by India Kells
Deva laughed and saw a few male heads turn in her direction. “Believe me, none of them would put me off. I’m from tougher, rougher stock than I appear.”
Rusty seemed to examine her as if to determine if she was bluffing or not. Deva suspected that she wasn’t the first female to work here, and there might be a few horrified ladies behind Rusty’s worried look. “If any of them behave inappropriately, you tell me, and I’ll smack some sense into them. They’ve been told to behave, but some may have to be reminded. Now, let me show you around and then, we’ll go see your treatment space, or whatever you call it.”
As men were working out around them, Rusty described his installations, office, and the various working spaces, each with different torture devices in them. He presented her with fighters and trainers. And in the middle, an impressive octagonal cage. She knew about MMA in ways she didn’t want to remember. As images flooded back, she was careful to keep them in check.
Her gaze wandered over the men training; she had carefully studied each of their files that Gabrielle had provided. Each of them were fighters in their own right, but with links to the underworld in one way or another. Rusty’s gym acted as a neutral ground for all these men of different families and organization to meet and train. It amazed her.
Currently in the cage were two fighters. One of them she recognized from his file. Andrew Brannon. Dark red hair, he was tall with well-defined muscles. He was the rising star at the gym and preparing for an important fight in less than a month. Irish Mafia if she remembered correctly. A good-looking man, but her eyes were drawn to his opponent, no less small, but less bulky, and much darker. Not his skin but in the impressive ink etched all over his body. Tats were common both in the underworld and in the fighting community, but this man had markings all over his front and back, arms, and even his legs. The only reason for so many of them was if he was part of a gang or the mob. There, in front of her, stood Aleksei Voronov.
“I see you are admiring two of my best fighters. Andy, the ginger one, is in the last stage of his training and you will have him in treatment on a regular basis.”
“And the other?”
“Aleksei. He’s training here, but doesn’t have official fights scheduled so far.”
“Official fights?”
Rusty seemed to hesitate before finally changing the subject altogether. “All of my fighters can ask you for treatment. I know you have many specialties, but they can’t just decide to come to you and ask for only a massage. Either I tell you the kind of therapy they need, or you decide depending on the ache, pain, or injury. I trust your judgment and experience. I want them in top shape. They may appear as badasses, but outside of the cage, they tend to avoid being uncomfortable. That’s where you and I need to push them. Sometimes, an achy, untreated muscle can flip a match from winning to losing, if you get my drift.”
“Understood.”
And as she was about to follow Rusty on his tour, a buzzer sounded, indicating the end of the round. Both men in the cage stopped wrestling and started walking in circles, catching their breath. That was when Aleksei turned to her. It was like a blow to her gut. He stood tall, with muscles quivering, skin glistening with sweat, and black hair spiking on his head. It was the familiar silver eyes, that had a feral look to them, that almost made her flinch. His gaze stared straight at her as he moved, assessing her like she was potential prey. Behind the wired enclosure, he looked like a mean predator, one of those big cats she had seen in zoos, waiting for a single opening, a weakness, before leaping to taste blood.
She had seen her share of wild men, but this one was the very first that gripped her gut this way, making it impossible to move or look away. Clenching her teeth, she forced herself to breathe slowly, and not look away first. But when Aleksei came to a standstill before her, his arm stretched on the fencing above his head in a powerful stance; Deva hoped she was far enough away for him not to notice the slight shiver that ran down her spine. He jerked the wire, and she jumped at the reverberating sound. Cursing under her breath, she saw him smile as the buzzer rang once more and he returned to his opponent.
“Deva?”
Rusty looked at her, a question in his eyes, but she forced herself to smile. “Lead on, Rusty. I can’t wait to get my hands on your men and make them suffer.”
And God forbid she wouldn’t spare that Voronov bastard if he ever tried to make her scared of him again. Mission or no mission, she wouldn’t be bullied. Never again!
Get your hands on Lost Bastard now!
Sneak Peek: Night Justice
A Chicago Vigilantes Novel
“Can’t you look where you’re going? I almost fell on my ass because of you, idiot!” Orla Karlsen glared at the intern who’d almost made her spill the contents of her coffee cup. He looked barely past his teens, and scurried away from her so fast, she almost thought he’d peed in his pants.
“Whoa! What’s going on with you? You almost bit off that innocent kid’s head.”
Orla sat at her desk, which was just in front of her friend and co-worker, journalist Kelli Brice, gossip extraordinaire and the journalist assigned to the business section. The two women had bonded when they’d started at the Tribune. Still, Orla preferred the unexpected adrenaline of the newsroom to boring business suits and numbers, which was why she was assigned more high-profile stories. Although they were in two separate departments, they had placed their desks on the border of each area to maintain contact.
“If he can’t walk and look where he’s going at the same time, he shouldn’t be in this newsroom.”
Kelli wasn’t the kind of person to be impressed by a woman in a mood. “I doubt the poor intern is the reason you’re about to explode. I’ll risk my own very nice ass by saying there’s another cause. Either your dry spell is worsening your temper, or you still haven’t found proof that there’s a mystery vigilante acting in our fair city.”
Sitting on her chair, Orla took a sip of her coffee while eyeing her friend from above the rim. She hated when her temper was immediately linked to her lack of sex and had no intention of walking down that path, even with her friend. “He exists. Countless people have seen him, and we even have a picture of him.”
“And it’s blurry as hell. That could be a dog taking a shit, and you couldn’t tell the difference.” Kelli played with a tiny ringlet of her jet-black hair. “I can see how it’s intriguing, but unless you come up with more definite proof, the chief will pull the plug, and you’ll be back on the street beat.”
Not what she wanted, but her interest couldn’t be helped. “Maybe then I’d have a better chance of finding him. Don’t worry about me, I’ve been assigned another story, but I’ll work both in parallel. When I’m done, I’ll have two amazing articles, and the chief will kiss my feet in adoration.”
Kelli scoffed. “Yeah, right. I’m starting to worry about you. Have you hit your head? You imagine things, like the chief being a teddy bear, a mysterious vigilante, and I’m a gullible twit.”
It was difficult to hold on to her frustration when Kelli had such a way with words. “I’ll accept the fact I’m wrong about the chief, but you’re definitely a twit and the man roaming the streets and kicking criminals’ butts is real.”
“Orla, the only people who’ve seen that weirdo were either wasted or high. One person said he was as wide as a brick wall, and another swore it was a woman who cuffed a couple of muggers. You’re a journalist; those contradictions don’t make sense.”
Even if she hadn’t seen the vigilante with her own eyes, Orla knew when to listen to her gut feeling. And her stubbornness had paid off more times than not. “Well, we’ll see who was right and who was wrong once I’ve finished investigating.”
Kelli didn’t look convinced, but there was no way to help it. “Just be careful. Losing your job is one thing, but roaming the streets at night will get you killed.”
“Says the woman who survived the worst neighborhood in Chicago.”
Kelli grimaced
. “I did survive, yes. But barely. As a black woman from a shitty family and an even shittier environment, I got wise. And you should listen to me if you don’t want your white ass kicked or your blond hair chopped off.”
What she described wasn’t the worst a woman could suffer if her luck ran out. “Don’t worry about me. I was a foreign correspondent for years, and I’m used to war zones.”
“Babe, I trust you, but remember Chicago is a war zone in its own right. You may be one of its daughters, but never doubt it won’t swallow you whole and spit you out in a second without regrets if you’re not careful.”
Kelli’s last words stayed with Orla for a long time. Not because of their drama, but because her friend was freakishly serious, which was unlike her.
The sun had made his usual arc over the land as she hopped into her car to start her assignment. Being asked to stay after work was unusual, but her boss had done exactly that the day before. Once the newsroom had emptied, he’d called her in to his office.
Her surprise had been seeing Chicago’s chief of police in the same room. She had turned from intrigued to enthusiastic. She had a reputation as an investigative reporter with a particular interest in the darker side of her city, but what they wanted from her was a little different to her usual assignments.
Chicago was like a living, breathing creature, and if you knew where to look, and kept your ear to the ground, there were murmurs. And one had been particularly persistent over the last few months. And those murmurs, which the chief of police confirmed, was that a new and powerful drug was being manufactured by an independent group in Europe, and that made every gang and mob boss bristle throughout Windy City.
The drug, named Phantom, was said to be powerful, addictive, hallucinogenic, giving users the buzz of their life if it didn’t kill them in the process. Until last year, the drug hadn’t crossed the Atlantic, but now it seemed it was only a matter of days before it hit the streets.
What had put the authorities on edge was how easy the authorized dealers could make it—authorized being the operative word. The only comfort they had was that the formula hadn’t leaked. The entire force was on it, but their contacts had proven useless so far, so they’d turned to Orla to investigate.
Anticipation flooded her veins, but her boss made sure she was covered against whatever she did, and that the Tribune could publish her report as an exclusive.
Indeed, Orla had friends and contacts in unusual places that had helped her over the years, but deep down, she knew to be careful, even paranoid, was crucial to her success.
A quick look at the clock told her she should arrive on time. While she had sources and heard rumors, others had more direct links to the city’s underworld, and one in particular.
Normally, she’d head downtown and scour the dives, but as time was of the essence, she went straight to his house in West Englewood to find Martin Pebbles, aka Freckles, before he started his night of work.
Driving into the small neighborhood, Orla pulled her hoodie over her platinum blond hair and was glad her small car was a reliable pile of rust that wouldn’t draw attention.
She parked two doors down from her destination and took a quick look around. Everything seemed calm enough and she exited her car. The air felt cool and the area seemed peaceful, apart from the sound of a motorcycle in the distance. The small houses were old, and the yards well kept, but she had no illusions. It was a potentially dangerous zone that could turn sour the next second.
As she stepped in front of the door and knocked, Orla touched the knife hidden in the small of her back and the can of mace tucked into her waistband. With attitude being half the battle, she loosened her shoulders and put her poker face solidly in place.
When the door opened, a strong smell of weed clogged her throat, and she coughed while waving a hand in front of her face to disperse the smell.
“Hey! If it isn’t my favorite but annoying journalist. You finally took up my offer to come and suck my dick this lovely fall evening?”
She arched an eyebrow at the ginger headed, wannabe thug, with pale skin due, and so many freckles there was no other name to call him. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
High as a kite, he snickered and gestured for her to enter. The scent was overpowering when she stepped into the kitchen. It was his mother’s house, but she mostly lived in Florida with her sister when fall temperatures came knocking. “I can’t offer you anything because my fridge is empty. I was on my way to the store.”
“Don’t lie. You were heading off to sell your drugs. Don’t know how you’ll drive downtown in your current state.”
When he smiled, he looked so young. It hurt her heart to see a young man with such potential being dragged into the criminal world that way, but it wasn’t her decision.
Freckles slouched on a chair and pushed a pizza box that smelled rotten toward her. “I have a mom, and you’re not her. If you came here to play her part, you’re wasting your time.”
Orla thought about the old woman and sighed. She’d met his mother years ago when she was investigating a boss abusing factory workers and had bonded with the woman and had even tried to pull her son away from the street but to no avail. “It’s because of her I’m trying to help you.”
“You saved me from going to jail a couple of times, and I thanked you for that. How long will I have to keep paying for it?”
He was rambling and apart from breaking her heart, Orla decided to jump into the reason why she came. “Phantom.”
Being under the influence of drugs, the young man couldn’t conceal his surprise at the name. “Never heard of it.”
“Yeah, right. Don’t take me for an idiot. Instead, tell me you aren’t selling it, or you can’t sell it because you’re not part of the distribution network?”
The young man rubbed the back of his neck, looking disgusted. “Fuck, Blondie. You’re correct, but if you want my advice, it’s not something you should investigate. Anyway, that shit hasn’t arrived yet as far as I know.”
Oh, right. Just the thing not to say to a reporter. “And why shouldn’t I ask questions?”
The Freckles she knew was always aloof, joking with a hint of defiance. At that moment, it wasn’t what she saw. Not only did he have a dark look, but he was scared. Freckles had been on the streets for a long time and was cunning and smart. He would’ve been dead a thousand times in his line of work if he’d been stupid. He knew everybody and everyone on the street, and if he was telling her to back off, that meant another force was at play, and he was afraid.
“Baby, you can do what the fuck you want, I don’t think you’d listen to anyone even if you had a gun to your head.”
“So Phantom isn’t being distributed currently. That’s what you’re saying?”
With a sigh, Freckles stood and opened the fridge door, but she saw how he glanced at the door and covered windows. He grabbed two beers and threw one at her. “No, but it should be soon because everybody is on edge. You hear about the power struggle a few months back? Most people thought it was because of the shifts within the Mafia, but it was deeper than that. From what I gathered, a lot of the top guys flew to Europe a few times, where lots of money was exchanged. People thought it was for an alliance, but I doubt it, especially since several MCs were involved in that too. Riders don’t do politics, at least not on that level, so it had to be part of a negotiation.”
Orla took a swig of beer, but it tasted foul in her mouth. “Big money, power struggle. If the top criminals in Chicago are ready to ditch that much dough, there’s only one reason. They’re trying to control the Phantom distribution.”
Freckles shrugged, before looking behind the curtain covering the kitchen window. “Can’t be sure of anything. Nobody’s talking, and that’s weird. Spooky. I’ve heard the rumors about The Phantom, but I never thought a new drug would create so much fuss.”
Leaning forward, she put her elbows on the table. “I’ve researched Phantom. What’s so special about it? Why
do so many people die using it?”
“I don’t know. It says that unless you try it, you don’t know how it feels, and once you do, you’re so hooked, you’re willing to die for more of it.”
Strong words. Not kill for it but die for it. Time and time again, she’d seen heroin carve away at men and women, turning them into zombies willing to sell their own children to get their fix.
“I don’t know if I want to see that, Blondie, let alone sell it.”
A shiver went down her spine at the gloom oozing from him. “Why don’t you close up shop for a while and go visit your mother?”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
She hesitated before answering. “Not yet. But you know me, if I start to stir the pot, it might not end well. Leave, Martin at least until things settle down. You have a valid excuse, use it.”
There was no way to know if he’d soften to her plea, but there wasn’t much more she could do. Getting to her feet, desperate for fresh air, she turned one more time to the young man. “If I was to look for who scored the Phantom distribution contract in Chicago, who should I be looking for?” She knew she was pushing hard. There were other contacts she could use, but the last thing she wanted was to head into danger completely blind if she could help it.
Freckles was looking more and more lost. “You’re mad looking into this. I’m sure you’re not paid enough to risk your life for it either.”
A Pulitzer as a prize would be worth a lot of risks but helping to stop the plague from damaging her home was a stronger pull for sure. “We do what we have to do. Take care, Martin.” Leaving her half-finished beer on the table, she moved to the door and had the knob in her hand when Freckles scrambled to his feet.
“Wait.” After a few curses and scrubbing his face several times, he looked at her. “I know Damon Evans was involved. You know he’s an MC president, right? I don’t know how he’s involved, but his name came up one night. I won’t tell you where and when, but he’s not half bad and may have the info you’re looking for. Go now, baby, and stay safe.”