Devil's Gate (NUMA Files 9)

“Ion,” Kurt said, standing.

The man turned upon hearing his voice. He focused on Kurt from a spot between his two bodyguards. Recognition took a few seconds, and then a smile washed over Ion’s face.

The smile was false and forced, and it vanished almost as quickly as it had come. A sign that could mean only one thing: trouble.

43

IN THE SWANK CONFINES of the White Rajah, the man who called himself Ion took a step backward. His new position placed him between and behind his guards, who stiffened, and focused their attention on Kurt like a laser.

As Kurt studied them, all he could see was a World Wrestling tag team ready to start body-slamming him and Joe if either of them made any false moves.

Now feeling safe, Ion spoke. “Standards must be dropping to allow someone like you in here, Austin. I must complain to the management.”

“No need for that,” Kurt said. “Give me a little bit of information and I’m gone like the wind.”

“Information costs,” Ion said. “With inflation the way it is, the price gets higher every day. But tell me, what are you after? And how much are you willing to pay?”

“You owe me,” Kurt said. “What I need will square us.”

“I owe you nothing,” Ion insisted.

Kurt had expected as much. “In that case, I offer you the right to keep your reputation. You’ll have to decide what that’s worth.”

“My reputation?” Ion said. “What are you babbling about, Austin? And make it quick, I have reservations.”

Kurt’s chest swelled, but he made no other outward move. “I explain the consequences that will face you once I wipe the floor with your bodyguards and pound the information out of your overly large, egg-shaped skull.”

He waved his hand around the room. “I can only imagine how that will damage your standing among these good people.”

Ion’s face showed the exact reaction Kurt had hoped for: anger, but coupled with a hint of fear and calculation. Maybe he would listen. And then again…

Ion took a hurried breath, puffed himself up for a few seconds, and spoke to his bodyguards.

“This man is a threat,” he said. “Deal with him.”

A wall of Samoan muscle flexed and began moving toward Kurt. One man pounded a fist into an open palm, and the other twisted his neck to the side, cracking it loudly and smiling. Apparently, they were ready for battle.

Kurt realized the one advantage he still had: both men were staring at him and only him. Ion had said, “This man is a threat,” not, “These men…” He hadn’t realized that Joe, in his sharp-looking clothes, had anything to do with Kurt.

Kurt’s hand found the coffee mug behind him. As the big brutes reached a distance of five feet, Kurt swung it toward them.

The piping hot liquid splashed across both men’s faces. The coffee was not hot enough to scald or scar, but the surprise and sting of it snapped the heads of both men to the side, eyes shut tight.

In that instant Kurt charged, lowering his shoulder and hammering it into the first guard’s torso just below the sternum. It felt like crashing headlong into a tree, except the man stumbled backward as Kurt drove through him, legs pumping hard. It was a perfect tackle that would have made any linebacker in the NFL proud, and it sent both men crashing into a table and onto the floor.

Even as Kurt attacked, Joe was springing into action. He hopped to his feet, grabbed a barstool, and slammed it across the shoulders of the other guard. The man crumpled and groggily began to crawl away. Joe let him go and turned to see if Kurt needed any assistance.

Kurt had landed on top of the bodyguard he’d tackled, but the man was far from out. Eyes half opened, he shoved a hand into Kurt’s face, catching him under the chin. It was a jarring blow, but Kurt shook it off and dropped an elbow hard between the man’s neck and shoulder, hitting the pressure point.

The man’s head tilted back in pain, offering a perfect shot at his jaw. Kurt fired a right cross with every ounce of strength and adrenaline in his body. It slammed the man in the chin, snapped his head sideways, and put him out like a light.

It all happened so fast, the patrons of the restaurant had only enough time to register shock; gawking; drawing back, and looking horrified. A couple had made it out of their chairs but still held their drinks. This wasn’t the kind of club that needed bouncers, so no one appeared ready to throw Kurt and Joe out, though the bartender now held a Louisville Slugger in his hands.

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Kurt stood slowly, and the crowd began to relax. Some looked upset at having missed all the fun.

Kurt turned back to Ion, actually surprised at how well it had gone.