Hard Win: Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #3 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series)

by Jason Stanley

  Stepping back from the firing-line, Michelle looked over at Deja who was grinning and shooting with apparent total unselfconscious abandon. “Yeah, I introduced her to shooting recently. She's getting a kick out of it.”

  “Hey Mac, come on, we gotta go.” His friend stood in the door, pointed to his wrist and jerked his head with a sideways nod.

  The man held out his hand. “I'm MacDonald. Everyone calls me Mac.”

  “Good to meet you, Mac. I'm Michelle.” She shook his offered hand. “It looks like you better go to the station or you'll be late for your shift.”

  “That obvious, huh?” Mac raised his eyebrows, an impish bad-boy look in his eyes, and a gorgeous smile played on his lips.

  “You and your friends might as well be wearing uniforms.”

  Mac raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “It's a good thing. Mostly. Nice to have you guys around, but no—Michelle nodded toward Deja—we're not cop groupies.”

  “There's always hope,” Mac said. “Maybe I'll see you around sometime.”

  “Maybe.” Michelle looked at the door where Mac's friend stood. “Is he your partner?”

  “Yeah. He's a good guy, and has a big thing about being on time.” Mac turned back to his partner who still stood at the door. “I'm coming, Christ, you're worse than my wife.”

  Michelle glanced down the range at the two other cops still shooting. With a small nod of her head, she stepped back to the firing line, adjusted her ear protection and reloaded.

  A few minutes later, violating at least half of the range's safety practices, Deja stepped into Michelle's shooting station. “Wow, this is fun. You didn't tell me shooting would be so much fun.”

  “I'm so glad you like it. Shooting either sings to you or it doesn't. It's kinda like sex that way,” Michelle put her own gun on the shelf. She gently took Deja's S&W Bodyguard 380 out of her hand, clicked on the safety, and laid it next to hers.

  “Talk about missing the target. That one went right over my head.” Deja waved her hand over her head. “I mean, everyone likes sex.”

  “Not really,” Michelle paused and looked up. “There're lots of women who aren't into it. They do it because their boyfriends or husbands want it.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Some women say those things, and they seem serious, but not me. If I don't have some good sex for a while I start getting bitchy and twitchy.” Deja wiggled.

  “I hear you. That’s why I never go too long. And men are always so easy. I can’t think of a reason to wait. So how is your twitchy meter this evening?”

  “Moving toward the danger area.” Deja looked across the room with hooded eyes.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just haven’t been lucky lately.”

  “Silly goose. A beautiful woman like you never needs to get lucky. You just—”

  “Don’t say it.” Deja held up her hand as a stop sign.

  “So you do remember our little chat about the secret to great sex?”

  “I remember,” Deja said. “Give me a drum roll.”

  Michelle drummed her fingers on the gun shelf.

  “Yes. All a woman has to do is say, yes,” Deja rolled her head with the word yes. “But it isn’t always that easy.”

  “Sure it is.” Michelle nodded her head sideways. “What about those guys on the other end of the range? They've been checking us out since we came in.”

  “They look okay, but they have cop written all over them.”

  “And?”

  “And, I don't see myself spending a lot of time with cops,” Deja said.

  “I'm not talking about marriage. Hell, I'm not even talking about dating.”

  “Yeah but, still . . . You know, they’re cops.” Deja wrinkled her nose.

  “When was the last time you enjoyed an evening dedicated to excellent sex?”

  “Good point.” Perking up, Deja cocked her head and looked at the two cops. “Which one do you want?”

  .

  Four: Plans

  “. . . AND THAT MAKES twenty.” The waitress counted out the change at the register. “Thanks so much. Come back soon.”

  The last of the morning work crowd, a couple dressed in business casual, waved at Scott and headed out, presumably for work.

  Scott stood at the grill against the back counter tending the ever present large batch of soft homemade hash browns. The smell of sautéed onions with a touch of bell pepper in fresh oil wafted across the room.

  With the couple’s absence only Michelle and a single man, seated at the counter, remained in the diner. Michelle relaxed at her table. The man, wearing a mechanics style uniform, folded his newspaper and stood up.

  The waitress picked up the man’s empty coffee cup. “Anything?”

  “A couple.” The guy answered. “ The Ford dealership in Santa Monica is hiring. I know the lead mechanic. He’s a pretty good guy and might put in a good word for me. Wish me luck.” The man put two dollars on the counter and headed toward the door.

  “Good luck,” three voices rang out from Scott, the waitress, and Michelle.

  The man walked past Michelle, winked and opened the front door. He stepped back holding the door open for Nikky who almost collided with him.

  With an exaggerated flop, Nikky landed her full bodied, but diminutive five feet tall, one-hundred six pounds in her chair. Her almost black, dark brown eyes flashed. “I hate dennith.”

  “Who’s Dennis?” Michelle asked.

  “No, not Dennith, dennith. You know, the sadith who work on your teef,” Nikky lisped and groaned.

  “New teeth! Let me see.” Michelle said.

  “Gimme a couple more hoursh. Half of my fath and tongue are thill numb. I can't move my lipth on that thide.” Nikky rubbed the side of her face. “Feelth thrange.”

  Michelle and Nikky returned to Anglewatts two months earlier. They left Galveston as soon as Nikky felt strong enough to travel. It had been slightly under a month since her horrible beating. The trip by private ambulance took four days. Nikky slept while Michelle fretted and worried about her dearest friend.

  Walking into Scott's Diner, Deja, tall and gorgeous, broke out in her trademark wide grin. “Sup Michelle. Hey Nikky, let's see your teeth.”

  Nikky groaned.

  “I just asked,” Michelle said. “Her mouth is still full of Novocain, and she can't open her lips without drooling yet.”

  “Poor baby.” Deja bumped fists with Nikky.

  Scott brought Michelle's coffee and a bottle of water for Nikky. “Did I hear you have your new teeth? Let me see.”

  “Crith, I feel like a horth with everyone wanting to thee inthide my mouff,” Nikky said. Then she gave Scott a half grin half grimace showing half of her dental work.

  “Face still numb? From what I can see, you look great,” Scott winked.

  “Scott, before you go, let me order for everyone,” Michelle said. “We have a large group today. The three of us,—she nodded to Nikky and Deja—plus PJ, Jelena, G-Baby, and Baby-Sister. Give us six breakfast specials, and a protein shake for Nikky. Also, a tall stack of pancakes for the middle of the table.”

  “Business or social this morning?” Scott asked while picking up empty cups from the counter.

  “Business.” Michelle said. “And, we'll be here a while if that's okay with you?”

  Becoming good friends with Scott surprised Michelle. He was a White surfer dude with light sun-streaked brown hair, cut short and usually uncombed. Scott owned and ran the diner down the street from her cottage in Playa Del Rey, close to the beach.

  At twenty-four she was more than ten years younger than his mid-thirties. She grew up in the hood. He spent his childhood in suburbia. Their worlds were worlds apart. But, when she first returned to the States after three years in Asia, he was one of the first people she met, and they clicked.

  Michelle was comfortable having a business meeting in Scott's because over the past year he had come to know much of her business. He would never k
now she was an international assassin. But, he did know she, Nikky, and Deja had taken over as the primary madams of the street hookers in neighboring Anglewatts. In recent months he met PJ and Jelena. Like the three friends, PJ, an attractive streetwise Black woman in her thirties, came from the hood. Unlike the friends, she worked the streets and was coming up in Michelle's organization. Jelena was tall, natural blonde, pale, and Russian. She also worked the streets.

  “Is this business anything I know about, or might be curious about?” Scott reached over to fill Michelle’s coffee cup.

  “I think so.” Michelle widened her eyes and wiggled her eyebrows. “Do you remember us talking about going to Mayberry?”

  “I remember everybody kidding about Mayberry. I thought it was something to do with sex. I seem to remember Trevon heading to, well never mind. Yeah I remember.” Scott’s face turned slightly red.

  “Yeah, we turned our joking around into that, but the real story about Mayberry was about some of the smaller cities like Billings, Montana.”

  “Okay now, you're going to have to help me out on that one. I don't understand.” Scott stepped over setting the coffee pot on the counter behind him.

  “Did you ever watch the old time TV show with the friendly sheriff and goofy sidekick? They lived in a small hick town called Mayberry where everyone would believe about anything.”

  “Sure, the Andy Griffith show with Aunt Bea.” He absently wiped the table in front of Michelle.

  “That's the one. Well, a while back the bangers started going to smaller cities around the country where it was easy to sell drugs. They called it “Going to Mayberry.”

  “And . . .?”

  “You've met Jelena, right?”

  “Yes, we’ve met. She’s been in here with you a few times.”

  “She and her girls, who are all also Russian, were owned by a sleaze-bag crime group out of Houston.” Michelle sipped her coffee. “It turns out they have women in two other cities; Billings and Tulsa, both are smaller Mayberry cities.”

  “You said owned. What do you mean by owned?” Scott stopped wiping the table and stood still.

  “I mean owned, as in slaves. They were held in prostitution slavery,” she answered.

  Scott spun a chair around, straddled it and sat with his elbows on the table. “Here in the States. I don't understand. Why don't they leave or go to the police?”

  “That's what we asked. Jelena explained how it worked.”

  “Jelena? She was held against her will here in the U.S.? You already said that. It's so crazy sounding, to hear I know someone who was in a slave ring is crazy. It's not like they were in some third-world backwoods forgotten place. My God, Michelle, this has me babbling.” Scott shook his head in disbelief.

  “Okay, long story, but this is the short version,” Michelle said. “Jelena and ten other Russian women, who now work for us, were a part of a slave ring until we busted them out. We didn't know the slave thing when we helped them out, but that’s a whole other story. Anyway, we asked them, “What the hell? Why not split?” They told us they were sold by the Russian mafia to cover their family’s debts.” Michelle took a sip of her coffee.

  “Sold.” Scott shook his head again. “Christ!”

  Michelle added a little sugar to her coffee and tasted it. “The problem is, if they run away, their families back home will be hurt or even killed. And they can't involve the police here because they're all illegal. The police means INS and ultimately results in the same fucked up situation putting their families in danger.”

  “Jesus, what a mess!”

  “Exactly.”

  “What does this craziness mean to you?” Scott asked.

  “We were pulled in with Jelena's group. We didn't ask for this, the whole mess landed on us. That’s what Houston was all about and why Nikky was busted up.”

  “Those are the assholes who beat Nikky?” The whites of Scott’s eyes went bloodshot red and his lips compressed into a thin line.

  “Yeah.” Michelle slammed her cup on the table, spilling her coffee.

  “What can I do to help you settle the score for what they did to her?” Scott’s voice held an edge Michelle had never heard or expected.

  “Nothing. That's been taken care of. I can't say any more about it. All you need to know is they all got what they deserved.”

  “Oh . . . That stuff on the news, that was you guys? No, don't answer. Holy shit!”

  Reporters had dubbed the mob-style hit leaving eighteen dead, The Houston Massacre. The cops didn't have any leads they were talking about. No one claimed responsibility. For several days, it had been quite a big deal in the national news and on political talk shows.

  “Good.” Scott added. “If they had anything to do with beating her, then they got what they deserved. So on to this prostitution slavery thing. What are you doing?”

  “There's about fifty women still in the situation. We're gonna bust them out. We're going to Mayberry and kick some ass.” Michelle turned her almost empty coffee cup around between her hands.

  “Really? You, and, and . . . a few friends, are going to take on an organized crime syndicate?” Scott stood up and took her cup. “That sounds like something for the FBI. I mean, that has to be about the most dangerous thing imaginable.” He returned with a full cup of steaming hot coffee and put it in front of Michelle.

  “They're not as organized or dangerous as they once were. But yeah, it'll be some serious shit.”

  “Why do it? Nikky was badly beaten. One of you could be killed this time.” Scott sat back down facing Michelle.

  Michelle added sugar to her coffee, stirring it while talking to Scott. “I know. And, you can believe I’m not taking it lightly. The thing is, since we helped Jelena and her crew out, we don't have a choice. If we don't take them down, they'll come out here after us. Our only options are to go head on, or quit and tuck our tails and run.”

  “Seriously, you’re being careful about this?” Concern filled his face and voice.

  “Oh hell yeah! I’m being as careful as I know how. The truth is, if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t do it. But the other truth is, there’s no way we can’t. Even if we weren't already deep in the shit, as Black women in America, we can't let other women be held as slaves. Not like that.”

  “What can I do?”

  “How good are you with a gun?” Sometime before she learned he didn’t like guns, but asked anyway.

  “I've never shot one. Remember, we talked about it. I don’t like guns. But in this case I might be willing to reconsider.”

  “No, please don’t do that. I like you the way you are.” Michelle smiled. “You can help most with staying safe and being a good friend.”

  “Want me to pray for you?” Scott half joked.

  “Couldn't hurt.”

  “Been awhile, I'll ask my grams how to do it.” Scott looked up at the opening door. “Hey, PJ.”

  “Sup Scott. What's for breakfast? I'm starving,” PJ said.

  “Breakfast is on the way.” Scott headed toward the kitchen.

  “Hey Nikky, how's the new teeth?” PJ asked.

  * * *

  They finished breakfast and helped clear their dishes. The early lunch crowd hadn’t started yet. They were the only customers in the small diner.

  “This is how I see it,” Michelle said. “We hurt them real bad when we took out Fast Eddie and Ascia. I thought Ascia was the head. Now, I've found out Ascia's old boss is still around. His name is Galletti. He's in his eighties. From what I hear, he is still as dangerous as they come.”

  “We're certain this guy is still a player?” Nikky dabbed a napkin on her full lips and explored her cheek with her fingers.

  “Getting the feeling back in your face?” PJ asked.

  “A little.” Nikky touched her mouth again. “So, Michelle, what about this guy Galletti?”

  “Yeah, the guy who told me about him would know,” Michelle replied.

  “Okay, what does that mean to us in
this situation?” G-Baby, Michelle’s uncle, asked.

  “First and foremost they'll have an experienced, pissed off leader. They won't be scattered like we hoped they would be.”

  “Will they rebuild Houston?” Nikky asked.

  “Doesn't look like it. Not yet anyway. My friends tell me there is no activity at all from them,” Michelle replied. “Not with women and not even with drugs. Apparently, they've pulled back on their operations in Houston. Don't be fooled into thinking they're weak. Pulling people out of Houston only means they'll be stronger in their existing bases.”

  “Any plan on where to start?” Unlike Deja who was spontaneous and passionate, Nikky always asked questions and wanted to know what came next.

  “I figured Galletti might set up in Tulsa. It's the closest to Houston and his established support.” Michelle reached for the coffee pot on the table, changed her mind and pushed her cup away. “I was right. I didn't see him personally when I was there last week, but I did see a lot of extra activity around their base. When I asked around, the locals have noticed new muscle in the city. That means he brought his own men with him. They’ll be more loyal than locals and almost guaranteed to be better in a fight. The upside is, they’ll be gone when he goes. Overall Billings is the better place.”

  “Why Billings? I'm good with your decision, no problem. I mean why a city. What makes it a good target?” Nikky asked. “Can't we take out Galletti? Just cut off the snake's head.”

  “That's the plan. As plans go, there are a lot of problems with it. Problems I don't know what to do about.”

  “What kind of problems?” PJ, who had mostly been quiet, asked.

  Michelle turned to PJ. “What always happens when the top guy is taken out?”

  PJ shrugged.

  “Street war, people are killed, somebody takes over,” Deja filled in.

  Michelle pointed at Deja. “Exactly, somebody takes over. If I kill Galletti, somebody else will take over. Or each house goes independent and runs on its own. Also, the truth is, we don't have the people to go against him. We were amazingly lucky in Houston. We took out eighteen of them, and all of us lived to tell it. That won't happen again. Even though Ascia thought he had me pegged, he was still over confident. Galletti won't make the same mistake. They'll be locked down tight. Nikky, what did your grams used to say?”