Free Shoot 'Em Up by Janey Mack

yet?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œWhat was it like, besides horrific?”
    â€œMy last thought was Aww, feck, or more accurately, Aww. ” His mouth curled wryly. He popped the top on the new beer and took a good long swallow before answering. “It felt like someone rigged my vest with M-80s.” He shook his head. “Goddamn careless and stupid. FNG-type shit.”
    Fucking New Guy.
    He opened the chips, took a handful, and propped the bag up against the bone jar. “That’s the trouble with me and Koji being the two token non-former-military guys on SWAT. They already lived through all the dumb-ass mistakes we haven’t made yet.”
    The gun that he’d been shot with was a military-grade weapon, the rounds illegal armor-piercing.
    He’d been lucky. Damn lucky.
    Without SWAT’s ceramic-plated armored vests, the regular rank-and-file wouldn’t be so fortunate. Men and women like my da and Flynn and Rory.
    â€œYou okay, Snap?” Cash popped me in the shoulder. “You don’t look so good.”
    â€œYeah. Switch it to multi-player.” I picked up my purse and felt for my phone. “I need to send a text before I take you to school.”
    Cash hooted with laughter. “Bring it.”
    I pulled up Ragnar’s number and typed.
    I need you to set up a meet between me and Vi.
    I hit Send and felt the fire in my chest fade ever so slightly.

Chapter 9
    Ragnar insisted on driving. I insisted we take Hank’s Mercedes G-Wagen.
    He wasn’t happy with me, but with Hank MIA, the Viking wasn’t about to deny my request. “This is fucking ridiculous.”
    Gee, thanks for all the positivity.
    I wore a vicious Parker black leather minidress, my hair in a sleek high pony. I armored up with Stannis’s stainless Aquanaut Patek Philippe watch. It hung loose and chic at my wrist. Stannis, for all his violence, was a lean and lithe five-nine. Next came the Cartier engagement ring.
    I flexed my fingers into a tight fist, crushing every second thought.
    Ragnar pulled up hard to the curb and popped the G-Wagen into Park with a jerk, refusing to look at me, shaggy blond hair obscuring his face.
    â€œIt’s all good,” I said.
    He grunted.
    The valet opened the door. I got out feeling as badass as Bruce Lee and trotted up the stairs into The Storkling Club.
    It defied belief that Eddie Veteratti, the uncouth cocaine cowboy, had re-created the original New York namesake with a better-than-perfect twist. Luxe, Old Hollywood style, complete with torch song singers, smoky back rooms, and champagne cocktails.
    A beauty in a clingy sapphire blue dress met me when I stepped inside. “Good evening, Ms. McGrane. So lovely to have you with us again. This way, please.”
    We walked down a long, dark hallway into the lounge. At 11:00 p.m., it was already a controlled crush. The lounge took reservations, but the club and dining room were members only.
    She escorted me through a sea of gold velvet drapes into a world where the wealthy elite, celebrities, and sports stars rubbed elbows, free from reprisals. Jimmy the Wolf came at me, hand extended, smiling beneath his Satan goatee. His monstrous bulk was barely contained in his tuxedo jacket.
    My hand disappeared in his. “Hello, Wolf.”
    â€œVi’s busy.” He folded my hand over his arm and led me to a table at the edge of the dance floor. Siren Bobby Blaze warbled a sultry “Bye Bye Blackbird.” “Drink?”
    â€œNo thanks.” I took a seat.
    â€œYou sure?” The Wolf sat down too close. Crowding me. “Does Bannon know what you’re getting into?”
    â€œYes.”
    He leaned in, his beard prickling my ear. “Because you sure as fuck don’t know.”
    Lovely.
    It wasn’t enough to scare me. Nodding absently, I let my eyes drift across the room.
    Fuuuuuuuugh.
    The bad penny.
    Talbott Cottle Coles.
    Vengeance was not a feeling I was familiar