Thanks, boys and girls, for all the wonderful reviews. I know you all are eagerly waiting for revelations regarding Rachel's motives. Things will start to come together, and by the end of Part 13, it's all gonna be clear.
PART TEN: THE VEGAS JOB
"Just be cool and let me know if you do that flash-y thing. And if the shit starts to fly, find a table to hide under, Chuck."
That's what Rachel told him before entering the club. It's never that easy.
On the inside, the club wasn't nearly as seedy as Chuck imagined. In fact, it was quite nice. Clean bar. Pool tables. Dart boards. Plasma TV's with sports packages. But that fact did nothing to quell his nerves.
In the car, minutes before, Rachel checked her ammo clip before slamming it back into her pistol.
"I expect full obedience, Chuck," she informed him. She then proceeded to slip him an earwig. He pushed the communication device into his left ear. Rachel put an identical device into her ear.
"So setting you up to be killed by the bad ass gangsters is unadvisable?"
Rachel turned away so Chuck couldn't see the wry smile that crossed her face. "Extremely. Because after I kill them, I'd have to go back to LA and put a bullet through Dr. Woodcombe. And believe me, Chuck. Old Joey and his boys can't touch me."
Chuck went into the club first. His mission was clear: to be the advance scout on this little mission. His instructions were to order a drink at the bar, do That Flashy Thing as Rachel called it, then find a quiet corner to hide in so he could relay the info back to his captor.
So Chuck did as instructed. He went to the bar, did That Flashy Thing, and retreated to a corner booth to nurse his beer.
"Chuck?" a voice sing-songed in his ear. "You still there? My button pushing finger is getting kinda itchy."
"I'm here," he stage whispered in reply. "Joseph Murphy's at a corner table playing poker with a few unsavory guys."
"You flashed?"
"A world of yes. Patrick Laughlin, Warren Rogers, Corey Williams, Tony Todd, and Harvey Preston."
Chuck heard Rachel sigh in his ear.
"Oh boy. Bookie, leg breaker, murderer, bookie/former leg breaker, and leg breaker."
"How the hell do you know that?"
"Chuck, really, these are my peeps."
A minute later, Rachel entered the bar with a flourish, carrying a duffle bag. With a shit-eating grin, she asked, "Honey, I'm home!"
From the shadows, a beefy bodyguard sort emerged and threatened to take Rachel down from behind. Fast as lightening, Rachel drew her weapon on the man. The guard stopped, seeing his life flash before his eyes. Then, with a grin, Rachel flipped her weapon around, offering the guard the grip.
"Just lookin' for a quiet drink, my man."
Rachel then proceeded to drop the duffel and remove her duster. Hanging there on her shoulder for all to see was the sawed off double barrel.
"You like?" she quipped. "It's a Prada."
Two more armed bodyguards emerged, weapons drawn. Rachel held up her hands in surrender, turned around and slowly walked the few feet to the nearest wall, placing her palms flat against it.
"Frisk me, baby."
The bodyguard did so, using his beefy hands to start at her wrists. He frowned upon feeling something odd beneath her jumper. Pulling down the sleeve—
"Hey, how'd that get there?" Rachel innocently asked.
The bodyguard removed the four-inch blade and handed it to a buddy. Working down her body, he found something else at the small of her back.
"I swear, it's not mine."
Bodyguard #1 delivered the .22 pistol to Bodyguard #2. Number One then resumed his search.
"Whoa! Hello! Last guy to touch me like this wore latex gloves and had me put my feet in stirrups."
Bodyguard's hands made their way down her legs, ultimately to her combat boots. He lifted up the leg of her jeans, exposing a hunting knife tucked into the boot.
"Okay thatI honestly forgot about."
During this entire ordeal, the dozen or so bar patrons watched with disinterest. As if watching bodyguards disarm a customer of weapons was a nightly occurrence. And in a place like this, it was entirely possible.
Completely disarmed, Rachel turned to face her frisker. "Was it good for you?" she asked with an eyebrow waggle. The man shook his head and walked off. "So, you wanna go to dinner sometime? Maybe catch a movie? Call me! I love you!"
Rachel noticed how the second bodyguard took her arsenal and duffle bag behind the bar, placing the items beneath the counter.
Watching the scene, an amused little smile on his face, was Joseph Paul Murphy. Tall, gangly, slicked back black hair and sharp blue eyes. The man reeked of the look and smell of Vegas. Sharp black pinstripe suit, hot pink undershirt. Little too much jewelry on his fingers and around his neck. Plus, the ever present air of Aqua Velva.
"Well, well," Joseph greeted. "If it isn't Lucy Alders. Long time, no see, babe."
As Rachel moved towards the group of poker players, the three bodyguards lingered just behind, ready to intercede at a moment's notice.
"Joey, it's been too long," she smiled as Joseph pulled her into a deep kiss. In his corner, Chuck fought the urge to gag. "How's my favorite bookie?"
"I dunno," Joseph grinned. "How ya doin', Patrick?"
Joseph's poker buddies laughed at the funniest joke they ever heard. Chuck rolled his eyes.
"So what brings you here, love? If it's for my 'Welcome Home From Prison Party', then you're six months late."
"Sorry baby," Rachel cooed. "I would've been here, but six months ago I was... indisposed. And much as I'd like to make small talk, I'm actually here to discuss business."
"Oh?"
Joseph waved to their recently vacated poker table, offering her a seat. Like a gentleman – or a guy simply trying to work his way into her pants – he even pulled the chair out for her.
"Want a drink?"
"Yes, please. Beer. Whatever's on tap."
His poker buddies again assumed their regular seats, except for Corey Williams – the murderer of the group – whose chair Rachel had occupied. A bit of knowledge The Intersect may or may not possess, on top of a few murder collars – but no convictions – Williams also had a few sexual assault beefs. And as Williams slid into a nearby stool, he leered at Rachel like she was his next victim.
Joseph relayed the order to the bartender, who promptly returned with a mug of beer. He allowed Rachel to take a few sips before making with a few minutes of the perfunctory niceties. Afterwards they finally got down to business.
"So, Lucy, what did you say brought you to my humble business?"
"I need some information, Joey. About a client of yours."
Joey clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Luce, baby, you know a man in my position can't give out such information. Bookie/client confidentiality."
"I know, babe, and normally I wouldn't ask. But I desperately need this information." Without even looking back, she snapped her fingers at the beefy bodyguard who searched her. "Fetch my bag, please?"
"Simply out of curiosity," Joey began, "who is this supposed client of mine you wish to know about?"
"Alexander Paul Harris."
In his corner booth, Chuck's eyes dilated as a tidal wave of information rushed over him.
Ever so slightly, Joey's own eyes widened. "I might know him. But I don't see why I should disclose any information. Even to you."
"Which is why I'm prepared to make it worth your while."
The bodyguard arrived and set the duffel on the table.
"Toy bag?" Joey teased. "This is bringing back memories."
Rachel moved to zip open the bag, but Beefy stopped her. Backing off, and holding up her hands, she allowed Beefy to open the bag.
All eyes got a good look at the massive stacks of bills and bearer bonds.
"Four million, or 'round about," Rachel declared. "Enough to venture from your usual inscrutable standards in this one instance."
"You believe."
"I believe."
Joseph scratched lightly at his temple, his lips pursed, as if in deep consideration. After a few moments: "Let me tell you what I believe. I believe you're the reason I spent two years in prison."
Rachel didn't even hesitate. "Finally figured that out, did ya?"
Joseph reacted in astonishment. "That's it? No denial? No equivocation?"
Rachel flashed an "Are you serious?" look. "Why should I? I'm proud of putting your sleazy ass in prison. How many people have you ruined financially? Had kicked out of their homes? Had their appendages broken because they couldn't make your exorbitant payments?"
Suddenly angry, Joseph stood and leaned across the table. "I spent two years in lockup!"
Annoyed, Rachel snapped back, "You spent two years in a medium security prison. Believe me, Joseph, I've seen some jails in my time – gulags, even – and two years in American medium security is like time at Club Med compared to some old Eastern Block hellholes. Four million is more than fair recompense for your mild discomfort."
"Well let me tell you what I believe, Agent Roe."
If Rachel was stunned to have her true identity known to him – which she was - it didn't show. A fact that sorely disappointed Joseph.
"Someone's been doing their homework," she coolly answered.
"I have. And would you like to hear what else I learned, Rachel? For starters, I heard that things haven't gone so well for you recently. A trend that I strongly suspect will continue. You see, the grapevine says you've been a naughty girl. So naughty your old bosses in the CIA put a Schedule Seven out on you. That being said, I'm still willing to wager they'll take you alive if they can. In fact, I'm wagering substantially more than four million on that idea. I also don't think they'll terribly mind what condition you're returned in, so long as you can answer their questions. And when I say condition, I mean black and blue. Now I think that's fair recompense, don't you?"
Rachel paused a moment, formulating her answer. "Joseph?"
"Yeah?"
"You were always a bad lay."
Joseph's face tightened into a scowl. "Take her out back and tenderize her a bit. Keep her alive, preferably. But if you get carried away... well, no biggie."
Very quietly and with an eerie resolve, Rachel said, "Joseph, I really wish you'd reconsider. I'm offering you a very large payday and the added bonus of never seeing me again. But if you do this, I can't guarantee you won't get hurt. So I'm asking you, sincerely and properly, take my offer. The money for the info. Where can I find Alexander Harris?"
With just a tinge of amusement at her gall, Joseph nodded at Beefy and the two other bodyguards.
As Beefy and Guard #2 each grabbed onto one of her arms, Rachel shot the former a sorrowful look. "Sorry babe, but I gotta cancel our date."
Rachel stopped her right foot against the floor, causing a three-inch long blade to shoot out the tip of the boot. Before either guard could react, she made a move reminiscent of a leg sweep, but instead of knocking Beefy off his feet, she drove the blade through his left ankle.
Beefy's howl of pain was cut short by the vicious elbow that broke his nose.
Whirling about, Rachel quickly shook off the second guard's arm and delivered a knee to his gut.
At the poker table, several of Joey's poker buddies moved to draw their weapons. Spinning about, Rachel grabbed the table edge and lifted, overturning it and creating enough distraction to disable the third bodyguard with a right hook before the others could recover.
She made a break for the bar, leapfrogging the counter just before a hailstorm of bullets erupted.
"Guns, guns, gotta find my guns..." she muttered, barely flinching as bullets impacted all around her. Looking beneath the counter, she was bewildered to find the sight of an entire arsenal. Shotguns, pistols, knives. Everything a reputable bookie would need to fight off upset customers.
"Why the hell did I bother to bring my own?"
It wasn't exactly heroic, but soon as the action started, Chuck obeyed Rachel's orders. He ducked under the table and hid. But at least he got a good view of the action.
It was interesting to see the contrast of styles. With Sarah, it was like poetry in motion. Fluid movements orchestrated with dance like precision and grace. Always looking to catch her opponent off balance and capitalize.
With Rachel, it was like watching – no pun intended – a barroom brawl. There was nothing pretty or terribly graceful about her actions. Thinking back to a phrase he learned living with two doctors, Chuck came up with Blunt Force Trauma. Her actions were straight-ahead and brutal.
Breaking free of the action, Rachel leaped over the bar before the gunfire erupted.
Bodyguards Two and Three cautiously approached the counter, weapons drawn. Suddenly there was an explosion of wood – two concussive forces in quick succession - creating a great chasm in the midst of the bar counter – cutting the bodyguards down.
"I call shotgun!" Rachel's voice rang out.
"Is it really necessary to quip?" Chuck mumbled.
Another rain of gunfire was fired by Joey and boys, turning the bar to Swiss cheese. Several long moments passed with no movement. For an odd reason, Chuck felt a lead weight sink in his stomach. He was afraid she was dead? His kidnapper? What gives?
But then, a single bottle of alcohol was pitched over the counter, like a hand grenade, exploding on the floor before Joey and gang. Then another bottle, and another, nearly a dozen bottles in all, coating the floor in alcohol.
"Smoke 'em if you got 'em!" Rachel's voice called out. But something was wrong, she sounded ragged.
Chuck didn't have time to consider it further. Another bottle was thrown over the counter, this one with a piece of flaming cloth jammed inside.
The floor erupted in flames, engulfing the wounded bodies of the fallen bodyguards. Their piercing screams echoed throughout the building, giving Rachel a moment's distraction.
She emerged with a Beretta in one hand, a Smith and Wesson revolver in the other. She unloaded on the nearest baddie – Harvey Preston – and cut him down.
"Get everyone out of here!" she bellowed.
Chuck froze a moment. Until he realized those words were directed at him. Bolting into action, he began to wave at other patrons, drawing their attention. They began to evacuate, crawling along the row of booths, around the periphery of the inferno.
With the dozen or so patrons exiting, Chuck cast a look back to Rachel. She was busy driving the heel of her hand into Patrick Laughlin's nose, shattering it. She then grabbed hold of the man and used him as a bullet shield, blocking the rounds Tony Todd fired from his .44 revolver, the rounds slamming into Laughlin's back.
Rachel grabbed Laughlin's backup piece, still resting in its holster beneath his right arm. Without bothering to draw, she simply pulled the trigger, blasting three rounds through the holster and Laughlin's coat, the slugs knocking down Todd.
Drawing the weapon, she leveled her sights first on Joey. Squeezing the trigger, she put a round into Joey's knee – couldn't have him getting away in the confusion. She then turned on Warren Rogers and emptied the clip, catching him in the hip as he dove for cover.
Rachel was suddenly blindsided by the butt of a Desert Eagle slamming into her cheek. She reeled, collapsing back against the bar. Turning to her attacker, she fixed a vicious smile upon him, blood staining her teeth and trickling from her mouth.
"You hit like a girl," she gleefully informed him. Probably not the best strategy. Her opponent was a massive beast. Nearly 6'4 and 240 pounds. Maybe not the buffest 240, but powerful nonetheless.
Corey Williams snarled, the Desert Eagle aimed at her head. "I'd hate to mess that pretty face, but I don't exactly need you awake for what I got in mind."
"I bet you say that to all the girls. Now we gonna fight or trade innuendos all night?"
Williams ejected the clip out his Desert Eagle and pumped out the chambered round. Dropping the weapon, he assumed a fighting stance.
"Ready to go, girly?"
"I was about to ask you the same. Even down to the girly."
Williams struck first, a straight right hand whizzing just past her head. Rachel ducked it and dropped down, catching Williams in the gut with a right uppercut.
Williams reeled a bit. Rachel quickly followed with a left hook to the jaw, but the blow did nearly as much damage to her as him.
"Ooh," Williams taunted. "Somebody's got a boo-boo."
Williams slammed a beefy fist into her left shoulder. With a cry of pain, Rachel dropped to a knee. Williams captured her shoulder in his paw, gripping tight, his thumb actually forcing inside the fresh bullet wound.
"I wonder who clipped your wing." He clucked his tongue in disappointment. "Damn. Wasn't me. Desert Eagle would've busted your collarbone. Feels like a .38."
Rachel screamed when Williams added pressure.
"Oh yeah! Sounds like a .38."
In a sudden move, Rachel tried to bring her right fist into his groin. Williams saw it coming, grabbing her wrist and slamming her hand against the bar counter behind. He then wrapped his left hand around her throat and lifted. Rachel found her feet dangling two feet off the floor, staring down at a man with very twisted proclivities. And John Casey wasn't walking through that door to help her this time.
"Excuse me," a soft voice sounded behind Williams. The big man turned—
A burst of white gas erupted in his face. Williams dropped his captive like a sack of potatoes. Blinded for the moment, he stumbled about aimlessly.
"Chuck! Give it here!"
Chuck tossed Rachel the fire extinguisher. When the carbon dioxide began to clear, she creamed Williams up side the head. The big man dropped to his hands and knees. Swinging the extinguisher like an ax splitting wood, she cracked Williams in the back of the head. Lights out.
"Thanks for the assist," Rachel acknowledged. Though her eyes were focused on Joey Murphy. The man was currently crawling towards the exit. "Chuck, will you please retrieve my bag?"
Chuck nodded mutely and went to fetch it. Rachel moved over Joey, her combat book pressing into his wounded knee.
"Joey, you and I still need to talk."
None too gently, Rachel kicked Joey over onto his back. She needed to look into his eyes.
"Don't know where he is," Joey gasped. "Know where he's gonna be."
"Where?"
"Miami. The Sunrise Palace. Poker tournament. Sure bet to be there."
Rachel glared, judging his truthfulness. Ultimately judged him to be honest. "Okay." She took the bag of money from Chuck and dropped it by Joey. "Here you go."
Both Joey and Chuck stared at her in astonishment. Joey actually vocalized it.
"You're gonna give me the money?"
"That was the deal. The money for the info. And I always keep my deals. Plus, you get to tell your insurance adjustor all about the psychotic bitch who burned down your club. Nice payday there, too."
"This isn't over," Murphy spat.
Rachel stomped on his wounded knee. Murphy howled. "Yes, it is," she definitively stated. "We're Even Steven. You go your way, I go mine. Have a nice life, Joey."
With that, Rachel walked away.
----------
As Rachel exited the club, the energy seemed to evaporate from her body. Her store of adrenaline completely tapped out. She leaned against the hood of their car, struggling for breath. With a pained look at Chuck, she gasped--
"Where's a doctor when you..."
She got no further before passing out on the hood.
END PART
Yeah, I know. Why did Chuck save her? Good question, one my beta reader, BillAtWork, also asked. C'mon, my little chickadees, have a little faith. All will be explained... in Part 13. Did I mention Part 11 in Sarah-centric and Part 12 is a Rachel flashback? No? Damn, I guess you guys are gonna be hating me for a while, aren't ya? Expect Part 11 on Friday, May 8th and Part 12 the following day.