I step on the landing, close the door behind me, lock the three dead bolts, the chain lock, and the one on the doorknob, and then I walk down the stairs to the basement where Socks, Boots’s brother, is waiting for us.
“Hey there, did you have a good day?” I ask as he stretches his back, then his front paws, and stands.
I grab the keys next to the door to my room downstairs and unlock it. The lights automatically come on, and once Boots is inside, I lock it—all three dead bolts, two chain-link locks, the doorknob—and finally feel like I can breathe.
I set the food and water on the small table that also acts as my desk and look around my twelve by twelve bedroom. There are no windows and one thick, steel door. The walls are bare, I can’t look back on family pictures. I exist down here with just what we need to get by.
I bend down and pick up Socks. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make sure of it. We’re not alone.”
After a few minutes, I set him in the recliner near the bed with his brother and pick up the picture of my family. I run my finger over the frame, then the side of each of their cheeks and whisper, “I’m so sorry I was late.”
Chapter 3
Jason
Blinking, the light burns my eyes, so I close them again. My body feels detached, and my mouth is dry.
Where am I?
The noise of a machine beeping has me blinking again. I see white. I damn sure know I’m not in heaven. I blink again as my mind races.
The cowbell dings from off on the side. We are in an abandoned parking garage.
I blow out a breath, and the cold Detroit air smokes out in front of me. My muscles are tight from the day and the temperature. I didn’t warm up properly. I know better. I’m not a rookie, and this is a rookie mistake. The key to mixed martial arts or any street fight is stamina. Don’t let your muscles or lungs give out before the final bell.
I hop from foot to foot in hopes to get my blood flowing. The graffiti on the cement walls seems to dance from the fires lit up inside barrel drums around the space. The place would normally reek of garbage, waste from the homeless fuckers, and rats. Luckily, it’s all frozen, so I am thankful for the reprieve from the stench.
There is no octagon tonight, no ring, just a chalk line drawn on a cracked concrete floor. The crowd is sparse, and this isn’t one of the usual locations. This wasn’t arranged by the usual connections. Tonight is a risk and a gamble. Now that I’m in it, I’m beginning to wonder if this was a mistake.
I try to shut down my mind. I try to zone in. I need to get fight ready.
Instead, I think of Missy. I think of her message after lunch telling me she’s going to find her way to Caldwell since I found my way to lunch with his wife. There was a time when her games with Jagger would work me up, but knowing what he has waiting for him at home, I know he’s not giving that up for Missy.
I made a decision today. Missy and I are over. Tatiana was right; this is a toxic relationship for us both. I am not the man I want to be with her. I will never be a good man, but I can’t continue risking her pushing my buttons.
My blood pumps harder as I let my adrenaline build. Mixed thoughts about my future only fuel my need to beat the shit out of someone. Tonight’s fight isn’t full of the usual onlookers. It doesn’t have any fluff or fanfare. There is no announcer. There are no gloves, no tape, no headgear, and no protection of any kind.
Tonight is a street fight, winner takes all. No rules, no referee, just one man left standing to take home the money. There aren’t rounds to take breaks and regroup. This is nonstop until it is done.
It’s a bare-knuckles brawl with only Brock at my back.
It’s not about the money for me; it’s not about a title. Fighting for me is conquering and controlling. When I go round for round and pound for pound, it’s about being in control of the physical punishments, both given and taken. It’s conquering my opponent and conquering my past.
Every win is a win I never had as a child.
The mindset of a fucked-up boy grown into a fucked-up man. Break the cycle or break some noses…I’m better at the latter and wish I had been able to do the first.
My opponent stands in front of me—Chainz—all six foot six of him. The man is a beast. His olive skin shines in the firelight. He’s lubed up, the smart fucker. I didn’t, and this gives him the advantage. The tattoo of a chain winding up and down his right arm goes over his shoulder and wraps down his back and across his torso, going down his leg and ending at the top of his left foot.
Rumor has it, when he gets you in a lock, the grip is like he’s wrapped a chain around you and is slowly pulling every bit of energy and life out of you.
Well, motherfucker, I’m Cobra, known for my quick strike and ability to move with speed. I have the movements to mesmerize and hypnotize like a snake dancing to a fife. He’s going to have to catch me to wrap me in his chains.
The sideline’s coordinator nods to me, nods to Chainz, and then we nod to each other. Then the cowbell rings.
We dance around each other. He’s measuring me up as I do the same to him. I strike first, a jab with contact, and his head snaps back from the impact. He shakes it off as blood immediately pours from his nose. Then he glares at me as I glare right the fuck back.
I have no fear. I have nothing to lose on this cement tonight or any other night—except my need to come out on top. I will not let myself down.
We dance around each other again. He swings with a hook, and I move, making him miss. Dropping in, I take him out at the knees. He falls back and goes down hard. We grapple, and I come out on top of him. Swing left, swing right, then I pound away.
My knuckles burn as my skin splits again from this morning. Pain shoots up my arms with each blow. I don’t stop. I’m relentless.
“Cobra!” I hear Brock yell. “Drop!”
I can’t react. A blunt object comes down on my head, and I am knocked off my man. The next blow comes down on my ribs. I can’t breathe as the hits keep coming.
I hear Brock vaguely yelling. I hear the popping of gunshots, and then everything is silent.
The steady beeping of the machines, the bright lights…Things went bad. That’s all I can gather.
I open my eyes again when I feel small fingertips on my wrist. What happened with the shots? Who hit me?
Inhaling, I’m in agony. Every breath feels like my chest is one size too small for my lungs. There’s too much pressure, too much pain. I want to crawl back into the darkness.
The soft glow off her golden hair beams brightly. Her blue eyes meet mine, and I feel like I am in the hands of an angel. This can’t be heaven, because the gates damn sure won’t open for a demon like me. I don’t know where I am or why, but I feel safe just from the look in her eyes.
“Calm down. Breathe easy,” her soft voice soothes.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Was I shot?
The glow leaves me as she steps back. A man in a white coat with the name Sam Bennett, MD, on his chest stands over me. “You seem more alert now, so let’s go over some things.”
My head pounds, and the light is blinding. The blond nurse leaves my room. I am alone with the doctor. My ears are ringing, and I want this man to shut the fuck up, not go over some things.
“The gentleman who dropped you off exited before we could get your information. There is discharge paperwork for you to sign. With your hands being bandaged, someone from registration will be in here shortly to help you,” he says, looking at the screen on his laptop. Registration doesn’t need to come. I’m not staying. I’m not signing a damn thing. I’m not giving them any information for multiple reasons, the biggest one being the illegal fight in a ring. If word got out that I gave them that information, I would be signing my death certificate. The next one is that I am who I am, and who I am can’t be laid up in a hospital after being in an illegal fight.
“Can you give me your name so I can at least update this until administration arrives?”
“Cobra,” I sa
y on a huff. No way am I giving him my real name. My father can’t ever know I fight. My father can’t know I tarnished his name and his upstanding leadership position in the community. I’m lucky he hasn’t already found out and put an end to it…or an end to me.
The doc raises an eyebrow at me, but he doesn’t push me further at the moment. He types away, and I can’t help wondering what he is putting in the computer. Bottom line, I need to get the fuck out of here now.
“Given we had no contacts, we authorized emergency services access to your phone where they contacted the number you had listed as ‘ICE’ for in case of emergency,” he rambles off.
Shit, is all I can think. I need to update that. When I put it in, I did it being a smartass. Knowing they used it, I fucked up. She doesn’t need to be brought into this world anymore than she already has been.
“The woman who answered didn’t seem to know who you were at first. However, after describing your tattoo, she figured it out and assured me she would have your family here for you today. However, she was evasive about your identity as well.” He raises an eyebrow at me suspiciously.
Before I can figure out who would have been sent for me, I hear her screeching as she comes into the room. “You fucking piece of shit!” Missy wails as she storms over to me. “Tatiana Caldwell is your emergency contact!” Her hair is wild around her face, she isn’t wearing makeup, and for the first time in the three years we have been together, she is out in public in sweats and a T-shirt. Missy is always put together, dressed in fifties glam…except for today, that is.
The doctor’s pager goes off, and without a word, he bolts. Sitting up, I see my moment to escape.
Missy has a bag in her hand. I reach over for it. Looking at the gauze covering my hands, I begin to unravel them. Every movement is painful—from the top of my head down to my fucking big toe—but I have to get out of here and now.
Missy keeps pushing. “How is it you would consider her your contact? You fuck me, you live with me. Why her? What is she to you?”
I’m in no mood to give her the truth. She just wants to push my buttons…Well, two can play that game.
“Next of kin—that’s who they say should be your ICE number. She’s my next of kin.”
“Have you lost your damned mind?”
I give her my best jackass smile. “Missy, I know you aren’t going to understand this, but she and I were bred from the same kind of bastards.”
Tossing the bag on the bed in front of me, I unzip it to find she has packed clean boxers, sweats, and a shirt. Perfect. I also find my phone is over on the window ledge of the hospital room. Brock must have my wallet and fight gear.
With my hands free of their confines, I get dressed. Every move is painful, but I can’t let them know who I am. My determination drives me to get out while Missy continues ranting on and on.
“I don’t even know why I’m here. To have her call me—her! You’re a real piece of shit, Jay.”
I look up at her as I get dressed. “You’re right; I am. That’s why I’m going to move out, and it’s over between us. This isn’t healthy.”
Her eyes grow wide in hurt as she realizes I’m serious. I pull the tape off my wrist and slide out the needle of my IV. She stands immobile and unspeaking as I pull off the clip on my finger and pop off the heart monitors and blood pressure cuff. The machines start beeping like crazy, and I know I have to get moving before the nurses come in to fix it. I pull on my shirt and adjust my pants as I quickly slide into my shoes.
I groan in pain as I walk past her to the door. “Keep the condo. I’ll help you cover the mortgage for the next three months. Then you’re on your own. Get the shit in your name, I’ll cover fees or closing costs. I’ll be by for some stuff later, and next weekend I’ll get the rest.”
She opens and closes her mouth yet doesn’t speak. I’m probably giving her too much, but frankly I need out before I do something I can’t take back. I don’t look back as I make my way out of the hospital with the hope I won’t run into anyone.
Chapter 4
Heidi
I sit in my black Chevy Impala with a cup of coffee, waiting with my notebook, waiting for him. He’s first up of the five to watch.
The man: Adrian.
The house: 732 East River Drive.
The schedule: He leaves the house between seven and seven-fifteen in a suit and tie. He gets into his brown Volvo and doesn’t buckle his seatbelt. I assume he is careless and believes he is untouchable.
I know that’s not true. Everyone is touchable.
He is approximately five foot ten and bald. He has a round, clean-shaven face; beady brown eyes; and is mostly expressionless.
I stare at the picture taped next to the information before logging the time and turning the page. I wait for him to pull out of the driveway, knowing he hits the gym before he heads to his office.
Next…
The man: Jack.
The house: 8736 East Malloy Road.
The schedule: Eight a.m., he rushes out with two girls who are not twins. They are about seven years old, each blond and dressed in a little red and blue plaid skirt with blue cardigan. He loads them in the car, taking time to do so. I assume he is helping them with their safety belts. That’s what a good father would do.
He is short, about five-six, with dark blond, buzzed hair. He is also clean shaven and wears a suit just like the last guy.
He takes his girls to Saint Anne’s every morning, a private Catholic school, before heading to his office.
I jot down the time. It’s exactly the same for the past two months.
Next…
The woman: Charlotte.
The house: 7930 Brown Avenue.
The schedule: At eight-thirty a.m., the garage door opens, and the sleek black BMW reverses out of the driveway and quickly onto the street. She’s careless. She doesn’t even look behind her half the time while she applies lipstick in the rearview instead of using it how it is intended. She throws it in drive and speeds away.
I follow her because she is far too worried about her makeup to notice she is being watched.
She pulls into her office parking lot and jumps out of her car with a black briefcase hanging off her shoulder and a cellphone stuck to her ear. She is wearing a navy skirt and matching blazer. She is thin and tall in her four-inch heels. Her dark hair is twisted up and away from her face perfectly.
I click a picture on my camera phone. This is the closest I have ever been to her. I will print it today and attach it to her page.
Next…
The man: Waters.
The house: 746 Wesley Drive.
The schedule…
“Shit,” I mutter as I pull down Wesley Drive and see the white Lexus SUV pass me. I glance at him, hoping like hell he doesn’t notice me.
His hair is slicked back, and he has dark sunglasses on.
“Eight fifty-five, eight fifty-five,” I repeat over and over so I don’t forget the time to log his departure.
I look at the clock. If I hurry, I can make the next one, and then tonight, when I am sitting in bed, I can try my damnedest to narrow down my list.
The man: Hill.
The house: 342 Standard Street.
The schedule…
It’s nine-fifteen in the morning, and I am afraid I may have missed him. I put the car in park and hope I’m wrong. Five minutes later, I see him walk out the front door, still pushing his shirt into his pants. He is six feet tall, about two hundred fifty pounds, balding, and his skin is pockmarked.
Behind him is a much younger woman who is not his wife. She is wearing a big floppy sun hat and large black shades. If she’s trying to go undetected, she is failing miserably.
A cab pulls up, and I see him hand her cash before she runs down the driveway in her six-inch stilettos and climbs in the cab.
He walks back inside, and a few minutes later, the garage door opens. He pulls out in his tan Jeep, clearly in a hurry and distracted, because he drives ov
er the corner of the curb before peeling out and heading down the road.
I follow him and watch as he pulls into the parking lot of his office building. I drive past slowly and make my way to the parking area next to the public waterfront where I grab my book and my pen and write down the last two men’s departure times.
I lean back and stretch as I look at the sunlight’s reflection over the calm water of the Detroit River.
I wish it were as easy as it was back when I was a child with a fishing pole in hand, standing next to my dad, just staying there for hours and hours, waiting patiently for something to bite. This was his favorite place; he used to tell me that. And I was his favorite girl, because I would fish with him and my sister wouldn’t.
He would take her to a museum or a concert in the park, but I wouldn’t choose anyplace over this one. Not for a million dollars and a million cents; that’s what I used to tell him.
“You’re one of a kind, kiddo.” He would wink at me.
“Two of a kind, Daddy.” I would laugh in response.
“Oh, I forgot.” He would wink again then tweak my nose. “Me and you.”
I would laugh, and so would he.
No time to reminisce, I tell myself.
I grab the notebook and look through it. Four of the nine names have been scratched off my list of suspects since they haven’t been in their positions long enough. Out of the ones I staked out today, Adrian, Charlotte, and Waters seem the most likely.
I put on my gloves then pull out the paper, tape, scissors, and newspapers. I take out the copy of the newspaper from the day it all happened and tape it to the top of a blank sheet of paper. I use the scissors to cut and trim out the letters and numbers I need, then tape them to it. I fold it up, then place it in the envelope already stamped, addressed, and ready to be mailed.
I do this three times. It will go to three people, and then I will sit and watch what happens next.
After dropping the envelopes into a post office box on the corner of a busy street, I drive away, hopeful that my vengeance will be delivered soon.
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