My Boss Sent Hitmen To Silence Me — He Didn’t Know I Hid In His Rival’s Bar
Part 1
The brass bell above the heavy pub doors didn’t just ring.
It screamed as I threw my weight against the wood.
When I stumbled over the threshold clutching my bleeding side, the jukebox instantly went dead.
The man behind the mahogany counter didn’t ask for my name.
He didn’t ask who had just put a bullet in me.
He just reached under the bar and casually racked the slide of a pistol.
The rain was lashing against the frosted front windows, blurring the neon glow of the streetlights outside.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale bourbon and old wood.
He sat at the far end of the long bar, illuminated only by a dim banker’s lamp.
To anyone walking past, he was just a quiet man running a struggling dive bar in the industrial district.
To the people hunting me, he was a nightmare waiting to happen.
It was close to midnight when I shattered the silence of his empty establishment.
I definitely didn’t look like a regular customer.
My tailored charcoal blazer was soaked through with freezing rain.
The silk blouse underneath was clinging to my shivering frame.
But it was the dark, rapidly expanding stain on my right side that commanded his attention.
I took two agonizing steps forward, my eyes wide with a frantic terror.
My knees finally buckled under the unbearable weight of the pain.
The man didn’t gasp or shout in panic.
Decades of surviving in a brutal world had clearly rewired his nervous system.
In one fluid motion, his right hand curled around the cold grip of his weapon.
He barked a sharp command to the young bartender, sending the terrified kid sprinting for the kitchen.
Then he vaulted the bar with an athletic grace that completely defied his heavy build.
He reached me just as I collapsed against the edge of a booth.
I was gasping for air, my breath hitching in a wet, ragged rhythm.
My blood-stained fingers were desperately clutching a waterproof leather satchel to my chest like a life preserver.
I tried to stammer out an apology, but he immediately ordered me to stay silent.
He hauled me up with surprising gentleness and dragged me behind the thick, bullet-resistant oak of the main bar.
Pressing his hand over the wound, the heat of my injury radiated against his palm.
He reached up with his free hand and slammed the heavy iron bolt on the front door shut.
A second later, he hit a switch under the counter, plunging the entire pub into near total darkness.
He asked for my name, his voice a steady, calming rumble that cut through my rising panic.
I choked it out just as he pulled a heavy-duty trauma kit from a hidden compartment.
He warned me it was going to hurt before ripping the fabric of my blouse away.
Without waiting for my permission, he packed the wound tightly with medical gauze.
I let out a muffled shriek as my body arched involuntarily off the floor.
My grip on the leather satchel finally slipped, and it tumbled onto the damp rubber mat.
He bound my torso tightly, but his eyes never left the frosted windows facing the street.
My trembling hand reached up and grabbed the dark lapel of his shirt.
I warned him that three men were coming.
His tone was chillingly detached as he simply told me to let them come.
Standing up, he towered over my prone form and checked the magazine of his weapon.
The metallic click echoed loudly in the silent, darkened room.
Outside, the heavy, rhythmic splashing of footsteps hitting the rain-flooded pavement cut through the night.
Three broad-shouldered shadows detached themselves from the darkness across the street.
They were wearing heavy coats that concealed thick tactical gear.
The man crouched low behind the bar, sliding a long suppressor onto the barrel of a secondary weapon.
He told me to keep my head down and cover my ears.
The rattle of the front door handle was distinctly metallic and impatient.
When the heavy iron bolt refused to yield, they didn’t bother picking the lock.
A massive force slammed into the wood, tearing the door from its frame and sending it crashing onto the floor.
Rain and cold wind instantly rushed into the room, bringing the smell of wet asphalt.
Two men stepped over the threshold, their tactical flashlights cutting blinding arcs through the darkness.
They never even saw the man behind the bar move.
He didn’t aim for their chests, knowing they were likely wearing Kevlar vests.
The suppressed weapon coughed twice in rapid succession.
The lead man dropped instantly, a hollow-point round shattering his kneecap.
The second man pivoted, firing blindly toward the brief muzzle flash.
Wood splintered above the bar, showering the floor with dust and debris.
But the man who saved me had already shifted his position, moving like a ghost through the shadows.
He closed the distance in three long strides and viciously drove the butt of his handgun into the intruder’s temple.
The third man outside took one look at the brutal decimation of his team and sprinted away into the rain.
The pub owner stood in the doorway for a long moment, perfectly calm, before dragging the unconscious men into the alley.
He returned to the bar and crouched beside me.
I was fading fast from the blood loss.
He effortlessly lifted me into his arms, grabbed my satchel, and carried me through a hidden door.
We descended a concrete stairwell into a sterile, soundproofed bunker beneath the pub.
He hooked me up to an IV, then turned his attention to my torn satchel.
Inside were stacks of financial ledgers and a heavily encrypted hard drive.
I watched his eyes narrow as he recognized the account numbers.
They were the master laundering ledgers for Craig Sullivan, a brutal mob boss who had been taking over the city.
When I gasped awake an hour later, the pain was a dull ache.
He was sitting in a leather armchair, a glass of scotch in one hand and my ledger in the other.
I realized with horror that he recognized the emblem on the accounts.
The heavy silver signet ring on his right hand confirmed my worst fear.
I had run from the men trying to kill me, only to lock myself inside the vault of the most dangerous man in the city.
