Irin (The Last Scribe Prequels Book 1)

by R. Lee Walsh

  IRIN

  A Last Scribe Novella

  R. Lee Walsh

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  BEVERLY HILLS

  2014

  Copyright © 2014 by R. Lee Walsh. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  Story Merchant Books

  9601 Wilshire Boulevard #1202

  Beverly Hills CA 90210

  http://www.storymerchant.com/books.html

  Irin

  A Last Scribe Novella

  R. Lee Walsh

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the Author

  Before

  After

  Chapter One

  The behemoth of a man known as Riley Storm spits over the rocky embankment of a tiny rest area just north of Los Angeles. Thoroughly enjoying this spectacular unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean, he pulls a half bottle of water from the saddle of his trusty horse, a custom built Harley Fat Boy Lo that radiates the heat of a California summer and the three hundred miles of scorching desert highway they've traveled today. Grimacing at the metallic taste of tepid water, he rinses the sand and grit from his mouth with another spit, then tosses the empty bottle in a bright blue recycling can next to where he's parked.

  Behind him is a scrubby patch of grass with a rickety picnic table bolted to a cement slab and a graffiti covered cinderblock restroom with a solitary California Palm tree standing sentry over it.

  One other vehicle, a canary yellow customized Bonneville, is parked in the lot closest to the restroom and it looks like they've been here awhile. Within throwing distance of the car, a group of young hispanics are lounging around the picnic table; three males and two women. Their pierced faces and jet black hair are pulled into nearly identical ponytails, the women sporting large silver hoop earrings and crimson lipstick. A small child huddles in the only shade which is under the picnic table, clutching a book or notepad. The adults laugh sporadically and whisper to each other, actively ignoring Riley.

  Sighing, he rolls his massive shoulders, turning his gaze toward the highway and the outskirts of L.A. It's been a long while since he visited his old stomping grounds. He frowns at the haze of yellow gray smoke that blankets the horizon, wondering what kind of mess he'll find her in now. Heading toward the dingy facilities, his mirrored aviator sunglasses hide sea glass green eyes that miss nothing. The hispanics fall silent as he approaches, watching him stroll past them.

  Rounding the corner of the squat building, he pauses to examine a state highway map encased in cracked plexiglass that's been screwed into the concrete between the men's and women's entrances. Close to the edge of the map he sees a symbol that matches the tattoos wrapped around his biceps, etched into the disintegrating plastic.

  Finally, he thinks to himself, noting the exact location on the map. He's traveled nearly three thousand miles in the last week looking for that symbol. In all the years he's known her, not once has she made things easy on him.

  After relieving himself of three strong cups of coffee, he hears a burst of laughter outside and pauses to retie his long mane of auburn hair. The problem with living as long as he has is there are no more surprises. At six foot five and two hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle, most people see him as either a freak or a threat.

  Depending on the situation, he is both and neither.

  Taking his time, he dries his hands and exits the restroom noting the distinctive scent of marijuana in the air. When he comes around the corner the group falls silent again, only now they're watching him like hyenas sizing up an afternoon's entertainment. The child under the table sits immobile, clutching a blue crayon in one hand and what Riley sees is a Sponge Bob coloring book to his chest. Shaking his head, Riley continues toward his bike as the Bonneville door slams and a fourth man steps into the picture.

  His pale yellow short-sleeved shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a wild assortment of graphic tattoos that cover his stomach and chest. Shorter than the others, nevertheless, his movements are fluid and purposely designed to intimidate, a trait Riley knows from experience is learned in prison.

  Nodding toward the others, the man takes a measured step toward Riley, his tattooed arms poised slightly away from his sides like some bad parody of a western gunslinger. Amused, rather than alarmed by his theatrics, Riley keeps walking.

  “You looking for something, esse?” the man asks.

  Riley continues until he reaches his bike, but can sense the others are moving as well, congregating behind him.

  “Hey, I'm talking to you, pendejo. Where you going, huh?”

  The child whimpers and Riley frowns. The carelessness some people use with their children never ceases to amaze him. He can only imagine how many acts of violence the poor tike has witnessed in his short life. He turns to see one of the women hiss an angry warning at the child who cringes under the table. She leaves the poor boy cowering there to join her companions.

  Ignoring the others, Riley stares at the boy, sliding his sunglasses down his nose. Dark, frightened eyes meet his brilliant green ones as he telepathically urges the child to hide. The boy immediately scrambles out from under the table, running behind the building. Satisfied that he's out of harm's way, Riley turns his attention to the agitated group closing in around him, taking their cue from the fourth man who fairly vibrates with malevolent intent.

  “What you looking at, fool? You trying to scare my boy?”

  “He's not your boy,” Riley mutters, turning an accusing gaze to the woman. He sees surprise followed by fear in her cold eyes, then she recovers with a vivid string of expletives. “You don't deserve him,” Riley continues, indicating the boy with a slight lift of his chin.

  Confused, the others murmur to each other, then look to their leader for his reaction.

  “Who do you think you are, man? Talking to my woman like that?”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Riley pushes his glasses back up his nose. “She's not your woman either. She's your brother's wife.”

  The woman gasps and the man's face reddens, a look of black rage in his eyes. “You know this guy?” he demands of her.

  She shakes her head, stuttering a vehement denial. He calls her a whore and the others look anxiously between one another.

  “Now I'm going to tell you something,” the man says, motioning toward the concrete building. “You see that red sign over there?” The entire group turns to look briefly at a circular red spray painted symbol amongst the dizzying collage of graffiti. “It clearly says this is a private park, esse. It belongs to me and my familia and right now you're trespassing on our property. What'd you have to say about that?”

  “That squiggly little red dot?” Riley asks with a bemused glance toward the building. By his count at least seventeen other gangs have tried to lay claim to this forlorn little patch of public highway over the last few years.

  “Yeah, see, and the way I figure it, you owe me an apology for insulting me and my woman and a little something extra for letting you use our beautiful ocean view facilities.”

  “Is that right?” Riley grins, crossing his arms over his chest. “You want a little something for letting me pee in a public toilet?”

  The man drops h
is head with a chuckle and with a flick of his wrist, a six inch silver blade appears in his hand. Emboldened by the appearance of a weapon, the entire group spreads out readying themselves to join the attack.

  With one last glance toward the outbuilding to make sure the child is not in sight, Riley throws a leg over his bike, seating himself comfortably.

  Taken aback by his casual response, the man takes another step forward. “What? You think you can just leave without paying?” He points the knife at Riley. “Or maybe you think because you drive a big bad motorcycle that you don't have to respect nobody. Is that it?”

  “Oh, I got plenty of respect for people who earn it,” Riley replies calmly, placing his hands on the handlebars. “But for you and your quote familia? Nope. Not even a little.”

  “Then maybe somebody needs to teach you some respect,” the man hisses, signaling to the others to move in. Sighing inwardly, Riley pushes his glasses up onto his head as the group hesitates over who will make first contact.

  The enraged leader swings his knife, and in the blink of an eye feels the sickening crush of every bone in his hand.

  Startled by his piercing shriek, the circus of idiots freezes.

  “Look again,” Riley growls, his massive fist encircling the man's hand. Wild eyed, the man whimpers as the knife clatters to the ground and he slowly crumbles to his knees. Weaponless, the others instinctively step back, unsure how to proceed. The child's mother turns briefly to check for the boy, then lets out a mortified gasp. She crosses herself and the entire group turns to see an astonishing sight.

  Gone is every hint of graffiti. The facing cinderblock wall displays a dizzying mural made up of thousands of swirling colors that form an image that seems to be rising from the cement. The head of a roaring lion is so graphically depicted one would swear you could hear it breathing. Hearing his mother's frightened voice, the little boy comes running from behind the building then stops next to the picnic table, staring in awe at the impossible transformation. His mother rushes to him with a strangled cry while the others stand gaping in stunned silence. She scoops him up and clutches him to her chest while taking steps backward, muttering phrases from prayers she hasn't said in years. She searches in vain for a place to hide with her son, then races toward the Bonneville.

  Two of the men cross themselves and take off running toward the highway. The remaining man is conflicted. He looks from his fallen leader to the fleeing others, then back at the building. He takes a set of keys from his front jeans pocket, tossing them onto the pavement next to his friend. With an apologetic glance to the woman next to him, he follows his retreating companions.

  “Go,” Riley says to the remaining woman and she immediately turns to run for the Bonneville. Inside the car he sees the little boy's innocent face plastered to the backseat window. He can hear the boy's mother sobbing in the car while talking to someone on the phone. She's telling them the devil's trying to kill her.

  Riley smiles reassuringly at the boy and chuckles to himself as the leader valiantly attempts to break free of his crushing grip.

  “Who are you?” The man on his knees shrieks finally, as Riley makes a small but excruciating adjustment to his unbreakable hold on his hand.

  “Oh, now you want to know who I am?” he answers. “And here I thought you were going to teach me a little something about respect, but it's clear that you know nothing about it. See, fear is not the same as respect. Sure, fear will make people obey you, but as soon as they see an opportunity to be rid of you, they'll take it. So here we are and where is your familia? The question you should be asking, Roberto Felipe Sanchez, is what happens now.”

  Flinching at his name, the man trembles visibly. “Do I know you?”

  Taking a deep breath Riley looks off toward Los Angeles. Obviously, he's been away too long. An interesting idea takes shape in his mind. She always did love a good mystery. Plus, they're going to need all the help they can get.

  “Not yet, esse,” he replies, picturing her face when she realizes what he's done. “But you will.”

  Chapter Two

  Nestled between a discount furniture store and a mostly vacant strip mall on the outskirts of Anaheim, the T-Bird Bar & Grill is packed with lawyers. Fresh from the Redwood Run Biker Rally, The Law Tigers are letting off their last bit of steam before going back to their staid practices and multi million dollar condos.

  One of L.A.'s best kept secrets, the T-Bird has a long standing tradition of good food, easy on the eyes waitresses, and a well stocked wine cellar. In other words, a Hell's Angel wouldn't be caught dead in there.

  “Hey Peach, set me up two more will ya?” Toby shouts. Decked out in a brown plaid western shirt and silver tipped cowboy boots, the diminutive Asian-American is both manager and co-owner of this place with his tall, blonde Swedish wife, Elsa, which is just one more reason why Peach loves California. Stereotypes do not apply.

  “This for Shane?” Peach asks, nodding toward the dartboard area where half a dozen inebriated legal counselors are arguing over who buys the next pitcher. A half hour ago Shane was puking in the alley, and nary a one of them will be able to drive home tonight. Toby nods and points to a cabbie waiting at the bar, a cup of coffee and a fresh biscotti made by Elsa in his hand. Smiling, she pulls two short glasses, then sets them on the bar for Fiona the new cocktail waitress to deliver. Also from Portland, she and Peach were roommates when Fiona was offered a part time gig as a makeup artist for a movie in production. In need of a break after a particularly nasty run in with an old rival, Peach decided to go with her. Landing this job as a bartender a couple days after her arrival, Peach has now worked here for three weeks. When Fiona's job was unexpectedly cut short, Peach suggested Toby hire her as well. Her alabaster skin and show-stopping curves have made her a wise investment and an instant hit with the male clientele.

  At six feet tall with a waist length curtain of flame red hair, Peach's natural grace and supernatural strength are, by necessity, mostly concealed. There's not a man alive who can best her in a fight and she's broken up three in the short time she's worked here. The first one was three men on three, albeit drunken real estate agents, but a steak knife was involved. It required some finesse on her part to make it look natural, but proved to Toby she could handle even the drunkest clientele. The tips are great and the patrons interesting. Plus, the location keeps the tourists away.

  Surveying the crowd like she does every night, Peach wonders how much longer it'll be before Riley discovers where she is.

  When last call sends the few remaining patrons home in a flurry of yellow cabs, she stacks a pile of dishes in the kitchen window and empties her tip jar onto the bar. Counting out her bills, she saves the change for the Breast Cancer donation jar by the cash register. The T-Bird is a faithful sponsor of the Susan Komen Foundation. Elsa's a five year survivor and Peach makes sure their donation jar is always full.

  After saying goodnight to the remaining staff and punching her time card, Toby unlocks the back door to let her out. He hands her a white paper bag with some kind of pastry in it, a nightly gift from Elsa who worries over her employees like a mother. Or what Peach imagines a mother would be like if she had one.

  “Take care of yourself,” Toby says, his almond shaped eyes bleary with exhaustion. He never drinks and takes only one day off a month. Elsa told her once that he sleeps only two or three hours a night.

  “I heard Einstein was like that,” Peach offered. “Maybe Toby's a genius.”

  Elsa smiled sadly, watching her husband take a to-go order over the phone. “Of course he is. He married me, didn't he?”

  “Get some rest, Tob,” Peach says, taking the pastry bag. “And tell Elsa I'm coming in at four tomorrow to help with deliveries.”

  “You don't have to,” he replies, but his expression says he's relieved.

  “I got errands to run over here anyway, so I might as well.”

  He waits until she's on her own bike, a shiny red Schwinn which is chained next to
the building under a streetlight. A dozen expensive motorcycles sit gleaming around the parking lot, abandoned until daylight when their owners are sober. With a last wave Toby closes the door and she hears the unhurried footsteps of Mannuel, the night security guard Toby hired just for that reason.

  “Got room for one more?” he chuckles, coming into view.

  “Sure, hop on,” she replies, smiling at the wiry old man. His thick gray hair is clipped almost to his scalp and his weathered mocha skin speaks of a life lived mostly out of doors. A Venezuelan immigrant, he's way past retirement age, but keeps working out of spite. His wife and a whopping twelve kids and thirty one grandchildren keep him young, he says. “But they also drive me crazy. So much noise! Everybody talking all the time. I come to work for peace and quiet. Besides, I can retire when I die.”

  “Pick one,” he says, motioning to the partially filled parking lot. “Nobody would know. You and me could go for a ride.”

  Peach grins, nudging his arm. “Aren't you supposed to stop people from stealing?”

  “Not stealing. Just borrowing,” he says, matching her grin. “We'd bring it back. Eventually.”

  Shaking her head, she starts to pedal away, bidding him an uneventful night.

  “Your friend find you?” he calls out.

  She squeezes the brakes. “What friend?”

  “Big guy. Drives one of those new Fat Lo's.”

  Riley.

  “When'd you see him?” she asks, surveying the parking lot.

  “He was here until about an hour ago. Parked just over there.” Mannuel points to a parking space near the back entrance and Peach stares at the empty blacktop.

  Took you long enough, she thinks.

  “He say where he was going?”

  Mannuel shakes his head. “Didn't say much of anything. Just asked if you were working and waited out here. Never saw him leave.”