voice, the desperation in his tone bringing warmth to the darkness.

  "Rhys!"

  Motion jarred her to the present.

  The gunman gestured. "Our witness here is about to have an unfortunate accident." He raised the weapon, aiming for the kill.

  It was a short view down the barrel at point blank range. She expected that.

  What she didn't anticipate was the speed with which he pulled the trigger.

  Or how quickly the pain hit.

  ****

  Nick Massey dropped a fifty on the bar. "Keep 'em coming," he said, claiming the stool he planned to own the rest of the night.

  Bart — short for bartender, because that was the only name the bastard provided — raised his eyebrows, his face scoured with surprise. The blink-and-you-missed-it moment passed, but the edge of curiosity left his tone musical. "Thought you didn't 'pay three times the cost of the grocery store' for a drink," he said. It was Nick's oft-repeated refrain.

  Nick snorted. He'd been a regular before he left town several months back, but not the sort who paid well. Since he mostly went for the company, he didn't find Bart's scowling face worth the cost of the beer. "Special occasion." Nick tapped the bill, the likes of which had never left his wallet in present company. "You want it or not?"

  Bart worked his hands through a dingy towel. "Depends on how much of it's the tip," he said, eyeing the crisp Ulysses as if dead presidents made a regular habit of walking out of his bar.

  Of course, this one might. "Not a damn cent if you don't bring me a beer."

  Before Nick finished his sentence, the drink hit the counter in front of him, spewing from the mouth. He turned up the bottle, the liquid going down a lot easier than his sorrows. When he returned the beer to the counter, Bart's pinched, narrow gaze bore into Nick.

  "What?" he asked.

  "You're drinking." Shaking his head, Bart flipped the towel over his shoulder and pointed a thumb at the television, which flashed the late news in a soundless cadence of light. "World end or something?"

  Sarcasm. Nick raised the bottle, tipping it toward the screen. "Update at eleven."

  Bart's face cracked into a grin. "It's a woman."

  Nick figured his lack of answer was answer enough.

  "Gimme one guess," Bart said, rubbing his chin with meaty fingers. If the gesture intended to hide the slow smile creeping across his lips, it failed. "The one you shot?"

  "The one and only." Rhys Clark. Just the woman Nick was there to forget. Bart had the memory of an elephant; granted, if Nick had kept his mouth shut about the shooting eight months ago, Bart wouldn't have anything to remember. The whole incident had been swept under the proverbial rug — the media had been none the wiser and evidentiary points of collateral damage numbered two. One being Rhys's career, and the other the patch of cemetery grass blanketing an innocent witness.

  Nick had wasted a whole lot of time failing to get over either one.

  Bart pushed a finger against the bar. "She's been thinking about you. And after what went down, goes without saying you'd be thinking back."
/>
  Nick drained the bottle and slid it across the counter. "What do you mean, she's been thinking about me?"

  Bart dropped a replacement on the scarred wooden slab, then pointed to a table in the corner. The same table Nick had shared with Rhys for all of an hour, days before he shot her. "She's been here once or twice. Same real estate."

  The news hit him in the stomach, some odd combination of grief and hope. "She sat at the same table? Alone?"

  Bart's bushy brow lifted. "Sitting — and drinking — alone."

  Nick's grip on his beer turned white. As partners on the force, he and Rhys had been intense. Though much of their shared passion bordered on adversarial, there hadn't been a single moment he didn't fight the urge to take her to bed. Hell, the look in her eyes dared him to do it; the table in the corner was as close as things had ever come to getting personal.

  Only, it was all personal.

  There was some sort of departmental code against screwing the wheels off your partner, but he worked deep undercover without a shield. Sidestepping rules was in his job description, though he wasn't without conscience. He knew he'd hurt her in the end.

  Damned fool.

  He'd been worried about her heart, never once thinking he'd end her career.

  Nick was kidding himself thinking he could come back to his old life. Hell, he didn't even know who he was anymore. He'd spent so many years playing a role he'd lost himself along the way. The one beacon in his dark night was Rhys, and he'd yet to forgive himself for what he'd done to her. Guilt had nearly cost him his own career — an end he saw fitting if he was one for giving up.

  And that, he was not.

  Still, though he'd only seen Rhys that morning in a glance through the plate glass window of a downtown coffee shop, the ache of being so close was physical. Knowing she'd been in the bar while he was gone — at their table — tore him up.

  Which was about as cliché as a guy could get, but he wasn't out for originality.

  He wanted to forget.

  "Speak of the devil. That's her, ain't it?"

  Nick's attention shot from the maimed, carefully-lacquered countertop.

  Bart had his back turned, giving Nick a good view of the bartender's thick neck rolls. Arm extended, remote in hand, Bart pumped buttons until noise filled the room.

  "…Rhys Clark, twenty-nine…"

  The television — Nick craned to see around Bart just as he stepped to the side — revealed a head shot of Rhys on the screen.

  Right over the headline.

  Murdered.

  Chapter Two

  Nick sat on a throwaway sofa in his low-rent apartment. A familiar sickness twisted his chest, suffocating him. The unease took his breath — just as it had the night he shot Rhys — and lingered, toxic and dark. But it didn't choke him out.

  Though murders were quick to make the news, identities were not. And for the name of an undercover cop to be released almost immediately could only mean one thing: something wasn't right.

  He toyed with his phone, dialing the same seven numbers over and over and hitting delete instead of send. Would Cutter be willing to talk? After Rhys had been shot, Nick had done a hell of a job slamming that door and burning the bridge that went with it. But he trusted no one else. Cutter had been Nick's only department contact when he went undercover, and even though they'd only exchanged coded pleasantries, those tenuous threads of communication had kept Nick alive.

  Rhys, too.

  It's not right.

  Nick forced himself to sit back and tried to ignore the way the shadows from the broken blinds crept unevenly over the dingy walls. His means weren't as limited as first impressions suggested, but staying under the radar didn't usually equate luxury. A decent place would want a credit check whereas anonymity came cheap. But cheap came at a price, he thought, watching the long tail of what he assumed was a rat as it twitched in the crevice between the stove and cabinet.

  Nick had questions and he was willing to bet Cutter could get answers. But Rhys… he wasn't ready to say it aloud.

  And he wasn't ready to let go, either.

  He'd seen Rhys. The media reported she'd been jogging after dark when she was mugged, and a punk kid had already confessed to the murder. Nick didn't buy it. Though the low-slung clouds had choked the light from the sky much earlier that day than most, even bending the line between day and night didn't make sense of how quickly the story hit the air. Whatever happened to withholding the victim's name until relatives were notified? Last he knew Rhys's parents were foreign missionaries living without electricity, much less cell service. And since when did punk kids make fast confessions? Even when things happened quickly, no PD he'd ever worked with had been eager to serve full details to the media. From the looks of things a liaison had stood on the front steps and offered a press conference.

  Was it denial launching an inner protest or something more? Nick had one shot of finding out. Tucking his pride between his legs, he dialed the last number he had for Cutter.

  Six numbers in, the phone rang in his hand, the caller ID blank. Curious, he took the call. "Hel—"

  "I've got information about your girlfriend," said a man. "Meet me at the wharf in an hour. Alone."

  Nick opened his mouth to speak but the line was already dead. Stunned, he sank into the sofa cushions. He'd been back in town less than a week. Very few people knew he'd returned, but that wasn't what left him reeling.

  It was a throwaway phone. No one had the number — not even his new slum lord.

  Yet someone knew.

  Someone knew too much.

  Hesitation buried, Nick dialed Cutter. With any luck, the number was still active.

  "Bob's Moving and Storage."

  Nick's shoulders loosened with relief at the sound of Cutter's voice. He thought fast, taking the cue. "I need a truck on the nineteenth," he said. Nineteen. The first of three numbers he once used to identify himself. "It'll take four guys about three hours. You got anything?"

  The blip of silence that followed was the closest thing Cutter had ever given to showing surprise. "Might," he said slowly. "What's the address?"

  "Clark Street." Not the most original of ploys to use Rhys's last name, but Nick was off the force. He had neither precedent nor basis for cold-calling a former contact. With no business on the table, he couldn't afford to be too cryptic.

  Cutter swore. "Bad neighborhood. Don't know if I can get a man in there, but I'll see what I can do. How can I get back in touch with you?"

  Nick gave him the number. He was just about to hang up when another thought occurred. "Hey, know anything about the real estate down by the wharf?"

  "That's a big area. You want to narrow that down a little?"

  If only he could. "Any vacancies?"

  "I ain't no real estate agent, buddy. Just avoid the south end. There was a fire down there not too long ago. The vandals moved in after the salvage crews cleared out."

  "Thanks, man."

  "Yeah. I'll be in touch about that job."

  Nick waited for Cutter to disconnect, then tossed his phone on the gargantuan wooden spool he'd found along with the sofa in the alley, cussing when the device slid across the rough surface and fell through a hole in the top. He'd only been back in town a few days but it was past time to buy furniture. Funny how the petty crap seemed to matter at the worst of times. Distraction was both the first and last thing he needed.

  Kinda like Rhys.

  Frowning, Nick dug from his duffle a pair of black jeans and a charcoal sweatshirt and changed into the darker clothing, pulling the sweatshirt over his long-sleeved tee. He glanced at his coat with its flashes of safety-reflective neon and elected to leave it behind. Then he wondered where Rhys was — how she was — and if she was cold or hurt. His mind immediately went back to the night he shot her and his own familiar cycle of pain began again. Would he see Rhys? His heart accelerated with the thought. With a shiver that had nothing to do with the drafts gusting through the cheap window casements, he retrieved his phone and silenced the ringer. Then he left the bleak, cold apartment for the bitter night.