Table of Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
JOIN THE COMMUNITY
DATE NIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
BRIMSTONE HUSTLE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
HELLFIRE DROP
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DEVIL DOG’S WAR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
GRATITUDE
The Brimstone Series (Brimstone Hustle, Hellfire Drop, Devil Dog’s War, Date Night)
Copyright 2019, Robert McKinney
All rights reserved. Published by McKinney Can’t Press
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be addressed via email to [email protected]
DEDICATION
For C. We’ll get there, brother.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To mom, who taught me to think big, small, and everywhere in between on the path to victory. To dad, who thought that the Iliad was great reading material for nine year old boys. To Kristen, who endured the earliest drafts so many years ago. To Leslie, who served as a reader and sounding board. To Laura, who gave a voice to Robin. Most of all, to my wife, who not only kept me standing but also helped make this story the best it could be.
JOIN THE COMMUNITY
If you like what you see in the pages that follow, then visit our growing community at https://www.patreon.com/mckinneycantwrite . Once there you’ll find short stories, audio dramas, and even the chance to become part of the writing process for my upcoming books!
mckinney
DATE NIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Most drops end with a puff of smoke and new clouds over your head. This one ends with me face planting outside a Giant American Cookie Company in an unassuming corner of New Mexico. It was the only place I could find that sold obscenely large cookie cakes on short notice and also accepted orders online. I’d been rushing when I’d found it online, and only had time to take a glance at the pixilated street view of the area nearby before I’d pulled out my lighter, sparked a flame, and jumped between worlds.
Here’s the thing, though. Making a drop isn’t something you should try to do hastily. Hence the bad landing, hence the face plant, and worst of all, hence the goddamn handful of bright, shiny shells of ammunition that spilled out of the messenger bag that doubles as my purse before scattering across the sidewalk in front of me.
The fall stings like hell, but is the least of my worries, because I can see a middle-aged man on the opposite side of the cookie shop’s glass door walking to me with a concerned look on his face.
Shit, fuck, shit and fuck. I glance back down at the shells, which sparkle in the sunlight, as the concerned cookie customer comes closer towards me. I hadn’t taken much time to repack the ammunition samples properly before heading this way, and the force of my fall must’ve jostled the haphazardly stuffed shells out of their box. Keeping track of your wares was the best reason to not rush when meeting with arms dealers. Well, that, and not hurting their feelings while there were guns in the room.
If the cookie customer comes any closer, I’ll have to explain the bullets, to him if I’m lucky but maybe to cops if I’m not. I don’t have time for either, so I lock eyes with the Good Samaritan and turn the scowl that I’d carried after falling into a full-on glare.
The man freezes in his tracks, and I use his hesitation to push myself back to my feet.
“Can I help you?” I snap.
I’m not sure if he can hear me through the glass, but the message is clear enough. He scoffs and turns back to the cookie checkout counter. Once he’s distracted, I bend down to throw the errant bullets back into my purse.
I check my reflection in the glass door of the cookie shop as I straighten up. My surplus army jacket is still trendy enough to pass for a low key fashion statement and, though baggy, is unable to hide all of my curves. I can’t do anything about my blonde, shoulder length hair, which hasn’t seen a comb in days, but I’m at least able rub a smear of gun oil off of my chin.
With the damage now contained, I open the door and am approaching the counter by the time the middle aged man finishes his order. Ignoring the glare that he aims my way, I plant myself directly in front of the cash register and rifle through the bottom of my still disorganized bag until I find where my credit card has been hiding.
The checkout lady, a 30ish redhead with a pretty smile and laugh lines near her eyes, asks how she can help me.
“I’m here to pick up an extra-large, caramel fudge cookie-cake on extra rush order.” I say. “It should be under Robin. Robin Kohl.”
The cookie is going to be a massive two pounds of browned butter, cocoa and caramel goodness. I’ve taken to thinking of it as my apology cookie-cake, and had even considered having the shop print “sorry for being late” on the top with fancy red icing.
That last bit was a horrible idea that also happened to be fortunately brief. Given how little time had passed since our “first anniversary dinner that wasn’t,” I decided to leave the message implied rather than overt.
The checkout lady, oblivious to my anticipation, looks the order up on her machine.
“That’ll be -”
“Two hundred twenty three dollars and fifty nine cents.” I say as I hand over the card. Like I said, I’m in a hurry, though not just for myself. Today’s date night for me, and I don’t want to be late for the third, no, fourth, time this month.
The checkout lady’s smile turns a little brittle, but she takes the card from me without extra comment. I stand there, tapping my foot impatiently on the floor as she rings me up.
“Um, ma’am?” she says, looking back towards me. Though the smile is still there, I can see something new, something pleased, in he
r expression.
“There a problem?” I ask.
“Insufficient balance.” she says, sliding the card across the counter. “You may want to give your bank a call.”
Confused, I take my card back.
I’m an arms smuggler, which means that I don’t have the luxury of using a regular bank. I have a secretary, though, and a good one at that. He connects me with clients and takes care of my money so that I can have time to focus on more important things like not getting shot. I’d been careful with my money, which he made sure was deposited into my various accounts after each and every job I completed. If they were low, then it meant that he’d made a mistake.
That was a massive departure from what I’d seen from him before. My secretary had always been precise when it came to my funds and, short of a nuclear bomb detonating on his front patio, could always be expected to make money matters work.
Though I know his number by heart, there’s no chance in hell that he’ll tell me anything over a phone line, which any number of big brothers would give their first born to tap. If I want to know details, I’ll have to get them in person.
After checking out the cookie shaped clock fastened to the shop’s wall, I figure that I have enough time to pay him a visit, clear this mess, and come back for the cookie-cake before I’m unforgivably late for tonight’s date.
With mind made up, I tell the checkout lady that I’ll be back in no time for my order, then get enough distance from the cookie shop to make a safe drop.
The need for answers sticks with me with every step I take, so I dig out my lighter, spark a flame, and send myself across the world at the first chance I get.
CHAPTER TWO
A drop is something that anyone can do … assuming that they’ve been crazy, or maybe just dumb, enough to have made a deal with a devil.
All I need to make one these days is an open flame, like the one sparked by my lighter, within reach. Unlike the drop that landed me outside the cookie shop, this one takes me to a tall office building in the middle of Luanda, Angola. It’s hot here, which isn’t surprising because, well, Africa, but I’ve been around the world enough to push the sweat forming in the small of my back out my mind.
My phone chooses that moment to vibrate with a distinct triple pulse that’s significantly harder to ignore. Though I always remove the sim when I’m working, I must have come close enough for the building’s Wi-Fi to connect and push a message my way. I pull out my phone and see a text from Erin, the second best part of my life, waiting on the screen.
“hey love, where are you?”
I look up from my phone and check my surroundings before answering. Though this isn’t a bad part of town, so far as things go in Luanda, it’s rarely a good idea for pale, blonde women to wave phones, wallets, or other small valuables on the sidewalks of developing countries. I don’t see anyone on foot within a few hundred feet, though, so I decide to eat the risk and tap out a response.
“pretty much on my way.” I lie.
“you better be.” she sends in reply. “I didn’t pull out these heels just to get stood up again.”
“Ditch the heels and wear flats. I’m taking you dancing.” I send back. A car honks as it passes, reminding me that I’m not in Kansas anymore. Deciding that it’s better to be safe than sorry, I decide that building in some wiggle room on the start time of our date won’t be a bad idea.
A moment passes before a new pair of messages make their way to my phone. The first is a text.
“heels ditched.” it reads.
The second is a selfie, complete with bad lighting and off kilter angles. It shows me, well, everything. I can see Erin’s discarded red bottomed heels in the corner of the frame, and see that they’re far from the only bit of clothing she’s abandoned for tonight’s date.
My cheeks heat up as the blush covers my face. It’s been a busty, I mean busy few years for me, and I still haven’t gotten used to dating, let alone dating someone like Erin. The least she deserved was a night on the town. If I left these money issues for later, I could give that to her now, albeit on a budget.
Knowing that I can show up outside her apartment with a handful of fresh picked tropical flowers and leave my money issues for after dinner, or maybe even breakfast is a tempting idea. Just not one tempting enough to make me forget my other responsibilities.
I have a sister, Mary, and there’s no one looking out for her but me. She’s in college now, and I can’t afford to let murky finances disrupt her studies less than a week before the next round of tuition payments come do. Money first, Erin soon.
“i’m almost done here, but traffic may be a bitch.” I type. “i’ll be there in two hours. no later than 7. promise.”
She doesn’t respond, so I turn off the screen and make my way into my secretary’s building.
CHAPTER THREE
The security at my secretary’s building is pretty intense, so I’m surprised when the guards lingering by the front desk don’t hesitate to show me towards the elevator that leads to his office on a floor about halfway up the building. His door is open when I approach, so I take the liberty of settling into one of the chairs stationed across from his seat at the desk.
“Insufficient balance?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
My secretary, a bald man with hard eyes and dark skin, sighs as he makes eye contact with me.
“The last client. The one from the Morocco job?” he says. “He hasn’t paid.”
I raise an eyebrow again as his words fail to compute for a moment. My secretary was more than just the man who took care of my finances. He was the all-knowing middle man who made sure that my buyers and I rarely met, or at least stayed anonymous on the rare occasion where we had do business face to face. You can’t keep secrets like that without developing a reputation along the way. Although he remained nameless, my secretary’s reputation was well known, and scary, enough that only an idiot or a powerhouse would decide not to pay what they owed.
There must be a reason why he hasn’t taking care of this himself, and even if he refuses, I figure there’s little harm in actually asking.
“Why haven’t you pressured him?” I say, knowing that he’ll catch the euphemism for “hunt down and kill with extreme prejudice.”
My words make him fidget in his chair - surprising me for the second time since entering the building. My secretary, a man who carries around a micro-uzi more often than his wallet, isn’t the kind of man to show anything like doubt, let alone worry.
“Jesus. You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?” I say.
My secretary laughs at that.
“You have no idea how right you are.” he says.
“It can’t be that bad, and I really need that money.” I lean forward. “I’ll tell you what. There’s a commando or three out there who owe me a favor. If you give me a name, then maybe we can come up with something, and make sure that you still get your cut.”
My secretary stares at me for a full minute, then slides a file folder across the desk.
Motherfucker, I think. He’s been my secretary for a while, and must have known that I’d push to take care of this myself. Knowing and folding easy are two different things, however. One of his biggest claims to fame, or at least infamy, was that he never revealed the names of his clients to each other. If he was breaking his own rules, then it was because he hoped that I could do something that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, go after himself.
The list of things outside the grasp of my secretary was short and almost universally bad.
Here’s the thing, though. The reason I came here, and risked my night with Erin, hadn’t changed. My sister was in college, and that college needed money. I’m not willing to risk them pulling her out of classes because of a hiccup on my end, so I reach out for the file on the desk.
My secretary raises a hand as my fingers come near the docum
ents.
“If you open that folder, you’re also making me a promise.” He says. “No one ever learns that this information came from me.”
Ah ha, I think as the answer to my question becomes clear. Of course he could have taken care of this himself. Nameless or not, though, his reputation meant that whoever I’m about to dick over would be able to, eventually, trace it back to his front door. Though I’m good at my job, I’m not well known in the industry. If I pull this off, there’s at least half a chance that I can get away without this mystery client else ever knowing that the incoming thorn in his side was me.
“That’s fair.” I say as I take the folder and look inside.
God damn it, I think immediately after reading the name. When will I ever learn to keep my mouth shut and hands to myself?
CHAPTER FOUR
Charles St. Pierre has made a name in the business. He’s an expert, not at killing, but at finding the talent needed to complete almost any job - no matter how impossibly difficult or dirty it may be. Assassins, bodyguards, mercenary companies. While my secretary had enough people in his network to keep me in steady business, St. Pierre had the kinds of connections that began with nation states and only rose in influence after that.
That was enough to make me ditch my first plan and go after him alone because, while I hadn’t been lying about having people who owed me a favor, that didn’t mean that I wanted to expose them, even the worst of them, to someone like St. Pierre.
The one plus side to the whole affair was that I, unlike my commando friends, had a devil-filled card up my sleeve that he’d never see coming.
My drops, while quick, included shortcuts through, well, hell.
Look, I didn’t make the rules, I just follow them. The fire and brimstone filled in-transit scenery is the kind of thing that has an adjustment period. And while I’m used to it, I’m pretty sure that St. Pierre isn’t.
Dragging him to hell with me won’t be too hard, assuming I can lay hands on him first. Finding him is easy, because my secretary’s file included the hotel he was staying at in the middle of Barcelona.
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