With the recently acquired engine purring between her thighs Dilyn propped up her aviators and gave the rundown shack a cold eye. The mechanics of the artificial lens hummed, scanning from left to right for heat signatures. There was twelve total, two more than the number of bikes parked tightly together out front, where a neon sign flashed Full Throttle. The hoots, hollers, and sound of breaking glass inside confirmed the obvious: biker bar. Great. This was supposed to be easy. Okay. Maybe not easy. More like in and out. Clean cut. Little mess. No death. Tell that to the monstrosity she’d been tailing for weeks. Mr. fucking didn’t get the memo. It was all cat and mouse, where she was the goddamn rodent stupid enough to give chase (right into the metaphorical fucking vipers den) and he just smugly gloated over the game of it. Reaper-man was right. Shoulda went with the rifle. The handgun tranq had seemed like the obvious choice, it could be concealed, and didn’t require the steadiness of a sniper but meant close combat and so far she hadn’t gotten within range— at least nowhere that wasn’t overtly public. Eleven was too many bystanders. She’d have to try and flush him out of the building. Waiting wasn’t an option. That’d require too much patience. Killing the engine Dilyn slid off the bike (that Donny had miraculously procured) and took a gamble on risking entrance, storming the door with motorcycle boots that crunched gravel and hands bunched in pockets, ignoring her fear. Inside the fluorescents were dim and flickered ominously, the only thing more noticeable the stench of stale beer and day old b.o that competed to overpower the room in a level of rank that would normally have her walk out the door. Right now it didn't fucking matter. Neither did the dark. His heat signature gave him away. It was the only one with a cold blue arm. The only one without a potbelly, for that matter. Not that it discredited the threat of the leather clad men. A quick scan indicated they were nearly all armed, even the tart who acted like she was passed around, and nobody was suited up more so than the bartender. Please don’t let this be a club’s home bar. To her horror, the patches on most of their backs matched the insignia on the walls. Wonderful.
Maybe it was just a coincidence. She made it halfway to the hybrid before feeling eyes on her. Multiple sets. There goes not getting noticed. Dilyn swallowed, mentally ran through the gambit of curses and cast a nervous glance around, but didn’t stop progressing towards her target. One who appeared remarkably calm for a man whose dossier was covered in warnings of being unpredictably volatile.
Surprising.
Even more surprising, only one drunk tried to get all touchy feely but he was easily diverted with a shove and a gritty “I’ll cut ‘em off next time.” Still. She shouldn’t have been so relieved to reach her target.
But she was. Couldn’t help it with so many eyes on her. Casually taking up the adjacent bar-stool, Dilyn sprawled out her elbows and stared straight ahead, avoiding looking at the fucker she had no idea how she was going to bring in. There shoulda been a whole squat team assigned to this. “If you wanted a date, you could have picked a better bar,” the bounty hunter griped, sarcasm as thick as molasses as fingers twitched for a knife. “Look it’s been fun, but games over.” Dilyn drawled, tapping an impatient rhythm out against the counter. “Time you just come with me.” Hah. Unlikely, but the easy way was always worth a shot.
