Page 25 of Ace of Shadows
“The fuck is that?”
“The fuck is what?” asks the man behind me dealing with the water.
“That. On his chest.” He walks forward and shoves away the man with the knife, then points at my chest. “He’s got a tattoo.”
“We’ve all got tattoos,” snarls the knife-wielding maniac.
“No, look at it, you fucking idiot.”
All three men merge in front of me and stare at the small tattoo on my left pec. It’s a four-sided diamond with a small capital A woven into the top of the diamond.
“So he’s got a diamond tattoo?” The knife man sneers. “It’s fucking shit.”
“It’s the Ace,” says one, a damp cloth dangling from one of his hands.
“Nah,” says the man I’m going to kill. “He ain’t the Ace. What are you, some fucking fan or something?”
“No,” says the cloth man. “That’s the Ace tattoo. I know it!”
“Bullshit,” says the knife man. “The Ace is some old man in his sixties who smokes like a chimney and never goes anywhere without that old bulldog of his.”
The knife man is correct, to an extent. The old Ace was sixty-three and desperate for retirement when he was given his cancer diagnosis. He melted into the background of life when I took over six months ago, so my face is fresh to most.
“Tell him,” the knife man demands, brandishing his blade. “Tell him you’re not the Ace.”
I remain silent, watching them through a slight daze.
Cloth man suddenly spins on the spot and darts into the shadows. When he comes back, my wallet is in his hands, and he pulls out the biometric ID card that tells the world I can do what I want, go where I want, and no one can say shit. Even in this dull light, the ACE symbol matching my tattoo will be easy to see.
“Dude,” the cloth guy gasps. “He’s got the fucking— dude, we’re in so much shi?—”
His head explodes in a fountain of blood and gore, making his two companions jump out of their skin. The cloth falls from hishand, he takes a single step, and then he crumples to the ground like a balloon rapidly losing all its air.
The other two men scramble for their guns but a familiar, cold voice cuts through the air.
“Do it,” she says. “Pull out that gun and let me rob Ace of the kill he wantssobadly.”
She steps forward, melting out of the dark, and just behind her, the door lies open and framed by the men she brought with her.
“Queen,” gasps the knife man, and he instantly drops the knife.
Valentina keeps her silver handgun trained on him and glances down. “Pick that up,” she says coldly. “And untie him. And then you’re going to spend the next hour telling me why the hell you’ve drawn blood from a member of the Fifth Suit.”
I keep my attention locked on the man who threatened to rape Ivy. He takes a half step back but it’s too late. The second the ropes are free from my wrists and ankles, I launch myself up from the chair and tackle him down onto the stone floor sprayed with my blood.
Pain is a distant thought. Even the throbbing ache from my knife wounds fades as adrenaline surges through me and I seal both hands around his throat like a tight noose and squeeze.
I squeeze so tight that my forearms bulge while digging both my thumbs forcefully into his windpipe. He chokes and gags, his legs kick out against the ground behind me, and his hands claw at my wrists in desperation.
Tighter and tighter I squeeze while soundless gasps escape his parted lips. His eyes bulge and as his face turns purple, I slowly lean down.
“Tell me again how sweet you think her pussy is,” I growl. The pressure becomes too much and his windpipe caves under my strength just as my thumbnails pierce into his neck. Skin splits, tissue collapses, and small bones crush while blood spurts up over my hands.
He dies with his mouth open and his eyes on me, staring down at him with all the hatred I can muster for someone as sick as him. I stay there, crushing his throat until his hands fall limply to the side. Only then do I climb to my feet, pick up the rag discarded by the man Valentina shot, and face her.
The knife man cowers next to her, pale and secured by one of her guards.
“You good?” she asks, looking me up and down with a wince.
