My commander had taken stock of the scene and realized I was, logically, the person in the driver’s seat. He moved fast as lightning through the gate as several other cops covered his ass. A shot rang out, but my commander was a tough bastard. He crouched, sprang back up, and rounded the truck, his gun trained on Butch.
“Weapon down.”
Butch lowered his weapon and placed it on the ground, not willing to die for Richie. My commander waved his free hand, and I took that as a sign. He knew where I wanted to be.
The sound of sirens wailed through the neighborhood, and I knew, in a few moments, the street would be blocked. Butch managed to yell a few more words into his radio before a cop ripped it from his hand and pushed him to the ground. The two men still on their feet must have realized they’d reached an impasse. Without access to either vehicle, and the wail of sirens coming from down the block—cops didn’t care about one-way signs—they ran back toward Armitage Street, where, I hoped, another team of cops waited. If not, I’d remember their ugly mugs.
I didn’t wait around. I drove as fast as I dared down the residential drive toward Willow Street. I needed to get back to the South Side, where Richie was—where Hannah was.
Richie was not going to be happy to see me, but the amount I cared about that would fit in his pencil cock with plenty of room left over. I just hoped I wasn’t bringing a knife to a gunfight.
Chapter Twelve: Hannah
The door to the hallway opened with a bang, and Richie barreled through it like a raging bull. He flung up the pass-through, stormed behind the bar, and grabbed my arm so tightly I winced and tried to pull away, but he held on like a pit bull.
“What the hell, Richie?” Hank asked, rising from his stool.
Richie gave him a look that would have cowered most men, but Hank moved toward us. Several of the other men looked concerned, but none of them would dare intervene in any of Richie’s activities, even if they involved me. Their welcome in this place was the only thing that got them through the day.
“Sit the fuck down, Hank, or I’ll knock you down,” Richie growled.
I held up my hand, and Hank sat reluctantly.
“What’s wrong?” My mind raced with all sorts of possibilities. Surely the armored car hadn’t been intercepted? Something bad had happened, but still, I had no idea why Richie would think to take it out on me when Butch had been the one to fail him.
The image of Danny flashed in my mind. Had Danny fucked up? Was Richie going to blame me?
“Shut up. You’re coming with me.”
“Richie.” My face snapped toward the deep voice. “You need to leave her alone.”
“It’s okay, Jonell,” I said, trying desperately to keep Richie from harming anyone.
“No, Hannah, it’s not okay.” Jonell started to move closer, and before anyone could move or help or stop him, Richie pulled a gun from his waistband and shot Jonell in the head.
The man dropped to the floor, and the music died. Tiffany slowly slid to the bottom of the pole and burst into tears. Tear
s flowed from my eyes too.
Richie waved the gun. “Everyone get the fuck out of here before I use all these bullets and reload.”
Chairs squealed along the floor and fell as people lurched from tables. Several men grabbed the dancers and half carried them to the door. Others knocked against tables as they ran, and Spinner vaulted over his booth and bolted for the door.
In the moment of quiet after the chaos, Richie turned to me and quietly said, “Get your goddamned keys.” He pointed the gun at me.
I grabbed my purse, and he dragged me through the pass-through, and though I dug in my heels, he managed to get me through the door and to the stairwell.
“Up,” he ordered.
I shook my head.
He pushed me, and I staggered, falling to my knees on the bottom steps. Pain radiated through my legs, firing all the nerve endings in sizzling agony. More tears rose in my eyes, and he pushed me again.
“I said up, you fucking bitch.”
I crawled up a few steps and then managed to get to my feet and make it the rest of the way. I gritted my teeth against the pain, and knowing I had no other choice, I rooted in my purse for the keys to my apartment. My fingers encountered the flash drives, and all of a sudden, I knew. He thought I’d sold him out.
“Richie, can’t—”