Revenant: The Midnight Society Book Three

by Logan Patricks

  “Are we still on that? Look if it makes you feel any better, I’ll buy you a new pair. Jeez, you are so anal retentive about your things.”

  “Fuck the salad tongs.”

  “Then stop bitching about them. You seriously have issues, boss. You get so worked up about one thing—obsessed even—that you forget everything else I’ve done for you. I kept your money and weapons safe. I’ve kept your girl safe. And now I’ve went out of my way to arrange a meeting with my half-brother, who hates my ass, may I add.”

  “You never told me that. I thought the two of you were on good terms.”

  Beau shrugged his shoulders. “Braydon had it in for me from the moment we first met—God only knows why. We only shared the same breathing space three times in our lives. The first was when I was fourteen. Donald had just found out about me and thought the right thing to do was to introduce me to his other bastard. First time we locked eyes, Braydon despised me already. Four hours later he kicked the shit out of me inside daddy dearest’s garden shed. Second time we met was five years later. Donald thought the best way for us to reconcile was to do business with each other, on his behalf. Now that idea may have worked for civilized people but civilized people we were not. I ended up sleeping with his girl—foolish, I know seeing as how he was vice-president of the charter of his biker gang.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered. “Did he find out?”

  “He found out,” Beau nodded. “Let me tell you, never try riding one of those Harley’s on your bare ass. It fucking hurts.”

  I shot him a backwards glance.

  “Look, Braydon caught me in the middle of the act, alright. He chased me out of the motel room while my dick was pointing straight and true like a homing beacon. However, being the idiot he was, he left his motorcycle outside running. I hopped on it and high-tailed it out of there.”

  “So after all you just told me, why the hell would he be willing to lend us a helping hand? I’m anticipating a meeting with Braydon which involved staring down the barrel of a shot gun.”

  “Well, that’s where our third meeting comes into play. Just last year I got a call from daddy telling me Braydon was in trouble. He got himself caught in a weapons deal gone awry with some Russian gangsters. Don’t know if you ever dealt with Russians but they’re bad news. If they felt like they’ve been wronged, their version of a slap on the wrist involves detaching your hand from the rest of your body. They were ready to decapitate poor Braydon.”

  “I’ve dealt with Russians before. I know what they’re capable of. Which makes me wonder, why did Donald call you, of all people, to bail out your brother?” I asked.

  “You see, I run this pretty little antique store called the Angel’s Trumpet down in New Orleans. However, the Angel’s Trumpet also provides a service. I’m a fence for stolen goods. I’ve been in business with the Russians for a while. We had a good arrangement going where I’d bring their stolen goods to the black market and receive top dollar for them in return. I ended up taking a fifteen percent cut out of all transactions. The Russian’s were happy and I was happy.”

  “So you informed the Russians that you’d no longer do business with them if they killed Braydon?”

  “No. That threat alone wasn’t enough leverage to free Braydon from his predicament. I needed something more. I’m a very cautious man and sleep better at night knowing I have an insurance policy, should things ever go south with the Russians. What I did was map out their entire organization. It all starts with the runners, the people the Russians hired to bring me inventory. Now, there are two things about runners which I know to be consistent: first they want to get paid as soon as possible and second, they want to instill confidence to their superiors that they haven’t run off with either the merchandise or the money.

  “Usually after visiting the Angel’s Trumpet, a runner immediately returns to the handler. The handler then immediately goes back to a captain who immediately reports back to a boss. I tailed a runner one night and from there, was able to figure out their entire chain of command. I mapped out all the key players, their family members, and where they all lived within a matter of days.”

  I was surprised. Perhaps Beau wasn’t the idiot that I thought he was. “You know, the FBI’s been trying to lay out the entire Russian organization for years, without any luck.”

  Beau laughed. “The FBI refuses to dig around in shit for the dollar. Meanwhile, I’ve lived in it all my life.”

  “So what did you do next?”

  He grinned. “I brought the Russians pictures of the bosses daughter and told them to let Braydon go, otherwise I’d introduce her to an underground dealer I know who specializes in trading women. They took the offer and I saved my brother’s life. Now, he owes me one.”

  There was still one aspect to this story that required resolution. “The Russians are unforgiving men. You threatened the boss’s daughter. I’m surprised you’re still breathing right now.”

  “When’s the last time you heard of any Russian mob related activities in the past couple of years?” he asked.

  “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “I gave Braydon the detailed Russian Mafia org chart, including addresses and frequent places of visit. Braydon organized every member of his club, from Niagra Falls all the way to Alaska, and had the Russian’s completely eradicated from the Americas.”

  I was surprised. “Your brother has that type of sway with his club?”

  “Remember who our father was,” Beau said. “Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if guile, charisma, and cunningness are genetic traits that are inherited.”

  I thought of my own father and which of his qualities I’ve inherited. Patience was definitely not one of them.

  “Well, it’s good to know that your brother isn’t a complete hack. From the stories you’ve told me thus far about Braydon, I don’t have the greatest impression of him.”

  “The stories I’ve told you are two exceptions to the fact.”

  “And what fact was that?” I enquired.

  “Braydon is one of the toughest sons-of-bitches I know. To this very day, hearing Braydon’s name makes any Russian—including Mr. Putin—piss vodka into their pants. If you want Lincoln rescued, Braydon will find a way to do it.”

  “So you’re confident he’ll listen to you?” I asked.

  “Not in the slightest. As you mentioned, there’s a good chance by the end of the day, we’ll be looking down the barrel of a shotgun. And believe me, Braydon isn’t one who’s afraid to pull the trigger.”

  Chapter Five

  Lincoln

  The hard knuckles smashing into the side of my face told me this wasn’t a dream. The cell door to my prison was open and that cocksucker Buchanan was pummeling me.

  It hurt like a bitch.

  “It’s been a while,” Buchanan said as he drove a steel-toed boot into the side of my ribs. “That’s the beauty of being away from a person for a while, you begin to miss them. Some people miss conversations, others miss looking at a person pretty face. You know what I missed most about you?”

  “I assume it’s not my pretty face,” I said as I struggled to my feet.

  “I miss the physical interaction.” Buchanan clobbered me again with his bony fist.

  I shrugged off the blow and got back on my feet. I refused to look weak in front of this cockroach. “You know, I was never a fan of one-sided interaction. Perhaps you can release me from these chains and the two of us can dance? Hell, I’ll even let you pick the song.”

  Buchanan shook his head and laughed. “You’re a dead man walking, you know that boy? A fucking dead man walking.”

  “Eat shit and die.”

  The next thing I knew, I was lying flat on my back, the side of my temple aching from the impact of another bullish strike.

  Everything was fading to black again.

  Exit stage right, consciousness.

  When I awoke, I was no longer in a prison cell but in a rather well decorated bedroom.

&n
bsp; If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was in a hotel room from just glancing at the furniture and its arrangement. But where were the windows? They seemed to be missing.

  On a coffee table there was a spread of food laid out. The scent of the roasted meat and fresh baked bread made my stomach rumble. It was probably drugged but fuck it. After eating inadequate portions of bland porridge over the course of lord-knows-how-long, I was dying to taste meat again.

  At least I’d go out with a full belly.

  I took my chances and devoured the food. Oh, how good it all tasted—the grilled meat, the hot bread and the glass of wine that accompanied it. Hell, even the roasted asparagus tasted amazing and typically I wasn’t one for vegetables.

  When the meal was finished, I went into the bathroom and took a long hard look at myself in the mirror. I looked thinner, my facial hair was thicker, and I had a few bruises and swelling on my face courtesy of that bunghole Buchanan.

  Otherwise, I looked just fine, though not ‘Lincoln Richards’ fine. I looked ‘worn down prisoner’ fine.

  Lincoln Richards wasn’t truly me either. I had a different name, as a boy, and a different life altogether. That name was one I’d keep secret until the day I died.

  “Did you enjoy the food?” a voice sliced through the silence.

  Instinctively I spun around, searching for the origins of the speaker. I returned to the main room where I discovered the LED television, mounted against the wall, was now on.

  I glared at the image of Calisto’s head—or Sinister rather. She was wearing the ominous executioner’s outfit, the same one she had worn that night at the Inferno hotel. So many people had died that night, some of them unwillingly by my hand.

  “Crazy bitch,” I said, acknowledging her presence.

  “Hi Lincoln. It’s been a while,” she replied, her voice filtered through a voice scrambler, creating a deep, baritone sound. There was something about the live-feed that seemed off. Her movements seemed almost mechanical.

  “You know what I was thinking the other day?” she continued. “When was the last time we fucked? I can’t seem to remember the date exactly, which is surprising. I’m usually good at keeping track of every one of my conquests.”

  I laughed. “I’m your conquest?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it was the other way around, you horse-faced whore bag.”

  “Now, now, there’s no need to lie. We all know you’d never slip your dick into a horse’s mouth. I’d say I’m more like a minx or some sultry animal like that.”

  “You’re still a whore bag,” I said.

  “I’d never deny it.”

  “Take off the fucking mask,” I said. “I already know it’s you under there, Calisto. I don’t know what the purpose is in wearing that thing.”

  “To intimidate you, of course,” Calisto said.

  “Your Darth Vader impersonation doesn’t intimidate me,” I said.

  Her head tilted to one side. “I suppose you’re right. You certainly don’t seem scared. Perhaps I will take off the mask then, but I have to warn you, looking at my face may have you falling in love with me all over again.”

  “I highly doubt that. I hate you, Calisto. I hate your face, I hate your rotten soul, and I hate your entire body, up to and including your spleen. I especially hate that unregulated abyss you call your vagina.”

  There was a moment of pause.

  “My feelings are hurt, Lincoln, especially after all those lovely moments we’ve spent fucking each other’s brains out.”

  “Good. I’m happy you’re hurt. You don’t deserve a single ounce of happiness, in this life or the next.”

  “It’s bad karma to hate someone, you know.”

  “It’s bad karma to force your fuck buddy to murder his friends in a twisted game of Russian roulette,” I spat.

  Sinister’s head lolled to the other side. Why was she moving with such jerky motions?

  “Do you treat all your fuck buddies with such disdain?” she asked.

  “No, just the ones that act like first class cunts such as you.”

  There was something about her laugh, masked by the voice scrambler, which sent an unpleasant coldness through my spine.

  “What about her Lincoln, do you consider a first class cunt as well?” Suddenly the hood came off and instead of Calisto’s bitchy mug staring back at me it was Juno, the tattoo artist whom I recently fucked atop of her artist’s table.

  A dark circular hole filled her forehead.

  She was dead. That’s why Sinister’s movements on the television looked so clunky. They were moving Juno’s corpse like a puppet.

  I felt sick. However, I wouldn’t allow Calisto to see my true emotions. It would only feed the wild fires of her twisted heart.

  Instead, I shrugged my shoulders, feigning disinterest. I strolled over to the television and yanked out the power chord. The television still remained on.

  “Aww, what’s the matter? This bitch’s death struck a chord? You’d be surprised how much information she divulged about you, Dorian Black.”

  Great, the room was wired up with a speaker system. There was most likely a camera somewhere also.

  I guess that was my next project while imprisoned here. I needed to find all the hidden cameras and remove them.

  “And what kind of name is Dorian, by the way?” Calisto asked.

  Dorian was the name which Juno had known me by. For every different woman I’ve encountered in my life, I used a different name. Strangely enough, I remembered each and every one of the hundreds of aliases I created over my lifetime, and who knows me by what. My current name, Lincoln Richards, seemed to have the most lasting power.

  “What, not even a tear?” the bitch continued to rant. “I seem to recall after you put a bullet through James head, you were on your knees groveling like a little child. I’m not going to lie, seeing you like that had me wondering where your balls went. You lost your stones which had fit so perfectly in my mouth.”

  I wished she would remove the voice scrambler already. It was awkward listening to the deep voice of a man talking about past sexual encounters with me.

  I closed my eyes and thought of James, Donald, and Brevin, and the looks of horror on their faces when we were forced to play that game of Russian roulette. Despite making peace with my guilt, it still didn’t stop them from invading my dreams at night.

  “What, you’re not going to talk to me now?” Calisto asked.

  She got that right. There was no point wasting my breath on a jezebel whore like her.

  I walked over to the desk in the corner of the hotel room and searched inside the drawers, hoping to find something useful. A sharp letter opener would have been fantastic.

  No such luck.

  I did find a single copper penny though which might be good enough.

  Years of living on the streets had taught me the true value of a penny—it was a great substitute for a flathead screwdriver when one wasn’t readily available.

  I began my search for the two-way speaker system, starting with the vents.

  I positioned the edge of the penny into the crevice of one of the screws and began turning it.

  Meanwhile, Calisto continued ranting in the background with random gibberish. I blocked it all out.

  “I bet you Aria’s fucking Shadow right now. You know, they’re both better off without having you in their lives. You’re a parasite, leeching off the happiness of others,” Calisto said. “Tell me, Lincoln, was she better than me? Did you love her more than you ever loved me? Was her pussy as sweet as mine?”

  Keep talking bitch, I thought to myself. Because when I see you next, I’m going to shut you up permanently with my bare hands.

  I envisioned my fingers, wrapped around her neck and how good it felt to have her trachea cave in under the weight of my hands.

  And for the first time since I was taken captive, I smiled.

  Chapter Six

  Aria

  The hous
e was eerily quiet this morning, I thought to myself as I stood alone in the kitchen. Shadow had woken up at the crack of dawn to prepare for his trip with Beau.

  I had insisted on going along with them, knowing full well they didn’t exactly have complimentary personalities. Shadow was a brooding, no-nonsense, let’s-get-shit-done type of guy while Beau was…well Beau.

  I figured at some point, the latter would say something stupid, like he always did, tempting Shadow to shut him up with a tire iron.

  “I’d be an asset in this meeting,” I had told Shadow. “After all, I was the last one to see Lincoln, just before he was kidnapped.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Shadow had said. There was something cold about the way he spoke to me. Oh God, had Shadow possibly figured out what transpired between Lincoln and I?

  “I love you,” I said.

  He looked at me and nodded. “I love you too Aria, more than you can ever know.” He kissed me on the forehead, just before leaving me alone in the bed. The kiss, however, wasn’t one filled with passion reserved for people as madly in love as we claimed to be. It felt like a simple ‘I’ll call you when I’m free…maybe,’ type of kiss which I had experienced once in high school. That bastard never did call.

  Shadow was doing it again, giving me the cold shoulder. Granted, he wasn’t as bad as before. At least last night he slept in the same bed as I did.

  But he didn’t hold me or make love to me despite all my efforts to arouse him.

  It tore a bit out of me when I had his cock fully in my mouth and he gently pushed me off saying, “I have a long day tomorrow. It’s best we both get some sleep.”

  What man didn’t like having his dick sucked spontaneously by his woman?

  One who was angry at his girl, that’s who.

  Or worse yet, there was another woman.

  It had all begun after Shadow received a text message on his cell.

  What did it say? More importantly, who was it from?

  Was it indeed from another woman? Maybe he was growing bored of me and had moved on to someone else?

  “Men are nothing but a giant sack of perpetual disappointment.”