Blood Lines by Mel Odom Page A

and sports announcers.
    The woman looked at him and smiled. “You don’t seem the type.”
    Shel smiled back and stepped toward the counter. His gaze took in the closed-circuit monitor hanging from the wall.
    â€œAnd what type do I seem like to you?” Shel asked.
    The woman folded her arms and leaned a hip against the counter. “Mama’s boy. Joe Average. Joe Military.”
    Shel knew he couldn’t help looking military. Even when he was in disguise—even better ones than his current effort—he still looked like a Marine poster boy.
    â€œActually,” the young woman went on, “you look like you could be some superhero’s secret identity.”
    Terrific, Shel thought. But he kept his smile in place. “Actually, it’s worse than that.”
    She cocked an eyebrow and waited.
    â€œI’m afraid of needles,” Shel said conspiratorially.
    The woman looked at him askance. “A big guy like you?”
    â€œI know. Shameful, isn’t it?”
    â€œWell . . .”
    Shel nodded and shrugged. “If I hadn’t met this girl, and if she wasn’t into tattoos, I wouldn’t be here tonight.” He paused. “And I have to be honest—unless I see something I really want, I’m not even getting one.”
    â€œA girl, huh?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œPretty?”
    â€œYeah.” Shel shrugged again. “I guess that makes me sound pretty dumb, huh?”
    â€œAs long as you don’t do anything really stupid, you should be okay.”
    â€œWhat’s really stupid?” Shel asked.
    â€œGetting her name tattooed on you. Then you have to explain to all your other girlfriends why you got that one’s name . . . wherever you put it.”
    â€œMaybe I won’t show it to them.”
    The young woman grinned. “Oh, they’ll look for it. I would.”
    â€œI could just date only girls with that name,” Shel suggested.
    â€œRight.” The woman took a book down from a shelf over the counter. “Got some designs here you might like. Small. Distinctive.” She looked at his biceps. “Big as your arms are, I’d check out some tribal tats. That would look cool.”
    Shel grinned again. He’d learned a long time ago that women of all ages liked his grin.
    Noise erupted from the back. The door opened, and Bobby Lee Gant stepped into the room with a 9 mm pistol tightly gripped in his fist. He was young and thin, at least twenty pounds too light for his five-foot, nine-inch frame. He wore holey jeans, square-toed boots, a Confederate flag bandanna that held back his greasy hair, and a motorcycle jacket without a shirt. Drops of blood glinted in the center of a tattoo of a skull with a rose clenched in its teeth. Lorna was inscribed beneath the skull.
    â€œHey, Bobby Lee,” a gruff voice said. “Get back in here, bro.”
    Judging from the young man’s jerky reactions and his unfocused gaze, Shel figured Bobby Lee was higher than a kite. Shel didn’t move. Beside him, Max set himself, hunkering low and getting prepared to separate and go for the pistol.
    Shel signed to Max, and the dog sat with a quiet but forlorn whimper. Max wasn’t used to quietly sitting out while guns were in evidence.
    Bobby Lee whipped his pistol toward Shel. “Get your hands up!”

    >> 2033 Hours
    When Remy saw three unmarked sedans suddenly whip by the end of the alley, he knew something had gone badly wrong. Or was about to. He slid his Beretta out from under his shirt and held it ready as he catfooted through the alley toward the tattoo parlor’s rear exit.
    His cell phone buzzed against his hip. He braced against the wall in the deepening dark of the approaching evening and slid the phone out so he could read the caller ID as it buzzed again.
    A loud voice sounded inside the shop. Someone screamed.
    Caller ID showed that the call was coming from NCIS