Kristen Simmons - Payback

Im not feeling it.

Henry Kowalski, the hustler with a heart of gold, rakes his blond hair to one sidea sign Ive come to recognize as a nervous ticas I track two men hurrying through the dark across the parking lot of the NightStar Canning warehouse. They knock on a rusted door marked Employees Only, and after a quick exchange with a big, burly bouncer, disappear inside, just like the dozen others that came before.

Youve got this, I tell Henry, pulling him behind the corrugated metal wall of NightStars smoke shack, a free-standing structure twenty yards from the back entrance. Just follow my lead.

He shifts, the leather jacket he got for tonight creaking against my shoulder. Its faded at the stress points. I know this, because he pointed it out no less than six times. Its supposed to make him look tough.

Now he just needs to act that way.

No, I know, he says, smoothing down the wild waves of my dark, chin-length hair and absently straightening the collar of my coat. But what if instead of me being your cousin, Im a young entrepreneur whos gotten rich off developing this app

No.

Just listen. It connects athletes with personalized eating tips and hot new workout attire trends

No.

And Im looking to blow my tidal wave of cash in a seedy establishment with sweaty men who like to wrestle. He wiggles his eyebrows, and leans closer to whisper, Ive even got a name. Dolph Mller. Good, right?

A bitter December wind rattles the roof of the smoke shack.

I step closer. Take his warm hands. Try to smile so it doesnt look like Im about to kill him. Ive timed our entrance so we arent here too earlydont want to draw unnecessary suspicionbut Henrys change of heart is threatening to put us behind schedule. What if Dolph doesnt speak English and lets me do all the talking?

He pouts. You dont like it.

I like the strong but silent angle more.

He lifts the collar of his jacket, giving me his best tough guy pose, and waits for me to change my mind.

I dont.

With a sigh of resignation, he heads toward the warehouse, and my hesitance evaporates with the confidence in Henrys stride. Soon, were standing in front of the rusted door, my fist poised under the faded Employees Only sign.

I give Henry one last look. His green eyes find mine. For a moment, the weight of this mission presses against my chest. Every day that Dr. O is still playing puppet master at Vale Hall is another day that were in danger. Charlotte and Sam are depending on us. Margot and all the students before her that Dr. O has erased from existence need this to work.

Caleb needs this to work.

Henry nods.

Its go time.

I knock. The door pulls inward, and a man the size of a school bus hulks in the yellow ring of light above. He takes one look at our faces, ten years younger than the last guys he let in, scoffs, and begins to shut us out.

Wait! I cram my foot in the jamb, the rubber sole of my Chucks blocking the exit. Weve got money.

Slowly, the door swings back open. My ears tune in to the raised voices somewhere down the dark hallway behind him.

What do you want? The school bus has a cross tattooed on his neck, and a lump of chewing tobacco in the pocket of his cheek. For a moment, Im back in Devon Park, standing outside Petes apartment, waiting for his bouncer, Eddie, to let me in.

I imagine theyre pulling the same drug-selling routine in prison, thanks to a narcotics bust I kindly set up on their behalf.

I want to bet on a fight, I tell the school bus.

Dont know what youre talking about.

The door starts to close again. My worn-out Chuck stays locked between us.

Girl, he says, clearly annoyed, you dont move that foot, this doors going to take it off.

Before he can act on that promise, I pull a fold of cash from my coat pocket and wave it through the crack.

Now Ive got his attention.

The door opens wide again, and the mans gaze moves from the money to Henry, who wilts under his hard stare. So much for the confident young entrepreneur.

My dads out of town, I say with a guilty smile. He left my cousin and me some pizza money.

The buss brows flatten. Thats a lot of pizza.

I force a laugh when he doesnt step aside. So whats the cover? Twenty?

We both know theres not a door charge, but if a little green is what he needs to let us in, so be it.

A hundred. Apiece. He smirks at Henrys leather jacket, the zipper of which Henry is nervously jerking up and down.

My face paints a portrait of disgust.

Thats extortion, says Henry, before catching himself. And I should know. Because Im kind of a businessman

I flatten a hand on his chest to stop him.

Fifty apiece, I tell the bus. He wants to play? Fine. Well play.

Sixty, he counters, and I can see in his hard eyes hes not budging. And the jackets mine. Itll look good on my nephew.

He tilts his chin at Henry, whose hand stalls on his zipper midway up his chest.

My jacket? Henry asks weakly.

Deal, I say, tugging it off Henrys back. He resists for only a moment, then gives in.

Its vintage, so youll want to be

He makes a sound like hes dying when the bus snatches it out of his hands. I drag Henry down the hall before he can make a scene.

That was my lucky coat, Henry laments, looking over his shoulder.

We all have to make sacrifices, Dolph.

Got to keep your coat, he mutters.

With the bouncer behind us, my pulse quickens, bringing a grim smile to my lips. I know I shouldnt enjoy this as much as I dotoo much hangs in the balancebut running game feels right in a way few other things do. Maybe Im an adrenaline junkie.

Maybe I was born to be a con.

The linoleum beneath our feet is yellowed and warped around the corners. When we reach a metal staircase, our gazes follow the noise downstairs.

In the center of the room below, two men, already shirtless and bloodied, face off with bare knuckles. One has a tattoo across his back of a coiled rattlesnake. The other is a head taller, with a forehead the size of a three-car garage. Their makeshift ring is marked by orange traffic cones and rope, and behind the rows of jeering fans, cardboard boxes marked with NightStars logo have been shoved against a conveyer belt.

Snake Tattoo strikes, and a spray of crimson erupts from Foreheads nose.

Im positive there are at least five health code violations happening right now, Henry says, wincing.

My chin lifts toward the opposite side of the catwalk, where a group of guys hover near the railing. Two of them are muscle, meant only to guard the bookiea short man dressed in black, sucking on the end of a toothpick. The rest are pointing at the fight below.