GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “Impressive,” I said.

  She didn't respond. Apparently, her warmup routine put her in a mental zone, sort of like yoga.

  I struggled through my stretching routine, releasing a few grunts along the way. Maybe I was getting older, heading downward, like she suggested. While I'd convinced myself I was in the best shape of my life, maybe it was a mirage, one I created to build myself up, since I'd been without a partner or a close friend for upward of nineteen months. Some would even describe me as a loner. I shoved that out of my mind and tried to match Andi's athletic prowess.

  “What's next before we take off for our five-mile run?” I jumped up and clapped my hands, like a boxer dancing, ready for the first jab.

  “Now that I'm warmed up, I move on to my core workout. Care to join me?”

  I fell to the floor and matched her routine, focusing first on lower abs with two different types of stomach crunches. Turning over, we arched our backs with our legs and arms extended. She called them "Supermans." I could feel my shoulder blades and surrounding muscles pop out. We ended it with bicycle stomach crunches.

  We built up a good sweat and grabbed our respective waters, taking hefty swigs.

  “You still doing okay after seeing Camila drive off in that car a few days ago?”

  “I've tried to put it out of my mind. Work has a way of helping you forget your personal issues,” I said, wiping sweat off my forehead. “After our conversation on the way back from the police station, you convinced me I probably inserted more drama into the situation than actually existed.“

  “Good, glad you're able to see the facts. You probably had some Marisa emotions running around in your mind.”

  I nodded. “It's possible.”

  “Besides, the police said no one looking like Camila has been reported missing,” Andi said.

  I took another chug of water and allowed a couple of images to reenter my mind. For just a moment, I recalled the cascade of horns, a scent of exhaust, and a visual of the silver Prius disappearing over a hill. Had I seen the last of Camila?

  “Give me ten.” Andi was already horizontal on the floor in the position to start a set of pushups.

  “I'll take your ten and raise you ten,” I said, then started counting out the pushups.

  Andi quit at twenty, but I kept going, up to twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five...

  “Damn, you're a machine. Whew! Can you get to fifty?”

  I'd trained like a machine for months, trying to expel the pain and the self-pity. Mostly, it had worked.

  She counted off the last five. “Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight...”

  My shoulders felt like cinder blocks, my arms jittery.

  “Forty-nine, fifty!” she yelled and clapped.

  “Fifty-one.” I added one more, then knelt on my knees, my chest pumping in quick breaths.

  She raised her hand, and we exchanged a high-five, then I gave her fist bump and admitted to myself it was nice to have a workout buddy, albeit an over-competitive, type-A female triathlete.

  Dusk fell upon the city as we each shook out our legs and I calibrated my watch outside the apartment. An October chill cleared my lungs, and for once, a soft breeze blew in off the Pacific. Each of us wore typical running outfits, Andi's an ominous black and gold. With her sleek, but muscled figure, she looked like a golden-eyed panther ready to chase down her next victim. I wore red and blue.

  “It's about a six-mile course. Not sure you're ready for the West Coast hills.” My eyebrows lifted.

  “I'm not sure you're ready to get your ass kicked by a girl. Now punch the start button, and let's get it on, old man.”

  Andi darted out of the blocks as swift as a rabbit, her ponytail rhythmically swaying to her long stride, which hardly made a noise on the concrete surface, her arms swinging in perfect cadence.

  This girl was a beast of a runner.

  I caught up, then we settled into a nice jog, neither one of us admitting if it was taxing our bodies. We took a right onto Washington, going east. I pointed out Chao Town four blocks down.

  “Need to go there while you're in town,” I yelled out. She nodded but never showed a sign of slowing down. Her hands were relaxed, her breathing even.

  Grant Avenue came upon us, and we turned left then hooked a right onto Pacific, passing by a flurry of bakeries, each emitting their own signature smells, one full of chocolate, the next of fresh bread, and a third of peppermint. Andi shook her finger at me and grinned, then touched her taut tummy, as if she was saying those places wouldn't agree with her aggressive workout routine. I, too, avoided the sugar and fat binges, I reminded myself.

  We turned north onto Kearny and jogged past a blend of old and new apartments, a few homes, local eateries, each one a different color, size, and shape. Just before Kearny rounded left and turned into Filbert, we both turned our heads and gazed at Coit Tower perched to our right, surrounded by a mound of green, also known as Pioneer Park.

  We weaved through the city, heading back west, neither one of us asking for a break or altering our stride, despite maneuvering around throngs of folks out for the night. Joe DiMaggio Playground sat to our right as we kept moving down Greenwich, jogging past churches, a couple of design studios, an antique shop, then Michelangelo Playground. All San Francisco. We hit a T, then turned right on Leavenworth.

  “Hey,” I said to get Andi's attention.

  She turned her head, not once breaking her stride.

  “What's the most recognizable street you know of in San Francisco?” I'd been waiting to quiz her at this exact moment. I felt like a teenage kid teasing his best friend, his running buddy.

  “Uh...” Her eyes looked away, and I noticed a vertical crease down her outer thigh, all muscle.

  Must be nice to be twenty-something. I could recall those days, but not like they were yesterday.

  I heard baritone horns blaring for twenty seconds at a time, likely from ships barreling across the choppy ocean just a few blocks over.

  “Thomas Kinkade.”

  “What?” I asked, puzzled.

  “My Dad gave me a Kinkade painting of Lombard Street. It's hanging in my little living room. Always wanted to run it.”

  “Ever heard of foreshadowing?” I asked, unable to hide my grin, but still jogging at a decent pace.

  I pointed left just as we hit the intersection. The sign read Lombard Street, and we paused and ran in place for a few seconds.

  “Damn!” Her brown eyes grew wide as they followed the winding path upward.

  I didn't admit to her that I'd only run the hill four times, but I'd survived and knew the feeling of triumph when reaching the hill's apex—an enormous sense of accomplishment. Then again, she was a hardened triathlete.

  We hit the hill, using smaller, choppy steps. We were the only brave souls moving upward, and I saw heads turn in the cars we passed going the opposite direction. But I couldn't afford to let the surrounding elements disrupt my breathing pattern. Andi breathed rhythmically next to me, her arms and legs churning in tandem like a factory machine. Finally, we reached the top, then stopped and turned back around. A purple hue still clung to the distant sky behind the Golden Gate Bridge, but most of the city beneath us was grounded by darkness, a bed of sparkling white lights dotting the landscape.

  “Epic. Awesome.” Andi's eyes darted all around, as her chest heaved, wanting more air.

  “Two miles left. You up for it?” I held out my hands, wondering if that hill and this view had her rethinking the endpoint of tonight's run, as epic as it was.

  She brought up her fist then punched my shoulder right in the socket of my arm. Apparently, she knew a key weak point.

  “Hey!”

  “Didn't want your manly pushup demonstration to let you think you're invincible.” She laughed out loud, including an Andi snort, then flicked my arm and took off again. I think she liked to be in the lead position, the position of strength, of power.

  Ten strides later, I joined her and we regained
our cadence.

  I realized I hadn't enjoyed myself this much in...I couldn't recall. It was like a best friend just dropped out of the sky. The fact she was of the opposite gender actually made it more interesting—she was unpredictable, as were most girls.

  Moving south on Hyde, my shoe came untied.

  “Go ahead. I'll catch up.” I waved to Andi, who gave me a brief look over her shoulder then kept up her stride. Twenty seconds later and about thirty yards behind my running partner, I looked both ways before heading across the Union intersection.

  Out of nowhere, a black SUV roared out of the night, zooming toward me. It was ten feet away in no time and closing faster than I could move. My heart exploded, and I lunged ahead. But it seemed like the SUV swerved right just as I took a final leaping stride for the sidewalk. It clipped the heel of my running shoe, and I spun in midair twice before landing on my backside, my elbow on concrete, my butt on a patch of grass.

  Tires screeched. "Michael!" Andi yelled from behind me.

  My breathing was erratic, my pulse racing out of control. The SUV had already turned the corner and was out of sight.

  “Good gosh, are you okay?” Andi kneeled next to me. Blood trickled down my perspiring arm.

  I got up on my feet, thankful for the thick-soled shoes.

  “You've got to be more careful,” she ordered.

  “I thought I was.” I replayed the scenario as we started walking back to my apartment and my heart rate finally dropped below one fifty.

  “I think that asshole was trying to run me over,” I surmised. My legs felt a little wobbly. Not surprising, given the fire-hose adrenaline shot I'd just given myself.

  “Seriously?”

  “I could swear he swerved right to cut me off before I got to the curb.”

  Why the hell would someone want to hurt me, kill me?

  We trudged back to my place, neither of us talking much. By the time I put the key in the door lock, I'd regained my equilibrium and a little bit of sound logic.

  “Probably just some nut job texting on his phone, still clueless that he almost ran me over,” I said.

  Andi nodded but didn't say anything.

  She made a trip to the bathroom while I chugged a G2. Moments later, she came out, holding her black and green backpack in one hand, a pink bra dangling from one finger.

  “Someone has been through my things.”

  “What?”

  “I'm anal about how I pack my clothes when I work out. It's just the way I'm wired,” she said. “I fold my bra on top of my other clothes. It's a habit that won't change.“

  “Yeah,” I smirked a tad then realized what she was implying. “Someone has been in my apartment while we were gone.“

  Chapter Seventeen

  Today

  I wasn't sure which mesmerized me more, the tiny bumps covering the silver metal extension the man had screwed into the end of his pistol—which I guessed was a silencer of some kind—or his eye. The same nomadic glass eye that had witnessed me having my brain pulverized.

  I'd never forget that eye, or the asshole attached to it.

  The tall, chiseled man wearing a shiny, blue vest-jacket maintained a calm, in-control look, outside of his crazy eye. His partner wore a cheesy grin, his puffy cheeks nearly hiding his eyes, as he tossed a thick metal chain from one hand to the other, like he was warming up for part two of Fight Night.

  Andi and Jet stood on either side of me, but the gun was pointed directly at my chest about ten feet away in the alley behind Swan Massage Therapy. I closed my eyes briefly, ashamed, pissed that I'd dragged Andi and Jet into this mess, our lives now hanging in the balance of this thug's trigger finger.

  “You, Michael Doyle, don't take instructions very well, do you?” The tall man's fingers coiled around the gun's grip.

  I hesitated, as anger swelled inside. I could hear air escape my nose, but I stared the asshole in the face.

  “Cat got your tongue, as you Americans say?” The man's accent was thick, maybe south of the border. He turned and shared an ugly chuckle with his oval-shaped partner.

  I put one hand on Jet, another on Andi.

  “Phhh! You think you can stop a .357 bullet, Michael Doyle? You've seen far too many hero movies.”

  Suddenly, the small man whirled around and smacked his three-foot chain right on the hood of the cab, denting and scratching the front hood. The three of us jumped back a foot, the sound rattling my ears.

  “The next one will do the same to your face,” the tall man said.

  My tongue felt like sandpaper. I tried swallowing and almost choked.

  “Please let them go; they didn't try to interfere with you or Camila. They just happened to know me.”

  I felt Andi's hand grip mine.

  “Agreed.” The man waved his gun. “I have no business with you,“ he said, pointing at Jet. “Get out of here.”

  Jet looked at me then started shifting left toward the cab, slowly, as if he was pondering whether to trust the man who currently held all the power.

  “He won't say anything to anyone. If he does, they'll deport him and his family.” The pair's wicked laughter filled the alley.

  Gravel crunched under Jet's sneakers as he continued toward the cab. He extended a hand in our direction, as if he was tethered to us, not wanting to die. And not wanting to see us die.

  The man shook his head, glass-eyeing me. “We beat shit out of you, and you still stay around, meddling in someone's business. And now you break into a business and steal.”

  “We didn't steal anything. We just want to know what happened to Camila. To know that she's safe.”

  “Do not say her name. To you, she does not exist. You piece of American shit! Now, you will not exist.” He leaned into his last statement.

  His words meant nothing to me, other than telling me he had no qualms in justifying assault, maybe murder. A breeze brought a foul scent past my nose, garbage tainted with fast-food grease, maybe dirty diapers.

  “Turn around. We will go inside to finish this job,” the man said.

  Just as I turned, I saw Jet out of the corner of my eye. What the hell was he doing? He'd apparently stopped at the cab's open trunk, and now he was quietly coming up on the man from behind. I didn't know what to do...I couldn't let Jet be killed.

  Without warning, I leaned over and started gagging, like I was about to throw up. Given the odor, it didn't take a great deal of imagination. The two thugs leaned forward, and I could feel Andi's hand on my back.

  “Ahh, ya!” I heard Jet scream, then a cracking noise.

  I flipped my head and saw Jet flinging a pair of nunchucks like a regular Bruce Lee. The tall guy with the glass eye dropped his gun, and Jet cracked him once on the nose and a second time on the head. The man stumbled backward until he fell on his ass.

  But the small man came right after Jet, his heavy-duty chain whirling above his head, gaining momentum. Just before impact, Andi grabbed a handful of dirt and gravel and chucked it in the man's face.

  He stopped in his tracks and yelled out, “You little bitch.”

  Then, he took one end of the chain, twirling it like a vertical helicopter blade, moving toward Andi. She crouched down, assuming a fighting position. With his beady eyes glued to the tomboy with balls, I hurled my body forward, tackling him, jamming his back into the side panel of the cab. He let out a lung-draining grunt, but that didn't stop him from flinging the chain against my body. Three shots connected to my ribcage.

  The short man got his bearings and tried punching me. I felt like I was in a claw-your-eyes-out fight for my life. In the scrap, I was able to snare one of the chain links, pulling it beneath my leg. Jamming my foot to the concrete, I snatched the chain from his hands.

  He didn't stop. He threw punches at my face, shoulders, kidneys. I kept my face down, still ramming his body against the car. Then I noticed the glass-eyed man crawling to his gun, and my already-quickened pulse broke the sound barrier. I saw an extended arm reach for th
e pistol, his hand take the grip, pointing it my way. I closed my eyes.

  Thwack. It sounded like an electronic dart being shot. I knew he'd fired the pistol, but luck was on my side. I felt no pain.

  Then I heard the crunch of Jet's nunchucks. The tall man fell like a tree, writhing in pain, holding his arm. Clutching the coat of the short man, I pulled him closer, then used my leverage to spin him away from me, which set up a roundhouse flip of Jet's nunchucks to his face. He dropped to his knees and released a muffled groan, blood spilling through his fingers like a raging flood.

  I grabbed Andi's hand and raced to the cab. Jet jumped behind the wheel, started the car, and punched it. Hearing a pop, my heart skipped, and I jerked my head around. It must have been the trunk slamming shut. Gravel and gray dust created a smokescreen behind us.

  We were now on the run.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Today

  Three blocks later, my head was still on swivel, not convinced we had safely eluded the would-be killers. They had to be mixed up in Gustavo's death, and Camila's life. How, I had no idea, but I'd be damned if I was going to crawl under a rock and not fight back, at least in my own way.

  For right now, though, we had to regroup.

  I put a hand on Jet's shoulder, and felt my pulse throbbing. “Where you taking us?”

  “I got it. Just hold on,” the teen said, holding up a quick hand but his eyes fixated on the road.

  In a split second, he tapped the brake, made a quick right, then another left—I thought he might tip us over—then he gunned the boat. Unprepared for the roller coaster ride, I flopped into Andi then back against the car door. I heard her cry out in pain. Strange, I didn't think I fell into her that hard.

  I turned in her direction.

  “Ahh! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Her jaw flexed, her neck veins bulged. I followed her eyes downward.

  Blood.

  The pit of my stomach felt like I'd been gutted by a serrated knife.