Why the fuck did we have to meet here? Why couldn’t we meet anywhere else?
But he supposed he knew; in the back of his mind, Chris knew why the two Mexican gangbangers wanted to meet here.
It was the concrete floors stained with blood—Tony’s blood, Yori’s blood, the blood of all of Tony’s men—and the sweat of men from Pekinish, Darborough, and Askergan. It was also the smashed beer bottles, the missing teeth, the torn ring ropes.
The Mexicans wanted to remind Chris of what would happen if he decided to try and do something stupid.
But now that he was here, there was nothing he wanted more than to give them their money and get the fuck back out again.
“Hello?” he whispered at first. When there was no answer, he raised his voice, immediately cringing at the echo. “Hello? Rodriguez?”
The only answer was the sound of Peter breathing heavily over his shoulder. Chris walked around the lockers, toward the opening to the main gym, then he checked his watch.
Ten minutes. If they aren’t here in—
“You bring the money?” a voice with a thick Spanish accent whispered. Chris whipped around, sliding to his left, making sure that Peter was between him and the voice.
Just in case.
The man he knew only as Rodriguez stood at one end of the lockers, a matte black pistol aimed at the center of Peter’s chest. The other Mexican, the one who hadn’t given his name, also had a gun in his hand, but this one was pointed at Chris’s head.
“I brought the money,” Peter replied calmly.
“Put the bag on the ground and open it.”
Peter did as he was told, and Rodriguez, short as he was, had to move onto his toes to look at the stacked bills inside.
“Twice what the heroin was worth—150k,” Chris added, feeling sweat start to form on his forehead.
Rodriguez ignored the comment.
“Slide it over with your foot.”
Peter did as he was instructed.
Rodriguez squatted, all the while keeping the gun aimed at Peter. He rifled through the bills with his free hand. Seeming satisfied, he stood again.
“You need to leave Pekinish and Askergan. Go somewhere far away, for a very long time.”
Chris nodded; he had suspected that this was coming. And while he wasn't fond of traveling, choosing his destination was better than being buried in a desert somewhere equally distant.
Besides, he knew that one day he would return. There was just something about this place, something that pulled you. And once you were part of it, there was nothing that could keep you away…
Rodriguez’s eyes flicked over to Peter.
“You too.”
Peter grunted an affirmation.
A moment of silence ensued, one that made Chris uncomfortable.
“What happens now?” he asked, trying to feed the void. The man’s response was more detailed than he expected.
“Tony Mastromanaco was too small time, and he needed to be taken out. Sabra, on the other hand, he is much larger—a fucking monstruo. He will run heroin through the tri-county area.” The man shrugged. “But like even the most brutal of monstruos, eventually a sicario will come around and the cycle will repeat.”
Chris swallowed hard and looked at the short man with the facial tattoos.
The man was right. He wasn’t dealing with the Juan Lamas’s or Miguel Gomez’s of the world anymore. This man—this Rodriguez and his unnamed partner were ruthless killers.
Chris’s eyes flicked to the bag of money that Rodriguez now clutched in his hand.
Ruthless killers, but also businessmen. They would stab, maim, or even kill their own mothers, but only as long as it made sense from a business perspective.
There was a lot of heroin to deal, and much more money to be had.
Rodriguez blinked and shook his head as if realizing that he had said too much. Then he wagged the gun.
“You stay here five minutes, then leave out the back way. Leave and don’t come back.”
Chris nodded.
“Got it.”
Without another word, Rodriguez and his partner turned and became one with the shadows in what had once been Tony’s Gym.
Chris waited for as long as he could manage in silence before turning to the battered boxer at his side.
“You like to fish, Peter?”
Peter tried to grimace, to make a face, but it was still too swollen to behave.
“Fishing?”
“Yeah, fishing. You know? Sinker? Lure? Worm?”
Peter shrugged.
“Never been.”
Chris shrugged.
“That’s too bad. Cuz I was thinking… Peter Glike? What if we shortened it?”
“Shortened?”
“Yeah, I mean you have quite a reputation, which will make it difficult to remain anonymous, don’t you think?”
Peter turned to him, a confused expression on his face.
“What does this have to do with fishing?”
“Peter Glike… P. Glike… what about Pike? What do you think?”
The man shrugged.
“If you like it, then I’m fine with it.”
Chris smiled. His decision to stand up for the boxer was already paying dividends.
“I do. And for me? I’m partial to the initials CD, but I guess it’s only fair. Chris Donovan? Maybe. Clive Dirkson? Carter Duke?”
Peter seemed disinterested in this line of conversation, but Chris continued anyway.
“Fine, but I’ll go with it. Keep with the initials, CD, anyway.”
When Peter still said nothing, Chris checked his watch.
Five minutes had passed, more or less.
“They’re gone… let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Peter nodded and moved toward the door. He opened it, holding it for Chris to pass.
Chris suppressed a smirk and was about to step into the parking lot when his eyes fell on one of the blue lockers.
It wasn’t the fact that it was hanging open that drew his attention, but the writing on the piece of masking tape that, while curled, Chris could still clearly make out.
There were four letters on the tape that read: Y-O-R-I.
“One sec,” he said, walking over to the locker and pulling it wide. Inside was a small videotape toward the back that blended into the locker itself.
Chewing the inside of his lip, Chris reached in and grabbed it, shoving it into his pocket without a second thought.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” he said quietly.
Then Chris Davis followed Pike out into the night.
In every person’s life, there is a moment—just one moment…
END
Author’s note
It is with a very heavy heart that I dedicate this book to my friend Thomas Shutt, who has recently and unexpectedly passed away. Tom, a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author in his own right, was also my editor. Tom has edited each and every one of my books, not only for grammatical errors, but has also helped me improve the quality of my work. He has played a large role in my success as an independent author, and his passing can only be described as a huge blow to the author community in general. Tom was more than just my editor; he was also a good friend. His friends and family have recently put together a fund to support his legacy. Details can be found here: https://www.gofundme.com/3sqfc8w. I will donate all of the proceeds during the first month of sale of KNUCKLES in his name. I had visions of working with you for many years, Tom. I, among many others, will miss you greatly. Although you are no longer able to edit my books, you will always be a huge influence on my work.
With love,
Patrick
Montreal, 2017
And now, for a sneak peek of Book 5 of the Insatiable Series, STITCHES…
Stitches
Insatiable Series Book 5
Patrick Logan
Prologue
Pike crouched low, his feet not making a sound as he slid through the tall, yello
w grass.
From his vantage point, he could clearly make out the large house at the bottom of the hill, its perimeter surrounded by a wrought iron fence. While Pike couldn’t make out the address from where he crouched, he knew this was the right place.
The eighteen men he counted positioned around the fence were a dead giveaway. And these were no rent-a-cops, either; even at his distance, Pike could tell that these were hard men. Hard men, but they weren’t the most experienced; at least not at defense.
If it were him inside, and not Walter Wandry, and knowing how many people were out to get him, Pike would have hired a team experienced at protection, rather than using his own men—the bikers.
But it wasn’t him inside, and from everything that Carter Duke and Sheriff White had told him, he should have expected this. After all, Walter was just a deranged junkie and not a seasoned drug overlord.
Still, Pike took no chances. Chances led to mistakes, and mistakes to serious consequences. He had seen as much in the boxing ring and fighting pits in which he had cut his teeth.
Something rustled to his right, and Pike immediately dropped to his stomach, silently lowering himself with his thick, muscular arms. Completely hidden in the grass, he kept his head low, resisting the urge to lift his gaze to determine who or what had made the noise.
Less than a minute later, a voice answered his questions.
“Why you think the Crab wants us to walk around these fucking fields, anyway? Sabra never had us doing these stupid walks.”
As Pike listened, he snaked his hand down to his hip and slid the pistol equipped with the silencer out of his belt. He hated guns, even ones as silent and beautiful as the one in his hand now, and would use it only as a last resort. He much preferred to use his hands and feet.
Guns had a tendency to jam, to misfire, to miss their mark.
His body, on the other hand, was always true.
Besides, this was a recon mission—he was given specific instructions not to engage.
So while he took the gun out of his belt, he didn’t raise it. Instead, he remained silent, motionless, and just listened.
“Sabra didn’t have no enemies, that’s why,” another voice replied.
“No enemies? Of course, Sabra had enemies. Shit, I mean, before we joined him, we were his enemies. And all of the Skull Krushers were his enemies.”
The two men were within a half dozen feet of Pike now, trudging slowly through the grass. Pike closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. The dry grass atop the hill was tall, but if they looked his way, the men would clearly notice the depression that his body made.
Pike’s finger slipped from the trigger guard to the trigger itself.
“Yeah, but Sabra… Sabra paid… Paid his, uh, his dues, you know?”
There was a short pause, and Pike sensed the men coming even closer now—within a few feet. He tensed, priming his body for action.
“No, I don’t know—you keep saying the same thing. What dues? What you talking about?”
“I’m not gonna say it, man—doesn’t do nobody no good to say it. Let’s just put it this way: Sabra don’t make the drugs himself.”
There was another pause, and Pike allowed himself a shallow breath as the footsteps receded.
“Oh.”
“Get it now?”
“Yeah, I get it the Mex—”
“Don’t say it, man.”
Pike relaxed for a moment and drew a full breath.
“So what does that mean for us? What does that mean now that the Crab has taken over?”
There was a pause, one that went on for so long that Pike feared that the men had seen him, that his presence had silenced them.
But then he heard mumbling in the distance, and the tension left his muscles, for which he was grateful. He was a trained fighter; he knew that being tensed for too long, being too prepared, was a recipe for fatigue.
Pike waited three minutes before opening his eyes, and two more before daring to raise his head.
In the distance, he could make out the silhouettes of the two men, their gray jean vests emblazoned with the words ‘Skull Krushers’ fading in the distance.
There were eighteen bikers guarding the perimeter of the mansion, and two more were combing the area around the compound.
A footstep from his left caused Pike to drop to one knee and whip the gun in that direction.
There was a man pulling himself out of the grass, much like Pike had minutes ago. And he too was staring at the bikers that walked back down the embankment toward the estate.
The man was short, maybe five-foot-five, with heavily tanned skin and a shaved head.
Pike didn’t need to see his face to know who he was; or, more specifically, who he represented.
Sabra paid his dues.
Pike, his pistol still trained on the unsuspecting man’s head, slowly raised himself to his feet and took several small, silent steps backward.
His mouth twisted into a frown as he continued to back out of sight. Something in the back of his mind told him that the other man knew he was being watched, but refused to turn and look at him.
This man, too, was doing recon.
And only recon.
Father Carter was not going to be happy.
The presence of the Mexican cartels outside the Crab’s Estate made things more complicated.
Much, much more complicated.
PART I – Shattered
Present Day
Chapter 1
“What in God’s name are we doing just sitting around?” Coggins shouted at the five other men at the table with him. He rose to his feet, toppling the chair behind him.
None of the other men stood with him, and he quickly scanned their faces: first Dirk, then Deputy Williams, Reggie, Father Carter, and lastly Sheriff White. Paul’s face was heavily lined, the dark skin on his cheeks chapped from all of the tears he had shed over the past few days.
Paul wasn’t cut out to do this job, Coggins realized. But this was far from an admonition. After all, given what had happened, he doubted anyone was.
Except for maybe Dana, but he was long gone.
Coooome
Under any other circumstances, the sheriff would have taken a leave of absence, recuse himself from the situation. But this wasn’t any other circumstances.
This was something else. Something horrible. Something truly and utterly evil, something that rivaled even what he had seen all those years ago in the Wharfburn Estate.
Coggins shook these thoughts from his head and pressed his hands against the table in the basement of the Askergan Police Station.
“We need to get out there—we need to go get this fucking prick,” he said. His voice broke with the words, and when tears formed in his eyes again and spilled down his cheeks, he quickly wiped them away. When he spoke again, his words were barely above a whisper. “We need to make him pay for what he did to Nancy.”
A low sound, something akin to a growl formed in Sheriff White’s throat and his eyes narrowed.
“You think—you think that I don’t want that? For fuck’s sake, Coggins, they fucking put her head in a—in a—in a fucking bag! You think that Nancy, what, meant nothing to me?” His voice escalated with every word. And then he too shot to his feet. “Coggins, you better—”
“We need to stay calm,” Father Carter interjected.
Coggins whipped his head around to face the priest.
“Who the fuck are you, anyway? You fucking come in here, spouting all your bullshit—God, Jesus, motherfucking faith bullshit. Don’t tell me to stay calm. What I—what we—need to do is get out there and get Alice back. That’s what I—” he turned and glared at Sheriff White, “—we need to be doing.”
“Deputy Coggins, I realize—”
“Oh, fuck off. You realize shit, you know that? You’re not from here. You’re not one of us.”
Reggie reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“We don’t need to be from Asker
gan to know what’s going on, to help. You need us.”
Coggins shook him off.
“I don’t need any of you. All I need is to find Alice and get her back…I need…” his voice broke. “I just want to get her back.”
Coggins slumped backward, and Reggie righted his chair just in time for him to fall into it.
After what had happened, after all that had happened, he had vowed never to return to Askergan—the place was cursed.
But there was just something about it, a pull of magnetic proportions that just kept drawing him back.
We should have just let the place burn… we should have let the gas station burn and let the entire fucking town turn to soot.
“Pike is out there, doing recon,” Father Carter continued, ignoring Coggins’s comments. “He should have more information about Walter’s place, about how he’s set up there in Sabra’s estate. And we also have Dirk…”
At the sound of his name, Dirk Kinkaid unfolded his arms from across his chest and leaned forward. Coggins observed him as he stared across at the priest. Dirk had secrets, of that he was certain. And there was something else there, a dark secret burning behind his eyes.
But who didn’t have secrets, especially in Askergan?
“Dirk?” Sheriff White said, raising an eyebrow.
“I told you everything I know already,” he replied at last, his eyes remaining locked on Father Carter the entire time. “Walter—the Crab—is holed up tight. There is only one way in, and it’s heavily guarded. We’re talking twenty, thirty armed men. Even with the psycho parishioners, I severely doubt we can gain entrance.”
Father Carter closed his eyes and breathed deeply at the term ‘psycho parishioners’. It was an odd gesture, and Coggins couldn’t help but feel that it was fake, somehow.
Looking about the table, he was reminded of when it had just been him, Paul, and Dana sitting upstairs. Playing cards, shooting the shit.
Knuckles (Insatiable Series Book 4.5) Page 10