The Fires of Allah (Cody's War 3) by Stephen Mertz

Author:Stephen Mertz [Mertz, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781641198653
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2019-11-19T16:00:00+00:00

Jack Cody understood the whole strip club mentality, though it had never really been his scene. He knew some men came hoping to get laid, those without cash to burn inevitably leaving disappointed, with their wallets lightened. Some imagined that they were falling in love and chased that fantasy until a bouncer beat it out of them, or they faced stalking charges in a court of law.

The owner's end was easier to grasp. Dish up some flesh for fantasy, well lubed with alcohol, and fleece the suckers in the same way that casinos had been robbing them for centuries. One joker in a thousand, coming off the street, might buy a happy ending to his night, while the others went home disappointed, to cold showers or a well-worn copy of Hustler.

Sometimes there'd be a minor brawl, some handsy drunk ejected to the hoots of fellow horn-dogs, but in general, the menu was established, scripted, and routine.

But not tonight.

There was a floor show in the making that the customers of Night Moves hadn't counted on, and they'd be joining in, not merely swilling booze and watching it, entranced.

Some of them might not make it home alive.

Jack always shied away from injuring bystanders, hating collateral damage. It was unprofessional and caused adverse publicity that made blasé police bestir themselves in search of answers, motives, viable suspects.

And none of that attention was appreciated by the Company.

Which didn't mean that it was necessarily avoidable.

Put hostile, well-armed killers in a room together, crowded with civilians, and there'd be no happy headlines in the morning, once the shit went down. That was a simple law of nature, as immutable as gravity.

The best-aimed bullet might punch through its primary intended target, do its wet work to perfection, and still mangle some sad sack who didn't realize his world had turned into a shooting gallery. Another round might miss its mark, through no fault of the shooter's, ricochet like mad, or fly straight for a hundred empty yards drop some hapless yokel in the middle of a crosswalk.

Fate.

It ultimately dealt with everyone. Jack Cody's job, tonight, was dropping it on target, each and every time, beginning pretty goddamned soon.

The nearest Russian mobster-looking type was drifting toward him, seemingly without direction as he navigated through the strip club's audience, but Cody watched the man's eyes flicking all around him, landing everywhere except upon the T and A displayed for all to see. He might have been a eunuch, wasting time in an establishment that held no interest for him, but smart money said that he was working.

Hunting, now.

Jack pegged the odds of his last victim at the mosque phoning a vague description of him on to someone else at sixty-forty, give or take. Without that tipoff, in the absence of remote surveillance cameras at the scene, Vadim Yezhóv could not possess the ghost of an idea who might be stalking him tonight. The shooter from Baitul Al-Sadiq might have been a man or woman, any color of the human rainbow, taking Yezhóv wholly unaware.

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