Deputy's Secret (Welcome to Covendale Book 3)

by Blaze, Morgan

  The man grinned at her, an expression that sent chills down her spine. Just behind him loomed the giant who was always with Red Suit—a brutish mountain of muscle, even bigger than Nick. “Excuse me, dear lady,” the man said. “Have we met?”

  “No.” She had trouble finding her voice. Talking to this man was a very bad idea, especially now. He’d always struck her as dangerous. Up close, she sensed a true threat. It was far too easy to imagine Red Suit here killing someone with a smile on his face. “No, we haven’t.”

  “Oh, I apologize. You just look so familiar.” His grin widened. “Doesn’t she, Pinky?”

  The man-mountain grunted.

  Emma shuddered. “Excuse me.”

  “Of course.”

  Red Suit and his good pal Pinky stepped aside, and Emma hurried past, feeling like she’d narrowly escaped with her life. She made it to Kyle’s table and plopped into a chair without waiting for an invitation. “Sorry, guys,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

  David arched an eyebrow. “That depends. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Red Suit guy? No, I don’t know him.” She shuddered again. “And I don’t want to.”

  “Well, you’re right about that.”

  She frowned. “Do you know him?”

  “He’s spying on him,” Kyle said. “Even though I keep telling him to stop.”

  David shrugged. “It’s a hobby.”

  “Really?” Emma leaned forward and lowered her voice. “So what, you follow him around? Take pictures?”

  Kyle laughed. “Come on, Emma. Nobody’s done that since the 1950s. I thought you actually learned something in college.” He smirked and shook his head. “It’s electronic spying. David is a…tech professional.”

  “I’m a hacker,” David said. “And that man is the scum of the earth.”

  “Who is he?”

  Kyle shot him a warning look, but David ignored it. “Theodore ‘Ankles’ Martello,” he said. “Crime boss, killer, loan shark. I’ve got enough dirt on him to bury a small city.”

  Her blood ran cold. Suspecting the man was dangerous, and hearing that someone had proof, were two very different things. “What are you going to do with it?” she half-whispered.

  “Nothing,” Kyle said firmly. “Because he knows if Martello ever finds out he’s been digging around, he’s a dead man.”

  David smirked. “It’s true,” he said. “That’s what makes it fun.”

  Emma’s mind raced. This was more than a story—it was a criminal on the loose. And someone should do something about it, if they could. “What if you weren’t the one he connected with the information?” she said.

  “Don’t even think about it, Ace.” Kyle looked angry, almost frantic. “Drop it. Right now.”

  She sighed. “Consider it dropped.”

  “I will.”

  As Kyle relaxed a little, Emma took her phone out. The fight would start any minute, and she wanted to grab a few larger shots.

  “Hey. What kind of phone is that?” David said.

  “I don’t know. A Galaxy something.”

  “Can I see it?”

  She shrugged and handed it to him. “Sure.”

  “David, what are you doing?”

  He looked at Kyle. “You know I can’t resist shiny gadgets. I’ve never played with this model before. I just want to check it out,” he said. “Is that okay with you, Mr. Cranky?”

  “Fine. Geek.”

  David stuck his tongue out, drawing a giggle from Emma.

  After he swiped and tapped around for a few minutes, he gave the phone back. “Pretty sweet,” he said. “It’s a little dated, though. You should check for updates.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ve postponed them a few times.” She smiled and swiped to the home screen to access the camera.

  And noticed the little circled 1 on the calendar, indicating a new event.

  With a quick glance at Kyle, who didn’t seem suspicious, she tapped it open. There was a phone number and a short note. In case you want to get dirty.

  Well, maybe she did.

  She caught David’s eye, and he nodded slightly. She flashed a grin and decided to start a new subject. “So, anybody want to bet against The Hammer tonight?”

  “Great idea,” Kyle said. “I love throwing money away.”

  Just then, the crowd’s volume intensified and the lights over the cage snapped on. Emma half-turned to get a better view.

  The fight was about to begin.

  * * * *

  Nick stepped into the cage, eyeing his opponent. He’d fought Mister Fister once before. The man liked to go for the low blows—really low. Below the belt. He’d almost landed one last time, because Nick hadn’t expected him to aim for his balls.

  At least that fight served to remind him of the rules around here. There weren’t any.

  After his first time out, Nick had learned to make things last a little longer. The more spectacular the fight, the higher the payout, and the faster he’d be released from this hell. Most of the time he let his opponent make the first move, and kept up the defense for a while. But sometimes they wouldn’t. His undefeated reputation made some of them eager to take him on, and others reluctant. Once he’d had a guy walk out on him.

  That night, Ankles had forced him to fight twice. He’d taken some damage that showed on Monday, and told Sheriff Tanner he’d fallen of the roof.

  Mister Fister wore a blank doll-face mask over a full head stocking, an effect that would’ve been chilling in a dark alley somewhere. He bounced on his heels a few times, jogged in place, shook his hands out and cracked his neck.

  Nick only stood there, waiting.

  Just when he thought the man would never make a move, Mister Fister ran at him with surprising speed. Nick barely avoided a collision. His opponent glanced off his hip, twisting him aside a few inches. He drew a fist back.

  The other man dropped into a crouch and hammered the side of his knee.

  Bright pain pulsed through his buckling leg. He caught himself before he fell and jumped back, just in time to miss the knuckles arching up toward his crotch. Momentum left his opponent off balance, but before he could land a counterblow, Mister Fister rolled clear and sprang to his feet.

  After the initial salvo, his opponent hung back and tried for defensive plays. Nick lobbed a few weak strikes, letting him think he was blocking them. If he didn’t get more aggressive soon, Nick would have to do it for him.

  He feinted and pulled back. With a snarl, his opponent threw a wide hook, and Nick turned to take it on the arm. As Mister Fister bobbed left, Nick landed a shoulder blow that spun him away.

  At that moment, a startling flash went off somewhere in the crowd. Like a camera. He glanced toward the source of the light, keeping half an eye on his regrouping opponent. The idea that someone was taking pictures of this infuriated him.

  But he couldn’t afford to let it distract him.

  He was about to turn back when a horrible sense of familiarity drew his focus to a slim figure standing at a table near the entrance, trying to be inconspicuous with the phone in her hands.

  Emma.

  A dizzying rush swept through him. He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t look away from her. Even knowing she’d been here more than once, watching him, he hadn’t let himself consider the impact her presence might have. She’d been a stranger before.

  Now she was the woman he loved, watching him put on a violent and illegal show. And taking pictures.

  For a split second he thought the incredible pain that erased the rest of the world was his heart breaking. Then he realized Mister Fister had taken full advantage of his distraction—and kicked him in the groin.

  Somehow, he was still on his feet. The noise of the crowd was an ugly grumble behind the ringing curtain in his ears. Fresh blooms of pain punctuated his pool of agony as his opponent rained blows on him, trying to bring him down. He’d succeed if Nick didn’t do something quickly.

 
Well, they’d gotten a ball shot. That was spectacle enough.

  Teeth clenched against the anguish of movement, Nick spun and caught his opponent’s wrist before another blow could land. He wrenched the man’s arm back hard and pounded a fist into the man’s gut. Four times, at full strength. As Mister Fister dropped to his knees, Nick delivered a diagonal blow to his jaw that cracked his mask.

  He went limp. Nick released him, and his opponent collapsed in a boneless heap.

  He stood over the fallen man, gasping for breath as the seconds ticked by. Finally, the soft chime of the overhead sign announced his victory. He refused to look out at the crowds as he made his way from the cage, into the chain-link tunnel that led to the back rooms.

  Emma had cost him the worst beating he’d ever taken, and very nearly the win. Aside from the unrelenting pain in his lower gut, he was bruised and bleeding in multiple places. Adrenaline must’ve kept him from feeling most of it while he was out there—but once he reached the room, it was all he could do to stay on his feet.

  Parts of the mask grill had been crushed or shattered, the mesh screen pushed against his face. He tore the lower half free, leaving the ski mask in place, and glanced in the mirror. Blood around his mouth. Blood dribbling from a cut below his eye that was starting to bruise. He could feel blood dripping from his nose, too.

  This was going to require more than a fall from the roof to explain.

  Unable to sit down or stand still, he paced the room restlessly, until Ankles finally bothered to make his appearance with Pinky in tow. “Well,” the man said once the door closed. “I know you like to put on a show, Nicholas, but that was cutting it close. Don’t you think?”

  “I won,” Nick spat. “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t.”

  “Good. Now tell me what the hell you’re doing around my folks.”

  Ankles moved to the table and sat down, but Pinky stayed where he was—right behind Nick. Close enough to feel the imminent threat of broken bones. “It’s simple, really,” Ankles said. “I’m taking out an insurance policy on a recent business decision.”

  His stomach knotted. “And what would that be?”

  Ankles leaned forward and smiled. “Delayed retirement.”

  “No.” He had to force the word from his throat. “One more, and I’m done. That was the agreement. I’ve paid my debt to you.”

  “Well, you would have, if I hadn’t decided to raise the interest rate. Retroactively, of course.” The grin resurfaced. “Now it’s fifty percent, from the start of the term. Because I’m not ready to give up the goldmine you’re making me.”

  “I can’t do that,” Nick said. “I won’t. I’d never even catch up to that kind of interest.”

  “That’s why you’re going to start fighting every week.”

  Nick shook his head. He tried to back up, but Pinky was in the way. This was not happening. After all he’d been through—the pain he’d taken, the lies he’d told, the life he’d completely lost—he could barely stand the idea of going through another day. This was another year, maybe longer. Every week.

  And if he made it that far, what would stop Ankles from extending the term again?

  “You can’t do this,” he said. “We had a deal.”

  “Deals are funny things. You see, they’re only as good as the people who make them—and I don’t see any good people in this room.” Ankles stood slowly. His eyes were cold and dead. “Oh, and there are penalties if the interest isn’t met. Surely you can figure them out.”

  Of course he could. His parents.

  Filled with a dull sense of hopelessness, Nick met the devil’s gaze. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be here next Friday.”

  Chapter 12

  The Hammer had seen her.

  Emma made her way outside, shaking and more than a little sick. She’d meant to turn the flash off before she started taking pictures. But she didn’t, and she’d drawn his attention.

  He’d looked right at her. And kept staring, even when the other guy kicked him in the balls and pounded the shit out of him. He stood there taking the punishment and staring at her—as though it was all her fault.

  In the end, he’d snapped and pounded the guy into oblivion. Still undefeated. But now she wondered if exposing The Hammer was really the best idea, because he’d definitely seen her. Marked her. Maybe she should try to expose Mister Fister, or Mayhem.

  No. Damn it, she was going after the big one. That’s what she’d worked for all this time, and she wasn’t giving up on it.

  Pluto was waiting in the alley, as promised. He glanced around, opened the side door, and ushered her through without a word. Then he led her rapidly down hallways, past unmarked doors, to an alcove partially blocked by a folding wall. The security guard must’ve set that up for her.

  She opened her mouth to thank him, but he held a finger to his lips. Just then, she heard faint voices coming from behind the wall. He gestured toward it, and she nodded her gratitude and slipped through the opening.

  The vent he’d mentioned was there, right at eye level. She looked through it and saw the man who’d bumped into her, the handler, sitting next to a small table. Ankles Martello.

  He started speaking, and she could hear him clearly through the vent.

  “Deals are funny things. You see, they’re only as good as the people who make them—and I don’t see any good people in this room.” The man stood, taking his time with it. “Oh, and there are penalties if the interest isn’t met. Surely you can figure them out.”

  Emma’s mind raced. She wasn’t sure if they were making a deal, or if the fighter was in on it and being instructed to figure out penalties. He did say there weren’t any good people in the room. Damn it, why couldn’t she have gotten here sooner?

  “All right.” She assumed the unseen voice belonged to The Hammer. He sounded like he was in a lot of pain. “I’ll be here next Friday.”

  Next Friday? He’d been fighting every other week for the past year. For some reason, they were stepping up the schedule. Was it for this deal thing?

  “I know you will,” Ankles said. “And so will we.”

  The big man walked out of her view. She heard the door just outside the folding wall open, and held her breath as two sets of footsteps made dull thumps in the hallway. The door clicked shut. She didn’t dare to breathe until the sounds in the hall died away.

  Finally, she turned back to the vent. She saw the table, a chair on either side, and nothing else. No noises in the room. Did The Hammer walk out with his backer? She’d assumed the other set of footsteps belonged to the giant he’d called Pinky, but maybe they’d all left.

  The minutes stretched, and she’d almost convinced herself she missed her chance when a figure stepped up to the table. It was him. He’d taken the ninja grill off, but still wore the ski mask that covered everything but his eyes and mouth. They were bleeding. And he just stood there, glaring at the wall.

  Emma worked the mini-camera from her pocket as silently as possible. If he took the mask off right here, she’d have a perfect shot. Her heart was pounding so hard, she thought he must be able to hear it.

  Suddenly, The Hammer bared his teeth in a snarl of rage that escalated to a primal cry—and rammed his fist through the wall in front of him.

  Emma flinched. It was all she could do not to scream aloud, and her hands shook as she tried to steady the mini-cam. He lowered a fist streaked with plaster and blood, heaved in a breath. And reached for his mask.

  Her finger hovered on the shutter button. This camera didn’t have a flash, but she made a quick check anyway. Her pounding heart sped, until it beat so fast she was sure it would explode.

  The Hammer eased the mask off, wincing as it cleared his damaged mouth.

  A mouth she suddenly knew, in the split second before the rest of him was revealed. Because she’d kissed it.

  Nick Donovan was The Hammer.

  * * * *

  Taking the mask off wasn’t re
ally a risk. The Vault never allowed guests back here, and if Ankles came back—well, the bastard knew damned well who he was. Nick was in no shape to drive just yet, and he wanted a decent look at the damage he’d have to explain.

  But just as he pulled the material clear, he heard something. A startled intake of breath that came from his right. He snapped toward the sound. There was the door, completely solid. Set in a wall.

  With an air vent open to the hallway outside the room.

  He stared at it, walked toward it. The slits weren’t very wide, but if he got close enough, he’d very likely be able to see through them. The dull weight in his gut suddenly came to life, churning through him like savage butterflies. Behind the grate, a shadow shifted.

  Someone was out there. Watching him.

  It was far too late to put the mask back on. Furious and shattered, he stalked to the door and yanked it open, preparing to confront the spy. He looked out to find the alcove beyond the door blocked off with a portable wall, and it enraged him further. Whoever this was had planned this out ahead of time.

  He shoved the flimsy wall aside—and immediately froze as terrified blue eyes fastened on him.

  “No,” he whispered. “Please, God, not you.”

  Emma pressed back against the wall, sobbing. There was something in her hand, a small square of black plastic with a round protrusion, and a little glass bubble in the center. A miniature camera. “I was right,” she said in a small, breaking voice. “Oh, God, I was right the first time. Why?”

  “Emma…” He wasn’t sure if he’d spoken aloud. He moved toward her, reaching without thought. “Please. Let me explain.”

  “Don’t you touch me!” The high, reedy shout barely carried. She scrambled along the wall, edging around him, her eyes wide and bright with panic. “You’re a monster,” she whispered raggedly. “And I…”

  She let out a wrenching sob, then spun and bolted down the hallway.

  All the strength went out of him. He fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands, and stayed there for a long time.

  He’d lost everything.

  Eventually he realized that he couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t do nothing. Even if Emma exposed him—she would, and it was only a matter of when—Ankles wouldn’t let him off the hook. He had to protect his parents for as long as possible, and that meant keeping up the awful charade.