Something else he'd fix once he ran the place.

Cautious, he sat for a minute to make sure no one approached.

All remained quiet.

Pocketing his keys so they wouldn't make a sound, he slid over the bench seat to the passenger door and quietly opened it. He'd already disabled the lights, and the moon wasn't bright enough to give him away.

Sticking to the backs of the buildings, he went down a block, then came out to the sidewalk in front. Moving with the shadows of the night, he crossed the street and found concealing darkness under the overhang of a mom-and-pop grocer across the street from the bar.

He'd barely gotten settled into the recessed doorway when he saw one of the thugs from the tattoo parlor coming down the street. Despite the heat of the muggy night, he wore a light jacket.

No doubt to hide his gun.

Rowdy saw that he sported some new bruises on his face and had his arm in a sling. Courtesy of Reese? Damn, but Rowdy hoped so.

Tracking the man with his gaze, Rowdy saw him go down the outside alley of the bar-back to the area Rowdy had just vacated.

From the other side of the building, across the open lot that Rowdy would soon lease for parking, another goon strode up. This one spoke quietly into a cell phone, and his skittish gaze continually scanned the area.

Yeah, killing us wasn't as easy as you'd hoped, was it, you bastard?

So, the men were meeting in the back.

Did they plan to jump Rowdy as soon as he showed up? Had they hoped to finish what they'd started earlier?

For only a moment, Rowdy worked his jaw, then decided, fuck it. It wasn't in his nature to skulk around like a coward.

All he'd needed to know was that Alice would be safe.

And between Reese and Trace, he trusted in that. Trace. Man, there was a mystery for the imagination. Pair him with by-the-book Reese, and Alice couldn't be more protected.

Rowdy didn't mind the adrenaline rush of danger, but he didn't want to seek it out. In fact, he looked forward to the routine, calmer life as a bar owner.

But first he needed to take out the trash.

Circling around the buildings via a different route, down an adjacent alley a block away, Rowdy returned to the back entrance of the bar. Right there, in plain sight, the two idiots stood plotting. One lit a cigarette, the red glow sending eerie shadows over his face before fading beneath a curl of smoke.

The jumpy one continued to glance around to the point that his buddy cursed him. "Damn, Phelps, relax, will you?"

"I'll relax when this is over."

"Soon." Inhaling on the cigarette again, he lounged back against the brick wall.

"They got away this morning, but they won't this time."

"Shit, Lowry, you don't know that.

They were fast and they knew how to fight." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I'm still in pain."

"A pain in my ass." Lowry shifted his injured arm. "They took me by surprise, that's all. This time, I'll be ready."

"You can't even know that the others will be here."

"They will. But even if they aren't, Woody will handle it."

Interesting. It never failed; the hired muscle was almost always

one.

dimensional, meaning strong and ruthless, but too dumb to stand on their own feet. Like sheep, Lowry and Phelps needed to follow.

Apparently, Woody was the one who led.

Rowdy hunkered down, willing to wait, ready to be enlightened by anything else they might say.

"I don't trust Dee to do her part."

So that was a real name? Go figure.

Lowry laughed. "She told me she wants to fuck the guy before we kill him." Shaking his head, he muttered, "Conniving, coldhearted bitch."

Phelps didn't bother to hide his disgust. "How the hell does she think she's going to handle that in a bar?"

"Says she'll lead him out to her car and do him in her backseat." Another deep drag on the cigarette. "Ought to be easy enough to shoot him in the head soon as she finishes with him."

"To hell with that. I'm not waiting."

Phelps grabbed his crotch. "If Dee wants some, I'll give it to her."

"Woody says she's off-limits to us."

Finishing his cigarette, Lowry flicked away the butt. "For now."

"We should have been sent after the woman. Hickson's the one who fucked up. He should be here with the hulks, and we could just snuff that little lady who's causing all the trouble."

Rowdy thought about pulling his knife.

Thought about killing them both, right here, right now.

But more info wouldn't hurt anything, so he tamped down the burning urge.

"We can't snuff her," Lowry said, "because Woody wants her. And what Woody Simpson wants, Woody Simpson gets."

"Yeah, I know." Phelps rubbed at his neck again.

Given how Rowdy had cranked on it, choking him until he'd passed out, Phelps's neck would be sore for a while. Rowdy narrowed his eyes, remembering. Satisfied.

"Woody just wants to play with her for a while, to teach her a lesson." Lowry stepped away from the wall. "I bet he'll give you a go at her afterward, as long as we don't mess this up tonight."

A fresh surge of fury curled through Rowdy, but he held it at bay with rigid willpower. Going into a rage wouldn't net him the results he wanted. For that he had to be calculating.

And as the bozos had said, fast and capable.

Dirty fighting was maybe the most valuable thing he'd learned as a street rat. He could take on two men, maybe even three, no problem.

Keeping his gaze on the men, gauging the amount of time it'd take for him to reach them, Rowdy felt around on the ground until his fingers located a jagged rock. Focused, ready to move, he threw it past the men toward a trash can. It made a clatter, and both men jerked around, searching the area, their weapons drawn.

"What the fuck?"

"What was that? Who's there?"

On the balls of his feet, Rowdy charged, plowing into both of them, taking advantage of their distraction.

They all three went down, but he had the benefit of rage and momentum, while they were taken by surprise, floundering both physically and mentally.

Lowry's head hit the brick wall of the bar, and, dazed, he loosened enough to drop the gun. It skittered across the ground.

Caught under them, Phelps's face connected with the rough pavement.

Cursing, he spit blood-and a tooth. He tried to haul himself free, but the combined weight of Rowdy and Lowry held him down.

Wanting this wrapped before anyone else showed up or people inside the bar were alerted to their scuffle, Rowdy hit Lowry with three rapid punches. He smashed his nose, broke his jaw, and as he cocked his meaty fist for another shot, Lowry slumped, more unconscious than not.

Rowdy shoved him to the side just as Phelps managed to crawl out from under them. The idiot turned, blood all over his face, his neck and the front of his shirt. With a guttural curse and wild eyes, Phelps took aim.

Kicking out against his legs, Rowdy tripped him, and down he went. One near-silent shot exploded, hitting the brick of the bar and ricocheting. Crying out like a girl, Phelps grabbed a mangled knee-from Rowdy's kick, not from the stray bullet-but Rowdy was quick to silence him with a boot to the face.

Phelps dropped like a stone.

Flipping him over, Rowdy put a knee in his back and bound his hands with double cuff disposable restraints that Trace had given him. Five pairs of them, Rowdy remembered, wondering if Trace expected him to take on an entire goon squad.

Phelps groaned at the uncomfortable clench of his arms behind his back.

"Make a sound," Rowdy told him, "and I'll shut you up for good. Do you understand me?"

Incoherent, Phelps babbled an affirmative.

Quickly, Rowdy checked him for other weapons and found a knife. He tossed it toward the gun Lowry had dropped, then bound Phelps's ankles, as well.

At any moment, someone could step out the back door of the bar. He had to hurry. Grabbing Lowry, he jerked a strip of material off his shirt and used it to gag Phelps. Grabbing him under his arms, he dragged Phelps over to the side of the Falcon, hidden from view.

Rushing back to Lowry, who had just started to revive, Rowdy slugged him again. He groaned. Rowdy dragged him over by Phelps and bound him the same, wrists tight behind his back, ankles squeezed together. The added pressure on his injured arm had Lowry gritting his teeth with pain.

But this man had planned to murder him. He'd laughed about the idea of using Alice. Rowdy didn't give a damn if his arm fell off.

He searched Lowry and found another, smaller pistol, along with a stun gun.

With one knee in Lowry's chest, the other on his damaged shoulder, Rowdy said, "Want me to use the stun gun on you?"

Lowry stared at him with a steely-eyed gaze. But Phelps protested, gurgling behind his gag, struggling.

Without looking at him, Rowdy said, "Shut up before I shut you up."

Phelps went silent.

"Well, Lowry? How do you feel about a little jolt?" He placed the barbs of the stun gun under Lowry's chin.

"Think that'll get you talking?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You're a dead man. Doesn't matter what you do to us-"

"No?" Rowdy jammed the stun gun into Phelps's gut and squeezed the trigger. Phelps went rigid, his eyes bulging and a guttural growl squeezed from his throat. His body jerked, flinched...until Rowdy let up.

With Phelps now whimpering, Rowdy smiled. "He's gagged, so I knew he wouldn't yell. Guess I should really gag you, too, right?" He pressed the stun gun to Lowry's chest. "Though it might not be necessary. I hear a jolt to the heart can bring everything to a standstill."

A bead of nervous sweat trickled down Lowry's temple. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Answers. First of all, who's Woody Simpson?"

When Lowry hesitated, Rowdy tapped his finger to the trigger, letting the stun gun snap and sizzle.

Lowry pressed back, trying to scamper away from that threatening jolt. "Okay, okay! Jesus."

"Talk."

"He's the boss."

"Who does he answer to?"

"No one. That's what I'm telling you.

Woody is it. Top of the line."

Perfect. "Where I can find him?" As encouragement, Rowdy gave another quick tap to the gun. "Now, Lowry."

And just like that, Lowry spilled his guts. "He's in his offices on South Street." He gave over the exact address.

"It's damn near midnight. What's he doing there now?"

"Waiting to hear how shit went."