Page 8 of Tracking Shadows
“Confidence is half the battle,” I reply, giving her a wink before heading toward the entrance. “Just follow my lead.”
Inside, the club is a swirl of lights and bodies, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the tang of alcohol. I make my way to the bar, Irina trailing behind me, her eyes sweeping the room with the wariness of someone who’s never completely off-guard.
“Two drinks,” I tell the bartender, flashing a charming smile as I slide a generous tip across the counter. “And maybe some information to go with them.”
The bartender, a slim guy with sharp features and a knowing look in his eyes, raises an eyebrow. “Information costs more than a tip, friend.”
I lean in, keeping my voice low and friendly. “We’re looking for someone. Heard he might be spending some time here. Name’s Sergei Marakov.”
The bartender’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a slight pause in his movements, just enough to tell me I’ve hit a nerve. “Never heard of him.”
I chuckle, taking one of the drinks and sliding it across the bar to Irina. She takes it without comment, her gaze still scanning the crowd.
“Come on, now,” I coax, keeping my tone light. “We both know that’s not true. Maybe you can help us out. We’re just looking for a chat, nothing more.”
The bartender glances over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone’s watching, before leaning in slightly. “Even if I did know something, it wouldn’t be worth my neck to tell you. You should leave before you get yourself into trouble.”
“Trouble’s our middle name,” I say with a grin, but I can feel Irina’s patience wearing thin beside me.
She steps forward, setting her drink down on the bar with a little too much force. “We don’t have time for games,” she snaps, “Either you tell us what we want to know, or this is going to get ugly.”
The bartender stiffens, his eyes darting between us, clearly weighing his options. Before he can answer, one of the bouncers—a big guy with arms like tree trunks—starts making his way toward us, suspicion written all over his face.
“Irina,” I murmur, trying to keep the situation from escalating, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
But she’s already past the point of patience. “We’re done waiting,” she says, her tone icy as she turns to face the approaching bouncer.
“Is there a problem here?” the bouncer growls, glaring down at us with a look that promises violence.
“Not if you step aside and let us finish our conversation,” Irina replies.
The bouncer doesn’t even hesitate. He reaches out to grab her arm, and that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Irina moves like a flash of lightning, twisting out of his grasp and delivering a sharp elbow to his ribs that sends him staggering back. The bartender drops behind the counter, disappearing from view as the bouncer regains his footing, his face twisted with rage.
“Great,” I mutter, tossing my drink aside and squaring up. “So much for subtlety.”
The bouncer comes at Irina again, but she’s already two steps ahead, dodging his swing and landing a swift kick to the side of his knee. He stumbles, and I take the opportunity to step in, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the bar. The impact rattles the bottles lined up behind the counter, and a couple shatter, spilling liquor everywhere.
Another bouncer is charging toward us, and I barely have time to register him before Irina takes off, meeting him head-on. The two clash, and it’s clear within seconds that this isn’t her first bar fight. She’s all precision and force, and I find myself almost admiring the way she dismantles him, step by step.
But there’s no time for admiration. More of Sergei’s men are closing in, and I know we’re outnumbered. I grab the first bouncer’s arm and twist it behind his back, sending him crashing to the floor before turning to help Irina.
“We’ve got to move!” I shout over the noise, catching Irina’s attention as she delivers a final blow to her opponent.
“I’m aware!” she snaps back, wiping blood from her knuckles as she turns to face me, her eyes flashing with determination. “But we’re not leaving until we get what we came for.”
“Right,” I say, a touch of sarcasm slipping through. “Because everything’s going exactly according to plan.”
She doesn’t respond, just pushes past me, grabbing the bartender by the collar as he tries to slink away. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell us what we want to know.”
The guy’s trembling now, eyes wide with fear. “Okay, okay! Sergei was here, but he left hours ago. He only comes in when he needs something, never stays long.”
“And where does he go?” I press, keeping an eye on the room.
Sergei’s men are pushing through the crowd, closing in, and it’s only a matter of time before they surround us completely.
The bartender shakes his head frantically. “I don’t know! But there’s a warehouse a few blocks from here. Sometimes he meets people there—deals, shipments, that kind of thing.”