Free Downfall by Jeff Abbott

Belias thought. Do you hear me?
    A flashlight came on, swept across the den. Belias stayed still, hidden in the darkness.
    From his vantage point he could see part of the den, the entrance to the other bedroom. He remained very still. He saw the light move from the den into the other bedroom, on the opposite side of the condo. Stealthily. Not walking like he belonged. Not turning on lights.
    Then a moment later, the intruder came into the bedroom.
    “Hello.” Belias leveled the gun at him.
    The man froze.
    “Turn on the light,” Belias said.
    The man did. Six feet tall, dressed in a dark turtleneck and black jeans, dark blondish hair, blue eyes. Glenn’s description of the bartender who’d killed the Russian.
    “Well, this is awkward,” the bartender said.
    Aren’t you a cool little customer? Belias thought. “I know who you are. Your reputation precedes you.”
    The bartender tilted his head.
    “I like a vodka martini, three olives. Go make me one.”
    The bartender said nothing.
    “I normally prefer gin but I bet our Russian friends here have vodka on hand,” Belias said. “Are you a Russian, too?”
    “No, I’m not.” Clearly an American.
    “That’s a start as I don’t much care for Russians,” Belias said in Russian.
    “Bigotry is ugly,” the bartender answered in English.
    “It’s a mutual dislike,” Belias said, switching back to English. “What exactly are you, because I think you’re not just a bartender?”
    “You’ve committed brain surgery on his computer.” The bartender glanced toward the Russian’s upended laptop. “I don’t think you’re Mr. Rostov’s roomie.”
    Belias nearly laughed. “You always call someone you kill mister?”
    “We weren’t introduced.”
    “You are a mystery, and I hate those, but you are interesting. Curious about the man you killed?”
    The bartender shrugged.
    “You seem to think I won’t actually shoot you,” Belias said. Most people cowered in front of a gun. This man didn’t.
    “You don’t want to shoot me because you have questions and you correctly assume I have answers.”
    The bartender’s calm began to work under Belias’s skin. “You kill a man and then you come to his house? Really? That’s kind of creepy. What are you?”
    The bartender studied him. “I wanted to know who he was. Who sent him.”
    A cold bolt ran through Belias’s arm. “What does that mean?”
    “I know hired muscle when I see it. The whole way he acted toward the young woman. She was a stranger to him and him to her. He was just doing a job.”
    “Is that normally a bartending skill? Classification of thuggery?”
    “Did you send him?”
    Belias laughed. “This is an interesting collision between you and me. Now. Tell me who you are or I’m going to start shooting you in delicate areas.” He gestured vaguely with the gun. “It will be gross and bloody and I am not optimistic these guys own a mop.”
    And this made Belias’s heart sing, because the bartender didn’t blink. “It sounds terrible. Here’s the problem. You’re connected to this dead Russian but the police don’t know that. I am not connected to this dead Russian but they think I am. I have friends stashed outside who will kill you if you kill me.”
    “Bluffing.”
    The bartender studied the gutted laptop. “Is that why you wanted to clean off his laptop? Because he had proof you sent him after the woman.”
    “I didn’t send this loser after anyone,” Belias said. The bartender’s lack of visible fear impressed Belias. Fear was the best, most potent weapon. Fear was golden. He needed to know who this man was. Glenn had already betrayed him by trying to seize power and he had no sense how deep the damage was. “You did me a favor killing the Russian, bartender. The evening has been most, um, instructive.”
    “Monroe.”
    “Is that your name?”
    “No.”
    “Well, it’s not mine, either.”
    “Monroe,” the bartender said again.
    “Monroe? Marilyn? President James?