BESTSELLING AUTHOR
NADIA SIDDIQUI
Nathan Doe Book 4
The Night of Seven
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Nadia Siddiqui – All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
The story continues . . .
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Chapter One
S tefan.
This isn’t the sort of place that he wants to be after dark.
The street lights don’t work too well down here. The air is always sweaty and the sort of humid that works its way underneath your clothes, and you have to shower to escape the sweat. It’s a miserable sort of heat. Really, Stefan should be far more used to it than he is. He should be accustomed to the way that throngs of people can create such intense heat that it’s miserable to be around. Given the environment that he works in, that sort of thing should be second nature to him.
Only tonight, he’s not in the casino. He’s not out running errands or walking home to his small closet of an apartment. No, tonight he has something else that he must attend to. Something that he deems to have much more importance than anything else that he can do tonight. His shift ended a couple of hours ago, and his legs were weary from walking the floors all night long. However, he knew that missing this meeting could cost him dearly.
It’s too quiet, and he seems to be the only person around for miles. There’s no obvious noise coming from the insides of any of the slowly crumbling apartment buildings that surround him, just outside of the Las Vegas strip, down the direction that tourists are advised never to travel alone. He should know better than to be here alone himself. Stefan can remember a time in his youth when places like this would have been home to him. In his younger days, he would have walked up and down these streets without feeling the need to constantly be looking over his shoulder. He would have dared anybody to try him. It was rare for somebody that looks like him to get out of such a circumstance, but he was lucky that track and field carried him to college. Standing here today, he doesn’t feel as safe as he might have once. He doesn’t remember the rules, and he doesn’t want to be reminded of them either.
The man that he’s coming to meet is a friend of a friend, of sorts. The man has a rather nasty reputation that even Stefan, living as far away as he does now, has heard of. He is a cousin of a friend who can get him what he needs. Stefan walks with his arms wrapped around his chest, holding that envelope full of money close to his chest as he makes his way down the very specific list of instructions that he memorized earlier today.
How will he know it's him? He has never met this man before. He has to hope that he has that standing appointment that was promised to him. Stefan hopes even more that when he comes around, a stranger asking questions, he’s not going to be shot in the face on sight. He doesn’t want to die. Isn’t that the point of all of this?
Turning the final left turn, Stefan can see a man smoking down the street. He’s leaned up against the side of the building, not bothering to look up now that he’s not alone anymore. He’s wearing a large jacket despite the Nevada heat, but he’s also blocking the way of the buzzer that might gain Stefan entrance into the apartment. This must be the place.
The man says nothing as Stefan tentatively approaches, sweat working its way over his palms and a nervous lump rising in his throat. What if he says the wrong thing? What if somehow this is a setup? Perhaps this was all a mistake in the first place. The smoking man’s face is heavily pockmarked with acne scars or perhaps just actual scars. Stefan doesn’t want to think about how those might have been possible. It’s not until Stefan stops walking just feet from the other man that he drops his cigarette and puts out the embers with his shoe. Stefan isn’t sure how to start the conversation, but the man takes care of that for him.
“You the guy?” His deep voice does not seem to fit his body properly, but Stefan stammers and attempts to think of the right answer.
“The - the guy? I think so...I don’t…” If he is looking to make the situation infinitely more uncomfortable, he has absolutely succeeded.
The man in the large jacket gives Stefan a good once over before deciding that he’s not a threat, that anybody that looks that nervous is more likely to faint than attempt to do something terrible to him. And yet, “Alright, arms out, guy. You know the drill?”
Stefan absolutely does not know the drill.
“You put your hands out so I can pat you down, make sure that you ain’t no narc...that you ain’t pulling some shit coming in here, you know?”
Stefan nods, attempting to convince himself that this is no different than going through airport security and being “randomly selected” by a TSA agent. That it’s the same principle and attempts to move the same way, though his movements are a little too stiff, a little too nervous, and he can’t seem to stop them.
“Breath, guy, so long as you ain’t a narc, you ain’t got nothing to worry about, alright?”
Stefan nods as the man pats him down briskly, pausing when he hits the thick envelope under Stefan’s sweater. The man raises an eyebrow and when Stefan goes to answer, the man stops him. “Not out here, you ninny.” The man rolls his eyes. “Go on up.”
As if on cue, the door buzzes, and the man pulls the door open and holds it that way until Stefan is inside. Stefan can only hope that it’s abundantly obvious which apartment he is supposed to be heading into because he doesn’t think he can survive the nerves of attempting to ask that man a second question.
The walls seem just about as miserable as the rest of the building; the old wallpaper is cracked and peeling. The corners are lifting up, and it seems that there is more water damage than ceiling tile left between the working light fixtures and the broken ones. This building should be condemned. It's no wonder that he would be directed to a building like this to do the work that he's been asked to do today. Stefan follows the only sounds of life that he can find until he comes to a cracked open doorway. He can hear the television playing in the background; the static on it seems louder than the actual volume, but he knocks anyway. He doesn't want to assume that just because it's open means that he has an open invitation or anything. These are not the sorts of people that somebody wants to cross.
“Get your ass in here.”
Swallowing hard, Stefan heads inside as he is commanded, his body just barely keeping from trembling.
“Damn, you’re really fucking tall.”
What a strange greeting. Stefan nods because he doesn't know what else he is supposed to do with a comment like that. Agreeing with such an obvious statement feels like it might be stupid. The man that walks around the corner is probably no more than five foot six on a good day. His torso is shirtless, and his pants are slung low on narrow hips. That was one trend that Stefan never got behind, even on his worst days. He never could wear his pants that low. He didn't like the breeze on his ass, and he certainly didn't understand the purpose of wearing a belt whenever you have to hold your pants up the whole time anyway with your hands, not that he's going to say any such thing to him. He can't even think of the words to greet him properly.
“So, you’re Jamal’s friend?”
Friend was as good of a term as any, Stefan supposes, so he nods.
“What, your mouth don’t work? You don't know how to talk?”
Like cold water splashed on his face, Stefan shakes his head. “I don't know what to say… I’ve never done this before.”
“Yeah, no shit, that was fucking obvious.'' The man's torso is covered in more tattoos than Stefan can make out. The ink is pigmented in black against equally dark skin. “So what do you want a gun for anyway?”
Reflexively, Stefan looks back over his shoulder as if somebody might be somehow scandalized by the topic that they are discussing. The tattooed man laughs. “Chill, man, chill; ain’t nobody going to hurt you. You like a damn rabbit. That’s what I’m gonna call you now. Rabbit boy. Jumping all over the place.”
Stefan disagrees strongly, but he says nothing. Instead, he chooses to answer the other question instead. “Protection.”
“Protection from what?”
Stefan pauses; he doesn’t want to say. The tattooed man stops laughing, his face shifting to something serious in that half-second. “What, you too good to talk to me?”
Stefan looks scandalized. “No! It's not that…”
“Chill, rabbit, I’m fucking with you, rabbit boy. So you too good to talk to me, but you ain’t good enough to go about buying a gun the legal way? Don't tell me a rabbit like you has a record that would go preventing such a thing now.”
Stefan doesn't want to answer. “I wouldn't know where to buy one...don't want people asking questions.”
“Well, you get caught with an unregistered piece, and they're gonna do a hell of a lot more than question you, you know that, right?”
Stefan swallows hard but nods.
“Now, do I need to tell you that you get stupid enough to tell anybody where you got this...and something real nasty is gonna happen to you...or can your imagination fill in the rest for me, rabbit boy?”
Stefan nearly trembles, but he shakes his head. He knows. He has heard more than a handful of stories about people who tell stories about the wrong sort of people. Stefan used to be one of those people, such a very, very long time ago. Perhaps he and the tattoo man might have been friends, partners maybe, once upon a time. “No. I won't.”
“I know you won't. You’ll be a good little rabbit, won't you?”
Stefan swallows the last of his pride and nods.
“Good. You got my money?”
Stefan nods and pulls out the envelope from his jacket and extends his hand out toward the tattooed man, who accepts it and tears open the top. His thumb brushes over the bills as if he can tell how much is there just by weight and feel alone. “Good rabbit.” The tattooed man dumps the cash out onto his coffee table and nods, then reaches into the back of his pants and pulls out the small revolver and slides it into the now-empty manilla envelope. “Small, just like you said. Though I think a string bean like you could handle something a little bigger, I think stealth is more your game, isn't it, rabbit?”
“Something like that.'' Stefan takes the envelope back and tucks it into the same place that the money had just been moments before, already feeling guilty for having done this in the first place. Yet at the same time, there's a strange calm, that at least he has it. At least he knows that it's going to be here if he needs it. He really, really hopes that he doesn't need it.
Though something tells him that he is making the right choice, even as seedy and uncomfortable as this whole process is, he knows that it is for the best. “Thank you,” Stefan mutters and starts walking backward toward the door.
As he leaves, he can hear the tattooed man laughing at him, muttering about fucking rabbits.
Stefan leaves the building as quickly as he can, more than ready to be back in his own bed, the gun safely tucked underneath his pillow and pretending that none of this ever happened.
Chapter Two
M adden
There is no place in the world that Madden loves more than Las Vegas. The old saying is true: what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. At least for him, that has proven to be true. These little business ventures are the entire highlight of his year. While he is only assigned to come here every three months or so, these trips are what keep him going through the monotony of his normal everyday life. It's not even that his life is boring, at least not normally. It's not that he's unhappy in his life. He has a lovely little house back in Ohio, a pretty little thing on a corner lot with three stories and a lovely yard. He has a boat that they take to a little lake on the weekends and a nice lake house to go with it. He has a loving wife and two beautiful little girls. No, madden doesn't dislike his life by any means. It's just that this adds a little flavor. He knows that it’s the stereotypical, pathetic man thing to say that living this dual life is what makes him thrive, but it is. He gets to be two different people. These trips always come at the right time for him to be able to have a breather from being a family man and dad. These trips allow him to live and to shake out all of the stressors that suburbia can put on a person. He knows that this life isn't sustainable. He knows that the way that Vegas Madden lives isn't something that he would survive having to do full time, but he figures that everything is about balance, and this is what provides him with the most balance that he can manage.
Honestly, he thinks that his wife feels the same way. While he’s never outright admitted to the things that he does here...he knows that she’s not stupid. Someday she might confront him about it, but maybe she will continue just being happy with the gifts that he sends her every time he comes here, at least if his luck continues. He knows that he's a good looking man, even with the gray that is starting to weave into his blond hair otherwise. He knows that he's in good shape; he has a very good job, and he knows that he's fun to be around. He just doesn't see the negative of this lifestyle.
It's a simple pleasure of waking up with silk sheets around his nude frame. The other side of the bed is usually occupied, but she had to work late last night. Madden likes knowing that he can take his time waking up, and no children are going to jump on him. In fact, Vegas Madden doesn't have kids at all. Vegas Madden is going to order room service and gorge himself on french toast and freshly cooked bacon strips. He will eat in leisure, shower, and shave in that same leisure if he doesn't decide to go down to the pool for some laps first, attend some meetings, head into the Vegas office for a few hours and then he has every intention of heading down into the casino to spend the rest of the evening with the love of Vegas Madden’s life.
He is slow to rise simply because he can be. He doesn’t have to rush. He can get the pot of coffee started in the elaborately fancy coffee maker that he never could imagine having at home. He likes to stay in the same room, and most of the hotel staff know how to cater things to the way that he likes it more often than not. It’s a small thing, but it makes him feel important. He knows that he isn’t much more special than the next guy that walks into a place like this, but it’s always so much fun to pretend.
On the nightstand, his phone buzzes softly. The vibration isn’t from a phone call or an alarm, so it must be a text message then. He carries two phones in Vegas. This one's for work, his family, all things that normal, everyday Madden mu
st attend to. Vegas Madden has something far sleeker, something intended for only one purpose.
There’s a knock at the door, and Vegas Madden lifts his sleepy head and slowly starts to stretch his limbs and fully rouse himself from the deep, peaceful slumber that he has been in all night. Still sore from two nights ago, that woman likes to keep things interesting. Long ago were the days that he was simply impressed with the fact that she could put her foot right behind her head with ease. He supposed that growing up a dancer, and then becoming a professional dancer, that just came with the territory. It also keeps her lithe little body toned in all the right places. He has listened to her talk for hours about how she wishes that she was a front line actor or that she had any real singing talent so that she could be top-billed. Not that she minds being a dancer, of course, but she would like something more. Madden likes to think that he helps with something more in so much as he’s able to.
He buys most of her costumes, and he certainly pays for what does or doesn’t go underneath them. He buys her shoes and gets her hair done. She seems to like having somebody take care of her even in such small capacities. Normally, whenever he’s in town, she stays with him. Though this one night to himself was rather nice as well. A slow, happy smile comes over his face as he thinks back to two nights ago when she was in his arms, his hands running over her soft skin, the slope of her waist as it met her hips.
“Room service,” the voice at the door calls.
“Come in!” Madden groans, his voice still sleepy with disuse.
The door opens, and a man in a white coat comes into the room with a silver-plated tray and something that smells amazing.
“Did I call room service?” Madden asks, pushing himself upward in bed and looking in the direction of the food.
“No sir, I do believe Mrs. Callahan, your wife, did. Good morning, Mr. Callahan, by the way. Would you like me to get your coffee started? We have a nice Belgian roast this month, and I think that you will really enjoy it.”
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