An illusion, a shadow, a story (4)

"We're here to see Mr. Costa," Winston said to the hostess.

She eyed him thoughtfully, taking in the well-muscled body of the young man, accentuated by tight black jeans and a snug fitting long-sleeved black T under a black leather vest. "Names, please then I'll see if he's available."

"Just tell him we're friends of the man he sent his goons after earlier today."

"Right, that should impress the hell out of him," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Do it," Fletcher said, his voice softly menacing.

"Alright, alright. Wait at the bar."

Fletcher looked at his brother. "Shall we follow her?"

"Damned straight."

They did, crossing the room, dodging between players at the tables as they trailed the hostess toward the back of the club. She stopped to knock at a door in the far corner.

"Allow us," Winston said from beside her, giving it a solid kick just below the doorknob with one booted foot.

The door crashed open revealing a large well appointed office. Two burly men jumped to their feet, reaching for their guns. The third occupant was an obese male dressed in a too-tight suit, rolls of flesh almost hiding the collar of his shirt.

Fletcher's semiautomatic guns, cocked and ready to fire, pointed at the two bodyguards as he slid to one side of the room, while Winston's was aimed at the fat man, the red laser dot centered on his forehead. He kicked the door closed behind him.

"I would suggest you tell your goons to drop their weapons Costa."

When the man shook his head slightly Fletcher grinned. "Gee Win, looks like I get target practice." He let loose a round, watching as it tore up the fancy parquet flooring at one of the men's feet. The man jumped back, swearing. "Drop it, now," Fletcher ordered. He caught movement from the second man out of the corner of his eye and put a well placed round into the man's knee. "Bet that hurt," he chuckled as the man collapsed, screaming in pain.

While Fletcher dealt with the two bodyguards Winston circled the desk, keeping his gun trained on Costa until he was close enough to press the blade of the knife he held in his other hand under what passed for the man's chin. "Move your hands again and you'll be wearing this as a new piece of jewelry," he growled, pressing the blade up until it drew blood.  

Costa's hands froze where they were, one just inches from the alarm button on the underside of his desk.