CHAPTER TWO

The Hideaway Tavern had a reputation.

Located a short walking distance from the warehouse through the shadow- laced world of Oliver Haddox's territory, the Hideaway was thought of the whore of all inns of the area-dark, dangerous, festering, and dirty. The tavern had always been a place that good folk strayed from; it had always attracted the forsaken of the surrounding areas. Yet, a few years past, its management had changed hands to a man of the namesake Terrance Sayler, just as Oliver was starting to make a name of himself. It seemed as though the shadow that consumed the area did not stray from the Hideaway, and the stinking tavern seemed to lure in more of the crowd that one would be want to find in dark alleys or long-forgotten prison cells. Sayler himself was an ex-con and fancied it to his liking that the number of murders in the surrounding area had tripled ever since he had taken charge of the Hideaway.

It was now in a corner of the foul-smelling, darkened tavern that Angel Haddox and Flynn Finesse sat on a rotting hardback booth, their elbows upon the warped table and shoulders rounded. Although their attention should have been on the unappetizing platter that was situated before them, their peripheral vision was sharpened tenfold and their reflexes set to reach for their weapons at a moment's notice.

Angel sat down her repulsive-excuse for silverware and straightened her back against the booth, her hand going lightly to her revolver in her trouser waist. Her eyes warily turned out as she panned the tavern that was alive with shadows, the only light that of the few flickering blazes encased in smeared glass. The fire played upon the dark, hardened faces of the characters that were situated in the bar. And although Sayler and her brother seemed to have some tacit agreement, she could not halt the shudder that wrought its way down her backbone.

"Flynn," she said under her breath, as he raised his head in the process of chewing his food. "Of all the places in Midtown, why in the hell do we have to come here?"

Flynn's eyes did a round of the shady room before he absentmindedly shrugged, though not being able to ward off the uneasiness that resided in the back of his mind. "Because, Ang, all the other guys from Midtown come here…"

She locked gazes with him, her eyes burning. "You mean you actually have a preference to being in a room full of Oliver's boys?"

Flynn nearly choked on the fatty slice of beef he had been consuming as a red stain lit up his cheeks. "I know it's a bad place, but you have your reputation and your revolver as a back-up."

Angel slightly slouched in the booth as she scanned the fear-inducing patrons once more. She would have bet her life on it that save the group of Midtown boys that usually took occupation in the tavern-though were absent at the moment-the rest of the customers had probably each carried out at least one murder and handled an array of hidden weapons in the innumerable fold of their clothing. "Yeah," she murmured, "but I'd just like to eat a meal in peace without a murder taking place. Why can't there be a place like Tibby's in Midtown. You remember Tibby's, don'tcha, Flynn?"

He nodded thoughtfully as he gagged and spit the semi-chewed food back onto his plate. "Yeah, we went there after we whacked off that one Manhattan boy. Sure as hell at least had decent food there. Christ, I don't even want to know where they got this shit from."

Angel had to suppress a laugh as she regarded the slimy matter on Flynn's plate.

A smile played upon the corner's of Flynn's lips as he took lead. "I mean, it looks like something that would come out of Nero's nose, not something that you would eat!"

She had to press a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. He continued for a few moments more with the comparisons of the unappetizing food and that of the unappetizing Nero Night. It was when she had slid so far down in the booth that her brow was nearly touching the edge of the table and the first tear had made its way loose, that she couldn't contain the howls any longer. A long, loud gale of laughter made its way lazily through the bar, touching each patron's ear ever so slowly until all noise had abruptly died and every eye was upon the pair in the corner.

Angel immediately sucked in a breath, her idiotic laughter suddenly being annihilated. Her gray eyes grew in size and soon were glazed over in their usual cold demeanor as she sat erect in the booth once more. It seemed to have the opposite effect on Flynn, for his shoulders rounded and his eyes fell to his plate as he reluctantly thrust the slice of beef in question into his mouth, desperately trying not to spill his guts as he swallowed the infernal thing.

Angel sat, her gaze flickering across the patron's visages, her insides still feeling the aftershock of the rapid jolt of fear. Slowly, the burning eyes were lowered from them and to the appropriate mugs of beer.

They both released a sigh simultaneously as their eyes met. A message could be read between them that needn't be spoken aloud: Let's get the hell out of here. And together they rose, their hands falling to the hilts of their weapons as they left their unfinished meals. Flynn took the lead, winding his way throughout the booths shrouded in shadows, his eyes locked on the rectangle of bright light that fell through the cracks of the door. Angel followed behind him, her clammy hand gripped unnaturally hard upon the base of her revolver. She caught the eye of Terrence Sayler as she left, his leathery face cold and hunting, as he stood behind the bar counter, wiping the inside of a glass clean with a cloth.

She shifted her gaze to fall only upon the back of Flynn's head, trying not to notice the panic that even she was feeling building inside her. The door drew closer, though it seemed like an endeavor that would take a lifetime just to reach the doorway. It was only when they were near to the door that Angel felt the hand reach out and plant a firm hold on her left lower hip.

She immediately released a soft cry and turned, drawing her revolver in a panic-stricken manner. The cold black eyes of a repulsive looking man stared back at her. She cringed in spite of herself. She could see a lust that hadn't been fulfilled in quite some time haunt his dark irises, along with the sense of the unspeakable crimes he had committed in all his years: murder, rape, and only God else knew what.

He remained undeterred by the weapon that was thoughtlessly pointed at his skull, and only continued to stare at her with his sickening, hungry eyes.

"Get your hand off her," Angel heard Flynn growl behind her, which was soon followed by the unmistakable clicking of the trigger of his revolver.

Yet, she was held somewhat spellbound by those hard eyes. She wondered if Oliver would have eyes like that when he got older. If Flynn would have eyes like that-if she would have eyes like that-

His grip lowered to her thigh and dug into her flesh, as he opened his mouth a released a hiss of lust not unlike the serpent trying to lure Eve. It was at this that Angel's thoughts were shattered and her mind cleared. A cold hatred clouded over her vision as her eyes narrowed into slits. "He said to get your fucking hand off me," she said in a low, detached voice as she cocked and pulled the trigger.

The serpent-man did not even know what struck him. The bullet drove itself through his head and out the other side, taking along with it the liberty of splashing the surrounding area with bits of brain and bone. The man, his mouth a gap and his black eyes waxed, fell forward out of his chair. Angel stepped back as so he did not touch the tips of her boots. She looked down at him with a remorseless demeanor, not feeling any emotions whatsoever as she watched the deep red blood rush out of the wound and start to pool around his head.

She stepped back as not to stain her boots.

She then cast her gaze upwards, placing the weapon once more in its rightful place within the band of her trousers. She wiped the back of her palm against her forehead, unknowingly smearing blood across her brow. The slaying retained no shock value amongst the patrons whatsoever. It would have been deemed an unusual day if someone hadn't been killed.

Angel felt Flynn thumb her on the shoulder, and she turned, but not without taking one last gaze at the unfeeling customers. God help her that Flynn was right. That she would escape from the dark shadows of Midtown and not spend her days as a patron of the Hideaway Tavern.

Flynn pushed open the door, and the sinking, but none the less bright sun met them both. It was a relief from the darkened world of that tavern. Even though, the shadows of the Hideaway seemed to transcend to even outside. The sun and its brilliant light were seen as an intruder to Oliver Haddox's world, a world of darkness and deceit.

They both stepped off the stoop to the tavern and took a soft right, their strides in unison and their swinging arms occasionally brushing. Although twilight would be approaching soon, the humidity of the smoldering summer they were experiencing was still quite apparent by the way the beads of perspiration that found their way to the flesh.

They walked in silence for quite some time, before Flynn broke it. "Angel- "

Yet, she interrupted him. "Flynn, I know what you're going to say. I should have never told you anything because I don't want your pity. I'm not going soft and I had no qualms whatsoever about whacking that bastard off. I didn't feel any emotions-I didn't feel anything-"

There was silence on Flynn's behalf before he replied. "Angel, all I was going to ask is why in the hell is Halloran running towards us?"

This revelation took Angel by surprise and she halted abruptly, only being able to elicit a bewildered, "Huh?"

Through her squinted vision, she could indeed discern Hal Halloran running towards them. His gait was awkward, as he was rather heavy set and it appeared even from this distance that he was having a hell of a time running, especially under the breathless sun.

She cocked her head and watched in slight amazement as Halloran approached them, his stubby arms waving about, and the fat that rippled hypnotically on his body.

"Well, I'll be damned," Flynn whistled under his breath, as though taken aback at Halloran performing the feat of running.

She allowed her eyes to flicker slightly to Flynn before returning to Halloran. "Yeah, but why the hell do you think he's running?"

Flynn only shrugged as a smirk lit up his golden features. "Don't know, but let's ask him." He cupped his hands around his mouth and incremented the loudness of his voice. "Hey, Halloran, where's the marathon at?"

Halloran finally reached them, his broad shoulders hunched and his breathing coming out in great puffs. Angel was afraid that he was going to die from breathlessness before them. "Very-very funny, guys," he huffed in his comically falsetto voice, his chest heaving and his face as red and raw as the Devil's hide and dripping with perspiration.

Angel crinkled her nose in disgust at the repulsive body odor that Halloran was emitting. It didn't help any more that his shirt was damp with sweat.

"Trying to exercise more so that you'll win the eye of Ruby, Halloran?" Flynn chortled as he punched Halloran's shoulder.

Halloran was silent, as he was doubled over, trying futilely to collect his lost breath once again. He finally drew in a large sum of air, as he stood erect. "No," he replied, his words broken, "Oliver's looking for ya."

Immediately, a shadow crossed over both Angel and Flynn's features.

She stepped forward, her eyes narrowed. "Halloran, what does he want?"

"I, I don't know," the large newsie wheezed. "Said he was looking for you and Flynn right away. He looked pretty angry and no one else was at the warehouse so he sent me to find you…Man, am I glad I found you."

Angel felt her impatience strike her temper as she drew closer to Halloran. "That's not what I asked, Halloran. I asked what in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior my brother wants?" she inquired heatedly.

Halloran's hazel eyes waxed as he rapidly shook his head. "I don't know, Angel, I don't know-he just seemed really angry and in that mood-"

"Oh, Christ!" Angel cried, pressing a palm to her forehead. A searing pain had suddenly formed between her eyes, worse than the hangovers the effects of the cheap gin that was uncorked after an assassination had upon her. She lowered her hand and glanced at Flynn, not noticing that smears of sticky crimson blood stained her fingers.

Just by reading his emerald eyes, she knew that his emotions were reciprocated of hers. They were going to have to spend another long and sleepless night tracking some newsie who had wronged Oliver. He never called upon them otherwise.

She released an exhausted sigh followed by a string of fabulous oaths.

"Come on, Angel," Flynn said, his jovial moos dashed.

Angel wearily nodded and turned to Halloran's direction. "Thanks, Hal, you done good."

Halloran opened his plump mouth, poised to reply, yet the pair had already taken off down the road at a breakneck speed in their stealth gaits despite the smoldering sun above. They were silent the rest of the sojourn to the warehouse, save for their deep breaths as they pumped their agile limbs on faster and faster. When they finally reached the haven of the Midtown newsboys, they did not partake in the luxury of halting and collecting their breath. They knew only an idiot would have kept Oliver Haddox waiting at a time like this. They knew of his explosive temper and it would have to be a bout of his rage at its worse to send Hal Halloran running for them. Someone must have wronged him in some unspeakable way. Unless…

Angel felt a pit being to develop in the wells of her stomach as she followed Flynn as he dashed through the front doors and up the first flight of stairs to the second floor. Unless his notoriously fiery temper had been set off by Brooklyn.

"Oh, God," she whispered under her breath. They had been thundering down the straightaway hallway of the second floor, and unbeknownst to Angel, Flynn had halted just outside the threshold to Oliver's room. This gesture caused her to slam full-force into his back, forcing him to lose his balance and nearly tumble to the floor.

"Where in the hell have you been?" Oliver's unmistakably caustic voice sliced through the humidity of the warehouse. "I had to send Halloran after you, for Chrissakes."

Angel and Flynn quickly rose, their eyes falling to the speaker. She was not the least bit surprised to see him seated on a rickety wooden chair and a female down on her knees in front of him, performing oral sex on him amidst her gut-wrenching sobs. It was not an unusual act, indeed. Oliver always had his steady flow of girls due to the fact that if one of the newsies he sent either Angel or Flynn to assassinate had a pretty little sister, their life would be spared if she came back to the warehouse and stayed the day in his room. Of course, many of his victims' lives had been spared because of their compliance.

"We were at the Hideaway," Flynn replied, his countenance serious.

The girl released a dreadful sob and fell back on her knees. "I can't do this! I can't do this!"

Fluidly, Oliver drew a pistol and placed one hand atop her pate as he drew her head closer to him. Pressing the barrel to her forehead, he said in a mockingly cruel voice, "Can you do it with a bullet in your brain, you bitch?"

The girl released a terror-stricken sob and cast her pleading eyes to Angel. Angel shifted her eyes away, not wanting and not able to stare into those wildly haunting eyes. The girl was soon back to her revolting task as Oliver continued, "Good little whore. Finesse, Angel, I have another task to you."

Angel averted her eyes from the spider that was crawling up the crumbling wall to her brother, as she stepped forward in protest. "Again? Oliver, we just knocked the kid from the Bronx last night! I haven't slept at night for two years straight. Flynn can't even sell his papes because he's so damn tired. Can't-"

Yet, her words died on her tongue as she saw the murderous glitter her brother's dark eyes took on. "Whine and bitch, whine and bitch, that's all you do, Angel," he growled. "You're assassins. You're my assassins. It's your goddamn duty to kill who I want when I want no ifs, ands, or buts. And Finesse doesn't need to sell papes. You're plenty well provided for the jobs you do." He stopped and caught her dangerous storm-gray eyes, a malicious smirk slithering up his lips. "Or maybe Nero's right, Ang. Maybe you are going soft. Little bastard would like to have his hand at killing- "

Oliver knew he that had proved his point by the coldness Angel's features took on and as her hand went harshly for her revolver. "Who was it?" she sibilated.

He sat back in the antediluvian chair. "Spot's boys. Sons of bitches were out of their turf. Looked at me the wrong way." His voice lowered an octave. "I hate when people look at me that way." His deadly glare flickered between Angel as she stood rigid before him and Flynn as he leaned in the doorway. "I want them dead. Tonight."

Angel cocked a brow as she regarded him defiantly. Her temper had gotten the best of her, blinding her better judgment as to argue with her brother. "Don't worry, Oliver. The job will be done."

"Good," Oliver replied, placing more pressure on the barrel on the girl's forehead as she reluctantly strove to give him more pleasure from the act.

Angel turned sharply on her heel and brutally brushed past Flynn in all her infuriation, yet she was abruptly halted as she heard him say, "Say, Oliver, isn't tonight the night of that big poker party that Spot is throwing?"

Her eyes waxed as she spun around, to regard Oliver in utter disbelief as he pondered this statement. "Why, yes, Flynn, I do believe it is."

Angel felt the atrocious pain in the front of her skull return with a vengeance. "Christ, Oliver," she choked, unable to believe her own words, "you want us to go knock off two of Spot's boys in the middle of one of his big poker parties?"

Oliver lazily cocked a brow. "I don't see why not, Angel. Party or no party. I want the job done."

"But, Oliver!" she cried, her voice high. "How the hell do you expect us to get in there without them recognizing us! I mean, we'll look too suspicious and they know what we look like! They'll know who we are. It's like going into the eye of the storm-"

"Then wear disguises," Oliver off-handedly commented as the girl at his knees released a wretched sob.

"Disguises?" she retorted incredulously.

"Go borrow a dress from one of the whores at the brothel. Tell them I sent you," he listlessly replied. The girl had once more fallen back on her knees and was in hysterics, pleading with Oliver to allow her to stop. He simply grew disgusted with her and without second thought pulled the trigger of his pistol, sending a bullet into her skull.

She fell backwards, much like Angel's victim had fallen forward an hour previously. The deep-hued blood stained her dark brown curls as it seeped out of the gaping wound in her forehead. Her pale pink dress was now stained also; it had been ripped before from a struggle with Oliver and in a manner that her breasts were exposed.

Angel turned, sickened, and quickly strode out the door, brushing past Flynn. She was in the hallway as she heard him reassure Oliver that his wishes would indeed be done. She was a quarter of the way up the second flight of stairs when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and Flynn harshly spin her around. His green eyes were glittering violently. "What the hell was that all about?" he hissed.

Angel read his eyes as she felt an alien sadness was over her. Her conscious spoke on her behalf, "Oliver's lost it. Completely lost it!" she exclaimed before she turned and thundered up the remaining steps, slamming the door with a passion so that Flynn was left outside, pounding upon the beaten plank of wood and pleading for egress.

Angel only flew across the third floor, the wooden floorboard protesting loudly under her weight as she halted at a warped bureau. Pulling open the top drawer with such fever that it fell to the ground, the miscellaneous trinkets spilling to the floor from the shock, she fell to her haunches, sifting through them until she found the rosary. Clutching the sacred object within an impossibly tight grasp, she fell to her forsaken mattress and closed her eyes tight.

Angel Haddox prayed for her soul. Perhaps she knew that when she died she would be sentenced to a lifetime in Hell, yet she still prayed to the Lord for her immortal soul.