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two.
THE BARTENDER HAS
HIDDEN DEPTHS
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SHE KNOWS THERE IS SOMETHING wrong before she even closes the door behind her.
Tate and Ronan's apartment isn't in the nicest or swankiest part of town by any means, but they generally don't have to worry about break-ins. Every external door requires a key to open and each residence is locked by a keypad. That is to say— it's not the easiest or most convenient place to rob, so most criminals don't even try.
But when Tatum first opens the door, she can feel a disturbance in the air. The hair on the back of her neck stands straight up and tickles the base of her low bun. Is it just her imagination, or is the door a little easier to open than before? Usually, there's a perpetual drag that she has to counteract with a bit of force, but now it glides open like butter.
It's late. She's just gotten off work. The apartment is dark, but Tate uses the light from the hallway to make a quick yet subtle scan of the entryway before she closes the door. And she sees it: in the living room just beyond the small kitchen, there is a silhouette on the sofa. It's only visible because it's slightly darker than the rest of the room, disrupting the flow of shadows throughout the area.
It's clear that the person thinks they have the element of surprise on their side. Refusing to allow them that upper hand, she pretends she doesn't notice anything is wrong and closes the front door, shrouding the apartment in black. Tate walks toward the kitchen and acts like she's going to set her bag on the counter. In reality, she remains in the hallway and flings her keys at the intruder, hoping that her quick assessment of their proportions would mean she aimed for the face, and flips the light on just before they land.
A masculine voice cries out when the assortment of keys smacks him directly in the target area. The intruder shields his eyes against the unexpected burst of light, giving Tate the perfect opportunity to aim a swift kick to the side of his head. It makes him jerk toward the coffee table but doesn't send him sprawling to the floor as she'd hoped. Instead, she decides to take the risk of getting closer to send a right hook to the other part of his face.
He catches her fist in his hand even while his eyes are still recovering. Tate doesn't waste a second, using the leverage to send her foot flying into his gut. Then she grabs his arm, crouches down, and throws him over her back so he lands on the wooden floor with a grotesque thud.
She feels victorious for about a second before she goes right down with him.
The man seizes her ankle and pulls her off-balance. Tate smacks onto the sofa when her feet fly out from underneath her. It would have been a soft landing if it hadn't been on the less-padded corner of the cushion, jabbing the wooden base of the couch into her gut. A grunt of pain escapes her when the wind threatens to exit her lungs. She steadies herself even as her body hits the floor.
This is how Ronan comes home to Tate holding the intruder in a headlock with the rest of his body rendered immobile as he gasps for air. Her roommate blinks in surprise before dropping his keys and ripping his headphones out of his ears, his eyes going wide.
"Tate!" he exclaims, rushing over to help her and possibly throttle this guy into next Tuesday, but she waves him off with her free hand.
"I got this," she assures him breathlessly.
"Do you want me to call the police?" He's already reaching into his pocket for his phone.
Tate shakes her head. "Go take a walk. Get more eggs or something. Give us thirty minutes."
Ronan's expression turns incredulous now. "Do you know this guy?"
"I'm about to."
Surprisingly, he listens, though it's probably because he knows that Tate is really weird and this might be her unique way of making friends, or he's just too tired to deal with this after his shift. Soon the apartment is back to being just her and the mysterious man held in her death grip.
She addresses him through gritted teeth. "I am going to release you. Try anything, and I will count all of the bones in your body by breaking every single one of them."
The man moves in a way that might be an attempt at a nod. Tate lets him out of the headlock, allowing him to suck in a gasp of oxygen and roll up into a sitting position on the floor. She quickly places herself higher than him by perching on the edge of the sofa.
There's a reason why she sent Ronan away instead of letting him help her beat this random guy's ass. This isn't a one-off break-in. Robbers usually aren't waiting for their victims to get home by sitting in their living rooms. No, this man wants to speak with her, and the timing can't be a coincidence.
Still, to remind him that she isn't playing games, Tate removes a switchblade from her coat pocket and flips it open. The man, continuing to recover from his cut-off oxygen supply, glances back at her and coughs in surprise when he sees the knife.
"Jesus," he says. "Is that within state regulations?"
Tate raises her eyebrows. "Want to find out?"
The guy realizes he's not going to get whatever he came here for without explaining himself. He turns around to face her, raising his hands in surrender to show he's not a threat. Tate calls bullshit, but she'll humor him for now.
She quickly analyzes his features. Salt-and-pepper hair, a face starting to become imprinted with wrinkles, tanned skin, and dark eyes. He's wearing clothes that aren't flashy, but are noticeably nice. Well-made. Possibly hand-tailored. He is a man with money, and that is hardly ever a good sign.
Then Tate realizes that she knows this white guy who's just broken into her apartment. He's not random, and she was right— this is not a chance encounter.
"I'm Victor Sullivan," the man says in a clearer voice.
"I know who you are."
Tate has kept tabs on her sister from the shadows, learning what she's after and figuring out where her greed has taken her next. It had once brought Jo to Victor. They'd worked together on a plot to find something valuable that Tate has since forgotten the name of, not so much partners, but more like two people working toward a common goal.
Tate had learned that Jo cared about the man in front of her more than she had ever cared about her own sister. When Victor had broken her heart, she'd been devastated. Yet she shot Tate without blinking her eye.
Victor Sullivan — or, as she learned during her past research, Sully — tilts his head to the side in questioning.
"I keep tabs on everything my sister does," Tate explains. She gives him an unimpressed once-over. "You being one of the more questionable of those things."
Sully rolls his eyes, tearing his gaze away from the switchblade still aimed at him. He focuses his attention on the books that are everywhere: neatly organized on shelves against the walls, in small piles on the coffee table, stacked two feet high and one foot across in the corner because Tate stopped finding room for them on the shelves or the coffee table. Books about the history of all continents and all periods, books on medicine, books on philosophy, books set in fantasy worlds, books in multiple languages. It looks like the abode of a hoarder of literature.
"Then I'm assuming you know she's back in town," he replies once he allows his eyes to travel back to her. She nods. "What about what she's after?"
Tate swallows, trying to hide the fact that a part of her had jumped at the notion of receiving more knowledge on Jo's latest schemes. She keeps her face carefully blank to disguise her interest. "I haven't gotten that far yet."
"What if I told you I know what it is?"
"I would ask what it is you want."
Tate is not stupid. She knows how the people in this walk of life work— an eye for an eye, never doing anything without wanting something in return. For giving up this piece of knowledge, Sully will expect an exchange. But why come to her? Tate had abandoned this path the moment her sister had shot her. She was sixteen then. Now she's twenty-four and aside from obsessively stalking Jo, she's put that life behind her.
Sully's careful stare examines her as well. Just because he's letting her maintain the upper hand doesn't mean she should underestimate him. She would be a fool to do so. No, he's sitting still on the blue rug in the center of her living room because he wants to show her he's cooperating.
"Just to reach her goal before she does," he finally answers.
Tate doesn't believe him. There has to be something else he's seeking— fame, fortune, or some other third thing she doesn't care about. People like him rarely do things for the thrill of it. They want something tangible, something shiny, something to show off.
But damn, if she doesn't feel something spark from deep within her that begs her to ask more questions, burning with an age-old desire to one-up her sister.
"Which is...?" Tate pries, refusing to be left in the dark with his elusive half-truths.
"Ferdinand Magellan's gold."
She blinks. Processes this. Then laughs a sharp, abrupt cackle, relaxing her grip on the switchblade.
"That was lost centuries ago," she says. "Come on. You're saying that one of the most famous people in history, who found a fuck ton of gold, just left it sitting out there?"
"Not on purpose."
"It doesn't exist. You're an even bigger idiot than I thought."
"Fine." Sully throws his hands up in surrender again. "You don't have to believe me, but I have my sources, and I'm not one to chase leads unless I'm confident in them. Neither is your sister."
Tate stiffens once more.
Seeming to notice this, he continues, "You don't have to be in it for the gold. You could just keep her off our trail."
"Why me, though?" she asks. "I don't do this thing. I don't Indiana-Jones-around looking for treasure."
"First, Indiana Jones is not a verb. Second, because I'm looking for fresh eyes. You're not my only potential recruit. I've got my eye on someone else I'm looking to add to the team."
Tate considers this, mulling over her options. One: stay at home, petrified that one of her sister's hitmen will gun her down this week, but living an otherwise normal life. Two: face Jo head-on, get revenge, and possibly beat her at her own game.
She allows herself to imagine it. The look on Jo's face when Tate dangles her beloved treasure right in front of her face, refusing to let her take it. The satisfaction that will feel better than getting high off any drug as Tate crushes her dreams. When she reveals that though Jo had tried to bury her six feet below ground, she had lived, and now she's coming back for blood.
Maybe people like Sully aren't in things like this for the thrill of it, but Tate just might be.
She squints. "How much would I have to spend?"
"All expenses paid."
Well, that about does it for her. Tate holds out her hand for him to shake.
"Deal."
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"You have got to be shitting me."
This is the first thing that Tatum says when she walks into Sully's penthouse and sees her bartender.
Nathan turns at the sound of her voice, his eyebrows creasing as he gives her a once-over. "Tate?"
Sully points between the two of them. "You two know each other?"
"He's my bartender," Tate answers. She'd shown up because Sully had provided his address so she could meet the other recruit, and... "He's your other recruit?"
"Well, you don't have to sound so surprised," Nathan says, mildly offended by her tone.
"Sorry." She shakes her head. "It's just, of literally everyone on the planet, the odds..." A sigh falls from her lips; she needs to stop talking before her words sound even more offensive. She's not doubting Nathan's worth or anything — he's quick-witted and intelligent — but she's shocked that it's Nathan who's going on this mission, too. She'd expected another stranger. "Just tell me more about what the hell I'm supposed to be doing."
"Well, gee, I had some icebreakers planned, but let's scrap those, I guess," Sully retorts. He grabs a black bomber jacket and shrugs it over his shoulders. "Apparently I was the only one surprised by the sight of her Clark Kent roommate. Let's go."
"Where?" Nathan questions.
"For a walk."
The man leaves without further explanation. This is a guy that expects others to follow along behind him without question, and even though it makes Tate want to grind her molars in an unhealthy manner that Ronan used to chastise her for, she has to comply. What else is she supposed to do, sit alone in Sully's ridiculously expensive apartment while Nathan gets debriefed?
The two young adults share perplexed expressions before heading out after him like lost children.
The streets of New York City are brisk when they reach ground level, making Tate wish she'd worn more than an oversized t-shirt and ripped jeans. Nathan looks comfortable in his leather jacket and his to-go cup of hot coffee to sip, plus Tate can guess that Sully could be stuck in a blizzard with only mild complaints, so she keeps her mouth shut about the breeze that makes the hair on her arms raise.
Sully launches into an explanation of their plan. Luckily, it tears Tate's attention from how cold she is and forces her to focus on his words.
"There's an auction coming up," he says. "Biggest collection of Spanish Renaissance art and artifacts anywhere this century."
Tate releases a low whistle. An auction like that is coming to the city, and she hadn't even heard about it? The things rich people can do.
Sully nods at her expression of interest. "One of those items is La Cruz de la Hermandad— only it's not a cross, it's a key." He removes a piece of paper and unfolds it, passing it to Nathan, who studies it and then hands it to Tate. It's a golden cross with two tiers covered in gems. Something like that must cost a fortune. "A key that unlocks the chamber where the famous 18 hid their gold."
"Very cool," Nathan admits, "but the legend said there are two keys: one for the captain and one for the crew, so no one man could steal the gold by himself."
Tate does recall such a thing from her history studies, but probably wouldn't have been able to summon the information on her own. The fact that Nathan knew it unprompted means one of two things: he has a genuine interest in this particular heist, or he'd done his research after being recruited.
She knows that revenge is her reason for agreeing to this suicide mission. Why is Nathan here? He's proven himself to be incredibly smart, sure, but he's a bartender. Tate was on Sully's radar because of her sister. What had made Nathan catch Sully's eye of all people?
He's still talking when she tunes back into the conversation. "One key doesn't do us any good."
"Ever get outside when you were a kid?" Sully asks, making Tate snort. "I mean, how do you remember all this shit?"
Even Nathan smiles at his nerdiness.
"Only one thing." Sully grabs the paper from Tate and begins folding it back into a neat square. "I already have the captain's key."
Tate's jaw drops open. "Shut up."
Maybe this whole mission has some merit after all. Not that she actually thinks that the keys will magically reveal centuries-old treasure, but she'd assumed this entire plot was a fool's errand and they'd be chasing ghosts.
"The second one's in there," he says, stopping them at the end of the block and pointing to a towering, glass building on the opposite corner. "The Augustine— it's an auction house. It's very exclusive, but I got us on the list." Sully addresses Nathan. "Look, all I need you to do is kill the power during the auction. That'll trigger the main alarm, then I can do my thing."
"And me?" Tate inquires, holding up a hand in questioning. "Don't tell me you brought me along just for arm candy, or I'm going to knock you on your ass."
Sully gives her a look. "God, you're impatient. You couldn't have given me, like, two more seconds to explain?"
Shrugging, Tate tilts her head to the side. "Patience isn't really my thing."
"Your job is to pose as a staff member and keep everyone else from noticing anything wrong. From how you did knock me on my ass the other day, I'm assuming you've got skills in observance, stealth, and blending in."
"You would be correct."
Nathan's brows furrow. "Are you saying I'm not skilled in those areas?"
Sully grimaces and makes a so-so motion with his hand. When Nathan opens his mouth to argue, the man turns to Tate and asks, "Did you know your bartender is a thief?"
"What?" she exclaims, going rigid as her mind recounts every single one of their encounters. "Nathan, you better not have stolen from me, or I swear to God—"
"No, no! I haven't, I swear! Not from you!"
Tate narrows her eyes to meet Nathan's terrified ones, silently assuring him that if she finds out that he's lying, she'll rip out his spine and beat him with it.
Moving on from Sully spilling his secrets, he asks, "How am I supposed to kill the power, anyway?"
"Well, shit, that's up to you. I mean, you gotta bring something to the equation. I'm not cutting you in for fun."
Amused, Tate hides a grin behind her fist. At least she'll get some entertainment out of this ordeal even if the gold turns out to be a mere legend.
"Actually, that's a good point," Nathan says. "We haven't spoken about my cut yet. I mean, before I knew there was a third person involved, I assumed we were fifty-fifty, right?"
Sully's eyes go wide as planets. "Fifty-fif—? On what, the gold?"
"Yeah."
"Are you high? You know this has been years of my life? You get ten percent, and that's me being generous."
"Wow," Nathan drawls sarcastically, "that's really generous."
He looks to Tate for support, but she makes a face to indicate she can't help him. "I'm here for the hell of it."
Sighing, he begins to cross the street. Sully calls after him, "What are you gonna do with that kind of money?"
_________
a/n:
ronan walking into the apartment to see tate with sully in a headlock
he has just accepted the fact that his friend is super weird. she's everything. he's just ronan.
— kristyn
( word count: 3.2k )