Rise Of The King: Checkmate, #5

by Finn, Emilia

  We need to find our orchestrator.

  We need to immobilize him.

  Then you can talk about pussy.

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  From: KingOnD8

  Subject: Stop recycling subjects!

  I can do both. I will do both. You just sit the fuck down and mind your own business.

  I’ll be at the club at ten. I’ll email when I get back home.

  Also, send more money. I’m running low.

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  From: AcesAndEights

  Subject: Check your bank

  Just transferred 10k. Let me know when you need more.

  * * *

  Stepping out of my apartment at nine-thirty, instead of heading downstairs, I go up and break the rules both parties set down. Sophia doesn’t really want me knocking on her door late at night, and neither does Ace.

  But I’m going up anyway.

  I need two minutes and a visual confirmation the beautiful dancer is alive and well. If she’s in her jammies with a bowl of ice cream in her hands and thick socks covering her dancer feet, then I’ll happily leave and go about my life.

  But if she’s missing or dead, then I’ll be finding Ace before ten o’clock hits and ending his miserable fucking life.

  Taking the stairs at a jog, I rub my hands together to fight off the chill and stop in front of her door for the first time in my life. I never had reason to come up before this week and never considered her life in Ace’s scope before. So I knock, drop my hands back into my coat pockets, and in the left, I finger the blade my brother is probably still looking for.

  What can I say? I’m a born thief, a thug in a cop’s uniform, a stoner in a sober man’s body.

  I was addicted to cocaine before I woke and found myself in this new world, and when I was injured, my cocaine dependency was replaced with opioids the hospital fed me daily. Shoot a guy in the head, operate on his busted cranium, they pop pills like they’re candy, and slowly, they wean you off so you don’t feel the burn.

  I’m a man with an addictive personality, but knowing how fortunate I was to be weaned so gracefully, I replaced my addiction with gummy worms, women, fidget spinners, and my obsession with finding the man who’s put a contract on my brother’s head.

  I’d say it’s a pretty healthy coping mechanism, so long as I don’t run out of food and girls.

  When Sophia doesn’t come to the door, I knock again, louder, and risk annoying the assholes on the third floor. “Sophia?” I knock again and lean closer to press my ear against her door. “Open the door, Sophia, right now.”

  I reach into my back pocket and pull out my keys. Every thug knows he should carry tools to break into someone else’s home at any given moment; it’s practically in the handbook they give out. “Sophia? I just wanna see your face for two seconds, then I’ll leave you be. One!” I select the right tool and bring it to the lock. “Two.” I fist the doorknob and prepare to ram this fucker straight down. “Sophia! Thr–”

  The door swings open with a flourish, her dramatics allowing me time to slide my keys back into my pocket before her eyes have a chance to leave my face. “What the hell are you doing, Jay? It’s bedtime, and it’s cold as hell.”

  I study her trim body, her long legs with holey socks pulled up to her calves, and sleep shorts that would provide absolutely zero barrier if I wanted to turn her around and fuck her in the hall. She wears a saggy sweater and has her long hair tied in a knot at the top of her head.

  She’s cold, tired, and pissed, but she’s alive. “Sorry. I was just downstairs, and I thought I heard a thump. Like maybe you fell in the shower or something. It would be shitty of me not to investigate while you lie on the tile and freeze to death.”

  “You thought I fell in the shower?” Her eyes glitter as she seethes, “For months, we’ve lived in the same building, but this week, you figure I fell in the shower? I don’t know if you’re angling for an invitation inside, but you’re not getting one.” She grabs her door and closes it most of the way.

  I don’t block it because I really only wanted to make sure she wasn’t lying dead in her living room.

  “I’m sorry for waking you.” Stepping back, I glance at her exposed wrist and tilt my head to catch the script inked on. Your wings were ready, but my heart was not. “Sorry. I’m heading out to work for a couple hours, but I’ll be back later, ya know, if you feel uneasy in the shower or whatever. I can wash your back if you want.”

  She lifts a sexy little brow and pops her hip. “Heading out to sell a fridge at nearly ten at night?”

  “Yup. I’m all about making sure the customer is satisfied. Jay Bi–” I cut my words off and bite off a curse when Soph’s brows lift. “Jay Hamilton, satisfaction guaranteed, in bed and out. Now go back inside and hush. Don’t answer the door for anyone you don’t know.”

  “I don’t know you! I was in the middle of my show, so if you don’t mind…” She slams the door in my face and mutters something about selling a fake fridge.

  Smiling because she answered for me despite her general lack of trust for humankind, I think of her long legs as I turn, skip down the stairs and pass my own door. Down past third, second, first, I push through the front doors and step into the street with fantasies of her long legs wrapped around my head while I eat her up and show her the best night of her life.

  Turning left and leaving my block, I jog to the next before I hail a cab and slide in.

  Ever since I was old enough to become a federal agent, I threw myself in with steely focus and zero fear. If my father could do it, and if my brother could do it, then no fucker was going to tell me I couldn’t become a Fed. I studied hard, worked hard, partied quietly, and kept my name clean as a whistle.

  I met women, used them, enjoyed them, but I never hurt them, and I never took anything they didn’t want to give. So despite my long-ish list of female companions, none of them hold ill will toward me.

  I always made them come first, and I never treated them like shit or passed judgment on the fact they were fucking a stranger.

  I was fucking a stranger too, so who was I to judge?

  But this chick, this fucking Sophia Solomon the Wise and Peaceful, has been haunting my favorite diner for two months too long, and now she’s worked her way under my skin.

  As if I didn’t notice her from the very first time I walked my ass in there. As if I didn’t notice her beauty or the fragrance of her long hair.

  I’m here on a mission, and she was in that diner with her shoulders hunched, and more often than not, she had headphones in her ears, so I left her alone and went about my business.

  But then she stopped wearing headphones, and as I got closer over time, she leaned in my direction. It’s just body language, right? It’s just the way she sat. But in my world, body language is the same as shouting your feelings, and in my mind, she was a magnet who was being pulled in my direction, though reluctantly.

  That was my go ahead to introduce myself.

  I don’t know her.

  I don’t even actually know if she’s married and has two and a half kids.

  I don’t know anything about her and didn’t care enough to ask anything that might make me give a shit, but here we are, I’m giving a shit when Ace mentions eliminating her, and now I’m thinking about the dozens and dozens of ways her probably-not-married ass could take my cock for a night of stress relief.

  She’s a fucking distraction, and though I know better, I don’t want to stop looking.

  My black and yellow checkered cab pulls up a block away from the gentleman’s club, so I toss a twenty into the front seat and step out into the cold air. It nips at my nose and lips, but it’s not so windy tonight, so I put my head down and head toward the club with the image of Peter Ramone Aguilar in the forefront of my mind.

  Blond hair. Brown eyes. Five-nine. Gold chains.

  Ace sent his passport image, so I know exactly who
I’m looking for when I step inside the club.

  It’s funny how a year ago, when we were working in Abel Hayes’ dirty club, we thought he was the shit. He was bringing in millions of dollars of product every other month. Guns. Girls. Drugs. We thought because he had a club and silk ties, he was the kingpin and the only guy we had to watch, but now I see it for what it is: Abel was just a soldier like the rest of us. He was only as important as Peter Ramone Aguilar, perhaps less so, since Abel’s club lacked a lot of the class Pete’s does.

  Abel seemed to be all about fighters and selling unwilling women, whereas Peter has figured out how to find them mostly willing, because when they smile and don’t scratch, the men come back for more.

  Entering the club and walking past filled tables and a long stage of dancing girls, I study their legs with the eye of a man who can appreciate a fine form. I study their trim thighs, high heels, and perky asses when they spin and bend over.

  My mouth waters with hunger for a woman’s warm body beneath mine tonight, with the idea I could buy any one of them, or two, or three, and with the new injection of cash in my bank, I could make it worth all of our time. But when the brunette in candy floss pink wiggles her ass in my face, my mouth waters for the holey sock wearing, pyjama-clad Sophia back at home.

  She’s not throwing herself at me, and thus becomes the bigger prize.

  Turning away from temptation, I cast my gaze across the club, over the thug wannabes who dress, act, and think they’re badass just like Cole Fenney, and up a set of stairs that leads to a set of offices not unlike in Abel Hayes’ club.

  Fancy drapes hang across every wall and allow space for couples who may want just a moment of privacy, and crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting an effervescent glow over the crowd below. This club could fit probably three or four hundred people comfortably, and looks maybe two-thirds full at the moment. It’s busy, but not so much that I can’t move without banging elbows every step I take.

  I make my way toward the stairs and act like I belong here. My bother always used to say, “attitude is half the battle,” so if I wanna be an agent, then I better fucking act like one. If I want to be in someone’s home or club, then I better act like I belong there.

  Soldiers not unlike what Kane and I were for Abel line the staircase and bring their hands to the guns strapped to their hips. They watch, they listen to the invisible pieces jammed inside their ears, and they let me pass when I don’t back up.

  Music rings out through the club, the bass booming in my chest. I’m still recovering from my injuries from last November, so my head aches at the loud thumping, and my chest aches as my ribs vibrate with the beat.

  Three bullets.

  I survived three bullets, three that, individually, should have been the end of me. The club I was in, aptly named Infernos, was literally an inferno. Fire was running faster than I could. Kane was just ten feet away in a gunfight with a man who wanted us both dead, and Kane’s girlfriend, Jessie—the sweet, blonde lawyer—was trying to ride in and save her man.

  On a direct order from my brother, my superior, I swept her up and ran her ass down a melting set of stairs, but one shot, two shots, bang bang, resulted in fiery heat slamming me in the back and bullets lodging themselves where they shouldn’t have been.

  I felt it.

  Jessie felt it.

  And when I got her to the bottom of the stairs and tossed her into a cop’s arms, the final shot rang out and ended my life. A couple bullets in a guy’s back should’ve been enough, but add a bullet through the head, and he’s got no hope.

  Right?

  Apparently not.

  I was hooked up with a surgeon who took risks like I did. He was young and ballsy enough to try to save me when everyone else would have walked away, and when I woke in a foreign hospital with bandages holding me together and a beautiful, busty nurse who was willing to go the extra mile for my recovery, I was touted the luckiest son of a John Doe in the history of the world.

  They worried I wouldn’t be able to walk. They worried I wouldn’t be able to talk, eat, or wipe my own ass. But when we started physical therapy, the only thing that slowed me down was the ache in my lungs and the constant headache that throbbed behind my eyes.

  I’m a fuckin’ miracle.

  A miracle who would’ve gone home to my brother already if we didn’t have this threat hanging over his head. He doesn’t even know he’s in danger, but I do, and now I’m doing what I do best – what Ace does – I’m eliminating a threat, then I’m taking my ass home like the prodigal son where I can sleep on Kane’s couch and make a general pest of myself until I can bear to let him out of my sight for a minute.

  Stopping at the top of the stairs, I glance up at the mountain man Peter Ramone Aguilar keeps as protection. My knife in my pocket is my touchstone. The promise of eventually going home is my motivation. So I look up at the mountain and nod. “’Sup, gangbanger?”

  “Mr. Aguilar is busy.” His voice is deep, low, like he’s walking the Green Mile. “Turn around. Go back downstairs.”

  I finger the blade in my pocket, prepare for a throwdown, and mentally wish I could eat a gummy and not look like a pussy for doing it. “You sure Mr. Aguilar doesn’t have time for a Bishop?”

  His eyes flash with knowledge, and despite the fact this dude looks formidable as fuck and unwilling to bow down to anyone, he drops his eyes and steps back.

  Kane and Jay Bishop have a fucking reputation in this world, a reputation built on being Hayes’ best soldiers and most ruthless killers. So I use it; I slam my shoulder into his as I pass, and then I stop at the door and wait for the bouncer to open it.

  “Sir.” He holds his wrist to his mouth. “It’s Bishop… Dunno… Yeah… Okay.” And just like that, my name gains me entrance to the office of a man everyone else considers untouchable. Stepping in with a grin, I watch Pete’s eye transform from scared to something much easier.

  I close the door in the bouncer’s face and turn back to his boss. “We gotta talk.”

  “You scared the fuckin’ piss outta me, Bishop. Fuck me.”

  “No thanks.” I cross the fancy tiled floor and pass a fur rug that sacrificed its life to become ugly and unappreciated. Stopping in front of Aguilar’s desk, I flip the knife in my pocket – open, closed, open, closed – and study the room around me. “You’ve got fancy digs, Pete. Business treating you well?”

  Whether he’s truly not scared of me, or insistent on putting on an act, he sits back in his leather wing-backed chair and crosses a foot over his knee. Taking out a cigar and lighter, he clips the end off and lights up. “Business is always good.” He offers the light. “Want a smoke?”

  Yes. So fucking much. “Nope, I quit. It’s not good for your health.” I cast a glance around the room as he drops the lighter in his top drawer. “Talk to me about your chain of command, Aguilar. Word on the street is there’s a top dog that sits much higher than you, but no one’s sharing his name. Is he that dangerous, or that sneaky?”

  “Little bit of both, I suspect.” He exhales and pushes the cloud of smoke in my direction. Instead of standing in place and accepting it the way I so desperately want to, I take a step back and walk to the mini-bar on the side wall. It sits below a wide window that shows off the cityscape and the crisp night sky.

  “I need a name, Pete.” I turn back. “I need to know who’s putting out these contracts. I’d be willing to talk calmly and discuss a truce. It doesn’t have to end in bloodshed.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, pup. I don’t know who the top dog is. You said it yourself: he’s above my pay grade.”

  “You had women brought in here recently. Little girls.”

  His gold chains twinkle beneath the overhead lights. “Cost of business. Some want to perform. Some need a little encouragement. In the end, everyone gets paid.”

  “But not the girls.”

  “They’re paid.” He scowls like my accusation offends him.

  “
But their innocence and free will is stolen from them?” Leaning against the cabinet that holds fancy liquor bottles and thick glasses, I flip the knife in my pocket – open, closed, open, closed. I can’t slit his throat and get away as easily as I’d like. I’m in a busy district, I have guys on the door, a two-story jump to get out, and a cab ride to endure. Messing up my jacket with his blood just won’t look good.

  “Give me your boss’ name. Give me the next layer up; I’ll take it from there.”

  “Not sure I’m entirely inclined to do that, Bishop. They find out I’m squealing, I’m a dead man.” He sucks back a lungful of cigar smoke, then lazily lets it out again. “I’m way too fuckin’ comfortable with my life right now to commit suicide, so…” He flicks his wrist. “Nah.”

  “Okay.” Lifting one hand to show him I’m not a threat, I slowly push the other into my back pocket and take out my phone. Slow movements, nothing sudden, I start toward him and watch the gun he has tucked into his pants leg and within easy reach. “Slow it down, Aguilar. I wanna show you an email I got from a close friend of mine. It might encourage you to talk. And if not, then I’ll walk away and speak to someone else.”

  “Suits me.” He blows out another plume of smoke. “And when we’re done, you don’t step foot in my place again. They find out you did and I didn’t take care of you, then I’m a dead man anyway. See how I’m being cool about this? I’m showing you leniency when there are orders not to.”

  I stop, pause, and study his pockmarked face. “Take care of me?”

  “Yeah. They got a million bucks on your head. A million is a lot to a lot of people, but to me, it’s not enough to convince me to spill blood on my rug.”

  He thinks I’m Kane.

  To most of the underworld, Jay Bishop is dead. I went into surgery as a dead man, and I came out with a brand-new ID that says John D. Hamilton.

  I can be Kane for this meeting. If they think he’s here, then they won’t be looking for him where he truly is.

  “I appreciate your hospitality, Aguilar.” I swagger forward with arrogance and play my part. “If I make it out of this alive, I’ll be sure to add you to my Christmas card list.” Finding the email from Ace, I turn my phone and let him get a view of his man Cole exchanging money for girls.