“It’s small. We’re too big. I mapped it out with Charlie seeing as how he’s the smallest but he’s not gonna fit. Plus, it’s a drop. And the doors are all going to be heavily armed, and Charlie’s good but this alarm system they have is really good.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “So we need to figure out a new plan then?”
The men nod in agreement.
I take another chug of whiskey. I need to get my shit together, for my family and for my crew.
But right now?
Fuck it.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I can tell from the splitting headache radiating through my frontal lobe that I drank too much.
I slowly open my eyes to my surroundings. Instead of the nice king-sized bed and memory foam mattress I’m used to I’m on the couch in my office at The Alibi.
“Fuck.” I moan, rubbing a hand across my jaw.
Yeah.
Maybe my drinking is a bit out of control.
Not that I was about to admit that to anyone.
“You’re fucking robbing us?”
That gets my attention.
I swing my legs off the couch to stand, pausing for a moment to let the dizziness from my hangover pass. Grabbing my Glock from the top drawer of my desk I check to see if it’s loaded and head for the door.
The voice currently swearing up a storm belongs to Frank. He has keys to the place as he typically comes early in the morning to open it up for the staff. He’s also my enforcer.
I tuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans and creep out of my office. My office here is on the second floor. From the railing of the stairs, I have a good view of the bar floor. I can see two young figures, probably late teens - early twenties, with black ski masks over their heads holding Frank at gunpoint. I’d laugh at the lunacy of these two if I wasn’t so damn angry.
“Give us all the money.” The one on the right side shouts. He’s a little heavier, or the one on the left is far too skinny. He shakes a pillow case at Frank.
Big Frank isn’t called big because he’s little, he’s genuinely a big guy. Standing at 6’ and 300 pounds, he isn’t someone you want to mess with, but the boys have him outnumbered.
At least they think they do.
I don’t really want blood in my club, but I’m also not about to give these boys any fucking money.
I aim my gun at the one on the right who is still shaking the pillow case. Low enough that it won’t kill him, but it’s gonna really fucking hurt. Then, thinking better of it, I decide to shoot the lamp less than a foot away.
I’d rather shoot these two somewhere where I’ll have less of a cleanup effort.
“Fuck!” the kid shouts.
The other one is distracted long enough for Frank to knock the gun out of his hand and wrestle him to the ground. I take the stairs two at a time to get to the other one.
“Who’s here?” I ask Frank.
&nb
sp; “Just Justine.”
Justine is the bar manager. She’s a smart girl who makes extra to keep her mouth shut.