Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) (27 page)

Though as Doc, one of the players he’d gotten to know, told him, there were many pros who fished at the late night poker sessions, quietly lightening the wallets of the unwary at the tables. Most brought their own muscle with them, ready to step in if an argument got too heated (which, he was assured, they regularly did) and made sure they got back to their hotel rooms safely.

Doc was a tall, wiry man in his late thirties who sported a pencil-thin black mustache, and always wore a black dinner jacket and bowtie at the table. He took Brogan under his wing and taught him how the pros played, how to always pay close attention to your position against the dealer button, especially when the pots got big, and how to take control of a hand when you had the right cards. Also, the little stuff that quickly added up—how to steal blinds or bet against the flop.

“It’s about learning the odds, developing a style of play that suits you, and keeping the right mental attitude,” Doc explained. “There’s a lot of truth in the old sayings, so remember, scared money never wins, and only losers try to get even. If you master all that, you’ll beat ninety percent of the players you come up against.”

“How about the other ten?” Brogan had asked. “What’s it take to beat them?”

“Well, that’d be people like me,” Doc replied, a smile forming under his mustache. “If I told you that, I’d have to quit playing.”

In the evenings after dinner, Brogan sat up at the counter in the bar, striking up a conversation with the guy at the next stool if it was a friendly face. Marlee showed up each night, doing her hustle. He would give her a smile or a nod and she’d come over. After raising an eye at her inquiringly, she would tell him: “Not yet,” or “Patience stud, he’ll be here soon.”

When she spotted him the first night after their agreement, she strolled over and propped herself up on the stool beside him.

“Alone again? You really don’t know how to make friends, do you?”

“Oh, I talk to people. Depends on who’s sitting beside me. And sometimes it’s fun just to sit here and listen in on people.”

Marlee wrinkled up her cute little nose. “Sounds creepy to me.”

Brogan laughed. “A hundred years ago, it’s how the writers of blues and country songs spent their days. Rubbernecking on barroom conversations, looking for inspiration.
One whiskey, one bourbon, one beer
—don’t tell me that song wasn’t written on the back of a beer mat?”

“You looking to write a song?”

“Nope. Not me. I’m just waiting on a friend.”

Marlee grazed a fingernail along his forearm. “Fancy keeping a little company while you do that?”

Brogan smiled at her. “Not yet. Maybe in the next day or so.”

Marlee pouted, then reached a foot out onto the floor and slid off the stool. “Let me know when you’re ready. Next time I’ll sing to you, promise.”

Once she’d figured out Brogan didn’t plan on taking up with her again any time soon, Marlee never stayed long. Business came first and each night, after a few minutes of small chat, she would head off and start cruising the bar. With her looks, it never took her long to pick up somebody.

By midnight, Brogan would return to his room, read some more of his book, then hit the light. If it wasn’t for the feeling of unease that constantly niggled his stomach with what he knew was to come, he would have considered it a relaxing time.

On the Tuesday morning, Brogan was having breakfast at Marty’s, sitting alone at a booth by the window, when he saw Marlee pass by. She pushed open the door to the diner and walk up to the booth.

As she slid across into the seat opposite him, Brogan observed her carefully. Though her hair was well-brushed, she wore no makeup, and in the daylight her face looked pale and tired. Drinking until the early hours each morning was part of her job description. So far it hadn’t taken a toll on her pretty face, but in a few years Brogan was sure it would. It was inevitable. Perhaps Marlee would be one of the smart ones and quit long before then. She was certainly making enough to come up with a Plan B.

He motioned to the waitress hovering nearby and ordered her coffee.

“Well?” he said, when the waitress had left. “You got something?”

“Your friend’s here. He arrived yesterday afternoon.”

“Yesterday? How come—”

“I only found out this morning,” Marlee cut in. “That’s how come I didn’t tell you last night.”

“You know where he’s staying?”

“Yes. I can take you to him tonight. One thing though…”

Brogan detected a slight grate underneath her customary purr. He eyed her carefully. He had a pretty good idea what was coming. “What’s that?”

“The price has gone up. I need a hundred dollars, not fifty.”

“No,” Brogan said firmly. He took a sip from his coffee, eying her over the rim of his mug. “We had a deal, remember?”

“The past couple of days, I’ve been doing a bit of digging around on you,” Marlee said, ignoring his comment. “Seems like since the day you hit town, you’ve been trotting up and down the Vegas Drag, poking your head into every bar, saloon, and strip club like some gung ho pussy hound, only—”

The waitress arrived with Marlee’s coffee. The two remained silent until she had left.

“Only thing is, you weren’t looking for pussy, were you?” Marlee said, continuing from where she had left off. She stared at Brogan. “You want this guy bad. Bad enough to make me think I underpriced myself.”

“Marlee, a deal’s a deal.”

Marlee snorted and threw her head in the air, letting him know exactly what she thought of their previous arrangement. Brogan tried not to let his anger show. He took another sip from his coffee.

“Seeing as we’re friends now, I’ll throw in an extra twenty. How’s that?”

Marlee shook her head. “I’ll take fifty dollars up front. Fifty when I take you to him.”

Brogan stared at her, his jaw tightening. They both knew she had him.

“Okay,” he said after a couple of moments. “I can do that.”

“Fifty up front…as in
now
.”

Brogan took a look around the diner, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out two twenty-dollar bills and a ten, and placed them in front of him on the table. He stared hard at Marlee. “We do this tonight. No fucking around.”

Marlee nodded, slightly taken aback by his tone.

Brogan placed a hand on the money. “So how about you give me a name? Fifty dollars is more than a fair price for that.”

Marlee hesitated.

“Come on, Marlee. I just want to know, that’s all. Trust me, I’m not going to risk blowing this, not once I give you half the money.”

“Ritter,” she said finally. “His name’s Haiden Ritter.”

“Haiden Ritter…” Brogan repeated slowly. The name surprised him for some reason. It didn’t quite match the expectation he’d built in his mind. “Haiden’s a strange name to call someone,” he mused, speaking almost to himself. “Didn’t they name a wall after him…no, that was Hadrian.”

Marlee was staring down at the dollar bills in front of him. She wiggled a finger. Brogan slid the notes across the table.

“So tell me, what did Ritter do to you?” Marlee said, picking up the money and put it inside her coat pocket. “Must have been bad, huh?”

“Bad enough to pay a hundred dollars to find him.”

“And how come you don’t even know his name? Does he go by another name in some other town?” Marlee pouted at Brogan when he didn’t reply. “Come on, Frank, tell me. I’m curious, that’s all.”

“When this is done, you come up and sing to me in my room. I’ll tell you everything. How’s that?”

Marlee looked disappointed. “I suppose so. Okay, I’ll swing by the hotel at nine. Let’s meet in the lobby.”

Brogan nodded.

“I’ll take you to Ritter. When you see him, you give me the rest of my money. If you don’t, I’ll start screaming. That’s a promise.”

“There’ll be no need for that,” Brogan said firmly. “You’ll get your money.”

Marlee stood up. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said, looking down at her untouched cup.

“My pleasure.”

Brogan stared after Marlee as she headed for the door, marveling at how someone with such a sweet face could be so rotten inside.

Brogan continued to watch Marlee from his booth window as she walked briskly away from the diner, disappearing from sight around the corner. Across the street, a flock of birds rose from off a rooftop ledge, scattering in all directions as they flew upward into the gray wintry skies.

Out of nowhere, an intense pressure descended over him. An anxious, overwhelming sense of dread, like someone had sucked the soul right out of him, stuffed it into a freight elevator, then jabbed the button for the basement.

The severity of the sensation shocked him, and his mind reeled as he desperately tried to grasp what was happening to him. Functioning purely on auto-pilot, he drained his coffee, trapped a dollar bill under his plate, and staggered out of the diner.

Once outside, he crossed the street and went back to the hotel, passing Ralph at the desk with a vague wave of his hand, then took the stairs up to his room where he sat by the window for the rest of the morning, his mind frozen, unable to function.

At the very moment he needed to be at his strongest, some critical mental structure deep within him had collapsed without warning, throwing him into a dark, existential malaise, totally incapacitating him. In all his years as a professional soldier, then as a police officer, he had never felt this way before a mission. However, this mission was beyond personal. It was one that carried an emotional intensity he would never come close to experiencing again. And it was sucking the life right out of him.

He stayed in his room all day, skipping lunch, his stomach unable to handle food. Once again, a terrible sense of guilt plagued him. He had been a bad father, an even worse husband. Sitting by the window, his mind endlessly wrapping around the memories of Sarah and Jessica, the afternoon turned to evening, then the evening light faded from the skies and darkness enveloped the city. The entire day had rolled by in a mindless blur.

Around seven p.m. a deep inner resource, having lain dormant all day, finally snapped Brogan out of his torpor. He stood up abruptly from his chair, like an alarm bell had sounded off in his head, and began to pace the room, urging his brain back to life. Twenty minutes later, he went down to reception and ordered a light supper—a vegetable broth, chicken sandwich, and a pot of coffee, which he got sent to his room. The food did him good. So did the coffee.

At eight he showered, keeping his head under the icy water until the very last of the sluggishness got shaken from it. When he was done, he dried off and put on a pair of khaki camo overalls, a t-shirt, and a gray woolen sweater. Then he took out his weapons and tactical equipment from his pack, laid them out neatly on the bed, and sorted out what he needed.

When everything was ready, he strapped his web belt around his waist. Picking up the first Glock, he inserted a magazine into the pistol frame and chambered a round, then slid the gun into its holster and pulled down tight on the Velcro strap. He did the same with the second Glock, and slipped two extra magazines into the tactical pouches on his belt. With the element of surprise, he didn’t expect the encounter to turn into a firefight, but one never knew. Finally, he put on his boots, stuck his stag-handled boot knife into its sheath, and strapped it under his left pant leg. His
just in case
weapon.

He put on his rain slicker next, then went over and examined himself in the closet mirror. Nothing appeared too bulky under the slicker. It had rained on and off all day, and he wouldn’t look out of place wearing it.

At eight fifty-five p.m., he hit the light and headed for the door.

Downstairs in the lobby, there was no sign of Marlee. He sat down at a chair by the entrance, thankful Harold wasn’t around. He was in no mood for small talk. He could feel his stomach bunch up again, and he had to concentrate on his breathing to keep the muscles relaxed, staring across at the far wall, trying to think of nothing.

Finally, after twenty minutes, the lobby door flung open and he looked up to see Marlee standing in the entranceway, an easy, relaxed smile on her face. “Well, hey there, good looking,” she greeted him. “You all set to take me out on the town?”

Brogan breathed a sigh of relief. He had been worried Marlee might not show up, that there had never had been any Haiden Ritter, and that the whole thing had just been a ploy to make some money out of him. He certainly wouldn’t have put it past her.

Standing up quickly, he put his arm on her shoulder. Without a word, he wheeled her around and escorted her back out the door.

Marlee giggled. “Whoa, easy sport! No need to manhandle me like that.”

“Where are we going?” Brogan asked once they were out on the boardwalk. The muscles in his throat had contracted so tight, he could barely get the words out.

“This way,” she said, pointing west along the Drag. “We’re off to the wharves.”

“The wharves?” Brogan looked at her suspiciously. “You’re telling me Ritter is down by the lake?”

“That’s right, honey. He’s got a bar there. It’s for regulars, not tourists like you. The booze is cheap and it’s got a jukebox.” She smiled at him “I got to warn you though, it’s pretty rough. Lucky you’re with a girl who knows how to handle herself.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to stay long,” Brogan said, ignoring Marlee’s little joke.

“You brought the rest of my money, right?”

“Of course. Soon as you take me to Ritter, you’ll get it.”

They stepped off the boardwalk onto the muddy street. Marlee slipped her arm around his waist.

“Oh my,” she exclaimed, as she felt what was under his raincoat. “Looks like you really are going to surprise your friend!”

“You sure he doesn’t know I’m coming?”

“Of course not. It’s set up just the way you want it. How else am I going to get my money?”

They walked a few blocks, then Marlee crossed over to the far side of the Drag and took Brogan down a narrow, unlit street. It looked identical to the one he’d ridden up that evening when he first arrived in Two Jacks, with similar rundown shacks to either side of it.