Nick wondered if she had any idea how hard it was for him to face what was on the other side of that door. “Whatever.”

“And if there are any punches thrown,” she added as she pulled the door open, “I’ll throw them.”

That brought the ghost of a smile to his face. It faded as soon as they stepped in.

Rachel had been right. It was a slow night, as it often was in the middle of the week. Most of the regulars had already headed off to home and hearth. A few diehards lingered at the bar, which Zack was manning alone. Lola was busy wiping down the tables. She glanced up, shot Rachel a satisfied look, then went back to work.

Zack took a pull from a bottle of mineral water. Rachel saw his eyes change, recognized the relief in them before the shutters came down.

“Hey, barkeep—” Rachel slid onto a stool “—got any coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Make it two,” she said, sending a meaningful glance in Nick’s direction.

He said nothing, but he did sit beside her.

“There’s an old Ukrainian tradition,” she began when Zack set the cups on the bar. “It’s called a family meeting. Are you up for it?”

“Yeah.” Zack inclined his head toward his brother. “I guess I can handle it. What about you?”

“I’m here,” Nick muttered.

“Hey.” A man, obviously well on his way to being drunk, leaned heavily on the bar a few stools away. “Am I going to get another bourbon over here?”

“Nope.” Carrying the pot, Zack crossed over. “But you can have coffee on the house.”

The man scowled through red-rimmed eyes. “What the hell are you, a social worker?”

“That’s me.”

“I said I want a damn drink.”

“You’re not going to get another one here.”

The drunk reached out and grabbed a handful of Zack’s sweater. Considering Zack’s size, Rachel took this to be a testament to the bourbon already in his system.

“This a bar or a church?”

Something flickered in Zack’s eyes. Rachel recognized it, and was slipping out of her seat when Nick clamped a warning hand on hers.

“He’ll handle it,” he said simply.

Zack lowered his gaze to the hands on his sweater, then shifted it back to the irate customer’s face. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly mild. “Funny you should ask. I knew this guy once, down in New Orleans. He favored bourbon, too. One night he went from bar to bar, knocking them back, then staggering back out on the street. Story goes that he got so blind drunk he wandered into a church, thinking it was another bar. Weaved his way up to the front—you know, where the altar is? Slammed his fist down and ordered himself a double. Then he dropped dead. Stone dead.” Zack pried the fingers from his sweater. “The way I figure it, if you drink enough bourbon so you don’t know where you are, you could wake up dead in church.”

The man swore and snatched up the coffee. “I know where the hell I am.”

“That’s good news. We hate hauling out corpses.”

Rachel heard Nick’s muffled chuckle and grinned. “Truth or lie?” she whispered.

“Probably some of both. He always knows how to handle the drunks.”

“He wasn’t doing very well with the blonde earlier.”

“What blonde?”

“Another story,” Rachel said, and smiled into her coffee. “Another time. Listen, would you be more comfortable doing this upstairs, or—” She broke off when she heard a crash from the kitchen. “Lord, it sounds like Rio knocked over the refrigerator.” She started to rise and go check. Then froze. The kitchen door swung open. Rio staggered out, blood running down his face from a wound on his forehead. Behind him was a man in a stocking mask. He was holding a very large gun to Rio’s throat.

“Party time,” he snarled, then shoved the big man forward with the butt of the gun.

“Jumped me,” Rio said in disgust as he staggered against the bar. “Come in front upstairs.”

There was a quick giggle as two more armed men, their features distorted by their nylon masks, stepped in. “Don’t anybody move.” One of them accentuated the order by blasting away at the ship’s bell over the bar. It clanged wildly.

“Lock the front door, you jerk.” The first man gestured furiously. “And no shooting unless I say so. Everybody empty their pockets on the bar. Make it fast.” He gestured the third man into position so that the whole bar was covered. “Wallets, jewelry, too. Hey, you.” He lifted the barrel of the gun toward Lola. “Dump out those tips, sweetheart. You look like you’d earn plenty.”

Nick didn’t move. Couldn’t. He knew the voice. Despite the distorted features, all three gunmen were easy for him to recognize. T.J.’s giggle and shambling walk. Cash’s battered denim jacket. The scar on Reece’s wrist where an Hombre blade had caught him.

These were his friends. His family.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded as T.J. pranced around the bar, scooping the take into a laundry bag.

“Empty them,” Reece demanded.

“You’ve got to be crazy.”

“Do it!” He swung the barrel toward Rachel. “And shut the hell up.”

Nick kept his eyes on Reece as he complied. “This is the end, man. You crossed the line.”

Behind the mask, Reece only grinned. “On the floor!” he shouted. “Facedown, hands behind your heads. Not you,” he said to Zack. “You empty out the cash register. And you—” he grabbed Rachel’s arm “—you look like mighty fine insurance. Anybody gets any ideas, I cash her in.”

“Leave her the hell—”

“Nick!” Zack’s quick and quiet order cut him off. “Back off.” As he emptied the till, he watched Reece. “You don’t need her.”

“But I like her.”

Rachel swallowed as the hand tightened on her arm, squeezing experimentally.

“Fresh meat,” he called out, smacking his lips. T.J. erupted into giggles. “Maybe we’ll take you along with us, sweet thing. Show you a real good time.”

The furious retort burned the tip of her tongue. Rachel gritted her teeth against it. The heel of her foot on his instep, she thought. An elbow to his windpipe. She could do it, and the idea of taking him out had her blood pumping fast. But if she did, she knew the other two would open fire.