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Zeke
“I’m looking for Raguel.”
Without lifting his head, Zeke Ericsson glanced up from the intricate backpiece he was inking at the mention of the name. The brief glimpse was enough to take a mental snapshot he could study at his leisure.
Zeke returned his gaze to the skin under his machine. The young woman who’d spoken was barely out of her teens, if that. Her clothes were fashionably appropriate, but too new and nice for this section of town. The shoes alone were enough to get her jacked. She wasn’t the type who typically came into Snake’s shop, looking for ink late at night, but she was trying to make it appear as if she was. And if she was asking for Raguel, she had come seeking something else.
Exactly how she’d known to come to Snake’s, he didn’t know. Zeke sometimes picked up some side jobs—for a fee, of course—and eventually, word got around.
He tuned in to her voice while his hand moved with skill, shading in a talon to make it look as if the dragon’s claw was lifting right off the guy’s back. Zeke was known for his 3D effects. This one, apparently, was the last one he’d do in this town.
“Sorry, kid,” Snake rumbled from the station closer to the front, his voice rough like the engine of the Chopper he rode. “No one here by that name.”
Zeke could feel her eyes scanning the room. Knew the moment they landed on him. And stayed there. He pretended to be unaware.
“Well, if he does show up, tell him I need to speak with him. It’s important. Really important. I’ll be at the twenty-four-hour diner down the street. Oh, and I have cash.”
She added the last almost as an afterthought, then turned and went back out the way she came, taking the weight of her gaze with her, but he’d gotten the message.
“Crazy bitch,” Snake muttered.
She sure was, Zeke thought, if she expected to garner his services. Maybe she was legit. Probably not.
He finished the tat and cleaned the guy up, and then handed him a mirror and led him to the full-length three-way to check out the final product.
“It’s fucking awesome, man,” the guy said, bumping elbows appreciatively.
Zeke was glad he’d been able to finish the backpiece. It had taken six months and as many sessions, but it had come out beautifully.
He wiped down his station and cleaned his tools, quietly slipping his favorite machines into protective cases and stuffing them into his backpack while Snake flipped the Open sign to Closed.
Snake reached into the till and handed him a wad of bills—his share of the take for the day. Zeke brought a lot of business into the shop, but Snake kept a substantial cut for himself. Zeke didn’t care. He’d worked in worse places for less pay, and Snake was a decent enough guy.
“Are you heading to the diner?” Snake asked.
Though they’d never actually spoken about it, Snake had his suspicions about who Raguel was. Snake was a sharp guy and knew a lot about what went on in his town. But Zeke had learned his lessons well, and right there at the top was, trust no one. Raguel was a shadowy, unidentifiable figure for a reason.
Zeke paused, turned, and looked Snake right in the eye. “Why would I?”
Snake scratched the back of his neck. He tended to do that when he was anxious. Zeke’s gut hummed with warning, just as it always did when something didn’t feel right.
“Seems like she’s looking for help.”
“Unless she’s looking for ink, I can’t help her. Maybe not even then. She looks like a screamer.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Snake exhaled and dropped the subject. “See you tomorrow.”
Doubtful.
When his gut started humming, it was time to get out of Dodge. He’d ignored his instincts once, and the consequences had been devastating. It was yet another life lesson that had been indelibly engraved on his soul—listen to your instincts.
Aloud, he said, “Yeah, maybe.”
Snake laughed, but that sounded off too. Tense. Worried. Anything that made a big, tough guy like Snake tense or worried didn’t bode well.
Zeke avoided the diner, choosing instead to take the scenic route back to the cheap motel, where he’d been parking his ass. His plan: grab his go bag and get the fuck out.
With only a block to go, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled in warning, seconds before two guys stepped out of the shadows.
Zeke recognized the two as enforcers for a local mobster who went by the name of Fat Tony. Fat Tony thought a lot of himself, but it was simply a case of a little bit of power going to a guy’s head. He was middle management in the grand scheme of things. He had neither the smarts nor the balls to be anything more. The only reason he was in the position he was, was because he’d married the boss’s sister.
Raguel might have had something to do with putting one of Fat Tony’s guys in the hospital when the guy had been squeezing the local mom-and-pop store a little too hard. Usually, Zeke charged a premium for side jobs, but that one, he’d done pro bono.
“The boss wants to have a word with you,” the shorter, stockier thug said.
Your boss, not my boss, you piece of shit. “About what?”
“Doesn’t fucking matter, does it?” asked the taller one. “The boss wants to talk, you come and talk.”
Zeke weighed his options, then nodded. “Sure. Yeah. I’m not doing anything anyway.”
The short guy chuckled. “See? I knew you were a smart guy. Didn’t I tell you he was a smart guy, Vin?”
* * *
Less than an hour later, Zeke was back to his original plan: grabbing his shit and ghosting.
No good deed goes unpunished, he murmured to himself. One of these days, he was going to learn his lesson. Still, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He’d always had a soft spot for underdogs.
He passed the diner on the way to the bus station and saw the girl who’d come into Snake’s shop earlier, sitting in front of the window, frowning at her phone. In openly seeking Raguel, she’d ensured his departure.
Raguel. The archangel of justice.
Zeke put his head down and continued on. He was no archangel, but he did have a problem with people who used their power and influence to hurt others. Like Fat Tony and his enforcers, who built their fortunes by extorting honest, hardworking people.
Their mantra: pay or pay.
It was the same everywhere. Big cities, small towns, the fucking US government. The rich and powerful wanted to stay that way and would do so by any means necessary, including destroying the lives of good people.
He’d seen it his whole life. First in the trailer park, where he’d spent a good part of his youth, then later in the service as a special ops man. He’d had a front row seat to more than one show. Even gotten to star in a few himself.
These days, he stuck to the shadows. He did his best work behind the scenes. Contract work was always available, and it helped him keep his skills sharp. The government had invested a lot in his training and development. Seemed a damn shame to let it all go to waste.
Zeke made it to the bus station and bought a ticket for the next coach out. The destination was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was being gone before someone discovered that his meeting with Fat Tony and the boys had ended badly—for them, obviously.
By the time he stepped off the bus ten hours later, he was two states away from where he’d started. He found a dive motel next to a fast-food place, paid cash, and got himself a room.
He took the necessary precautions, which included securing the room and crafting an escape plan. Both had become second nature. After getting a hot shower and wolfing down some food, he turned on the television and allowed himself to relax enough to fall into a deep sleep.