by Angie Martin
The Boys Club
Angie Martin
This edition published by Indie World Publishing & Author Services via Amazon KDP
Text © Angie Martin 2014
ASIN #B00PLW1XA8
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. In accordance with U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
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Cover Art by: Novak Illustration
To learn more about author Angie Martin,
please visit her website at www.angiemartinbooks.com
This work of fiction contains adult situations that may not be suitable for children under eighteen years of age. Recommended for mature audiences only.
Novels by Angie Martin
False Security
Conduit
Poetry collections
the three o’clock in the morning sessions
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Epilogue
More by Angie Martin
About Angie Martin
One Last Thing…
Dedication
For Johnny, my forever. You are my strength, my courage, and my everything.
Prologue
“Logan comma Gabriel!”
Gabe peeked around the man who had him pushed against the wall and watched as a police officer scanned the mass of men in the overcrowded jail cell.
The man in front of him tightened his hold on his shirt and slapped his sweaty hand over Gabe’s mouth. “Don’t you say anything.” His alcohol-infused breath seethed through rotting teeth, and Gabe held his own breath to avoid the stench. “I’ll kill you before you get two words out.”
Gabe started out the night in an empty, large cell after he broke into a home to steal a few small items to sell in hopes of quieting his growling stomach. The owners came home early, retrieved the shotgun from their front closet, and held him at gunpoint until the cops arrived to take him away.
Not his first time in the back of a police car, he assumed he would spend another night in a cozy juvenile hall before being sent off to yet another foster family. Instead the cops hauled him to the county jail. The empty cell lulled him into thinking the night wouldn’t be so bad, but when large men of varying criminal backgrounds filled up the cell, all sorts of colorful threats floated toward the youngest, skinniest inmate.
“Logan comma Gabriel!” the officer called out again. “Where the hell are you, kid?”
“Do you think these drunks are going to let him go?” another male voice asked. “Get some backup and go in there to get him.”
The second man’s angry, low tone scared Gabe a little more than the men in the cell, but smashed between the wall and a beer gut, he didn’t want to stay in the cell a minute longer.
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” the officer said.
“Then do your job. You shouldn’t have put him in the drunk tank to begin with, let alone a jail cell.”
“He’s robbed four houses in the last month. Where do you suggest we put him?”
“He’s a 15-year old kid. Get him out of there. Now.”
Gabe decided to hell with the consequences. If he didn’t speak up, they might never come in, leaving him at the mercy of the brutes around him. “I’m here!”
The man who held him smashed his fist into Gabe’s lip and punched his stomach, while the guard called for backup. Gabe fell over and his forehead met the man’s knee. The skin above his eye split open and Gabe cried out. Gabe’s head flew back with the impact, but the man let go of him. Though half-blinded by the blood in his eyes, Gabe dropped to the ground and crawled around the man.
Officers grabbed the man and threw him to the ground. An unfamiliar face pulled Gabe to his feet and hurried him out of the cell, through the stale odors of alcohol and urine. When they left the cell, the man told Gabe to keep walking.
The main officer yelled at them to stop. The man next to Gabe whirled around with his index finger extended. “I’m taking him now. You’re lucky I don’t file a complaint about this matter.” He pointed to the cell. “I want that man brought up on additional charges along with anyone else that even breathed in this kid’s direction, and I will follow up on that, Officer.”
Though his head pounded with pain, the adrenaline of getting out rushed through Gabe’s body. He pointed at the cop and leered. “That’s right, Officer!”
“You either shut the hell up,” the man said through clenched teeth, “or you can spend the night in that cell with your buddies and I’ll come back for you in the morning.”
Gabe’s hands flew up, above his shoulders. “I’m good, I’m good.”
As they moved out of the cell block and down the hall, toward the main lobby of the police station, Gabe got his first good look at the man. Grey strands peppered the sides of his short, brown hair. Wrinkles pointed toward hard, blue eyes, while more lines encompassed his downturned mouth. Gabe had not seen him before, but he already knew it would be suicidal to ever cross him.
“Who are you?” Gabe asked.
“Your guardian angel.” He pinched Gabe’s arm. “You sure are scrawny, but you’ll do, I suppose.”
Gabe scowled at the word ‘scrawny.’ Taller than most 15-year olds, he knew how to take care of himself without being bulked up with muscle. “Do for what?” he asked the man. “Are you like some pervert social worker? I don’t know what they told you, but I don’t do that for food like some of the other kids on the streets.”
The man’s hearty laugh answered Gabe’s question.
“So if you’re not a social worker or a pervert, who are you?”
The man pushed open the doors of the police station and stopped at the top of the steps. He pulled a handkerchief
out of his jeans pocket and handed it to Gabe. “You’re bleeding all over the place. You really know how to find trouble, don’t you?”
Gabe took the linen and pressed it to the open wound over his left eye. “Who are you?”
The man held out his hand. “Jim Schaffer, but everyone calls me Schaffer.”
Gabe accepted his hand in a firm shake. “Gabe Logan.”
“Nice to officially meet you, Logan.”
“Gabe Logan.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll call you Logan. Gabe is a scrawny burglar who gets caught a little too easily.”
“Look, thanks for getting me outta there and all, but I got it from here.” He started down the steps, but halted when he caught a glimpse of a car parked on the side of the street. His eyes widened and he lowered the handkerchief away from his face. “Whoa.”
Schaffer smirked and walked over to the vehicle. He leaned against it and folded his arms. “You like it?”
“Are you serious?” He moved closer to the car and restrained himself from running his fingers over the freshly waxed burgundy exterior. “A 1965 Mustang Fastback, original paint, and what, a V-8?”
“You know your cars.”
“Is it yours?”
“It is,” Schaffer said. “But the real question is, have you ever stolen one of these?”
“I haven’t stolen any cars.”
“Wanna learn?”
Gabe narrowed his eyes and stared down Schaffer. “Okay, who are you?
“Former Special Agent Jim Schaffer with the FBI.”
“Former?” Gabe laughed. “Did they kick you out ‘cause you stole this car?”
“Not exactly. I decided to branch out on my own. I’m getting together a group of boys like you who have special… talents, if you will.”
“To steal cars?”
“And save the world. To put things right that the feds and cops can’t. There are a lot of people who pay a lot of money to make things right.”
“And you think I can help?” Gabe turned to walk away. “You have the wrong man, Schaffer.”
“I have the right boy for the job and I plan on turning you into the right man.” Schaffer placed his hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “When’s the last time you had three meals a day? When you had a bed to sleep in at night? When you didn’t have to fight for everything you have, only to find out you still have nothing?”
Staring at the front passenger tire, Gabe’s vision glazed over. He had never been in that kind of position. Even in one of his many foster homes he had to sacrifice other things to get those meals, if three meals a day were even offered. On the streets he never knew when he would eat next, if he did at all, and he slept in a different alley almost every night. The idea of not being on the streets and not having to steal and fight to survive sounded better and better with each passing second.
“So what do you say, Logan? Wanna come save the world with me?”
Gabe took a long look at the Mustang, then glanced in Schaffer’s direction and grinned. “I’m in.”
Chapter One
Sixteen years later…
I’ve been in far worse spots than this.
Though Gabriel Logan had repeated the same mantra for the past ten minutes, he failed to remember a single time he’d been worse off than now. After taking him hostage at gunpoint, a drug dealer who smelled like he climbed out of a sewer struggled with a frayed rope to tie Logan to a pole covered in red, peeling paint. Half of Logan’s team had already left and the other half was probably trying to figure out where he had gone. Being stranded in the middle of the decrepit barn with no weapon had to be the worst of all of his messes to date, and Logan had no idea how he was getting out of it alive.
Several feet in front of Logan, a second man paced back and forth, his heavily tattooed hand gripping a nine millimeter. “Make it tight so he don’t get out,” he told the first man, “but not so tight that he gets hurt. They don’t want him hurt.”
Logan frowned. He didn’t know who wanted him in one piece or what they were going to do with him when they had him, but if they didn’t want him hurt then his best chance to escape was hurting himself.
The second man walked over to them. He tilted his head, his greasy, slicked-back hair falling out of place. “Don’t you know how to tie a knot?” He set his gun down on a haystack near Logan and walked around the back.
Logan almost laughed at the amateur move, but he was still halfway tied up so he couldn’t celebrate quite yet. The tight constraints didn’t allow Logan to reach the gun, but that wouldn’t stop him from getting it.
As the two men argued over how to properly tie a knot in his peripheral vision, neither one of them paying attention to him, Logan clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. He counted to three and braced himself. Slacking on his left side, he grabbed onto a piece of rope, and pulled up and out as hard as he could.
He screamed and cursed as his left shoulder dislocated. He had pulled it out of the socket so many times over the years on accident that it now popped out with ease. Even though he prepared himself for the pain, it didn’t lessen it in the slightest.
The two men stopped what they were doing and ran around to his front side.
“What the hell did you do to me?” he yelled at them.
The second man looked at the first man. “What did you do? You hurt him! They’re gonna kill you for sure.”
The first man appeared dumbfounded, his gaze shifting back and forth between Logan and the second man, apparently having a hard time determining how he hurt Logan by trying to tie him up. “I didn’t do nothin’ to him, I swear!”
Though he had adjusted to the pain, Logan moaned, exaggerating to make it sound as if he were dying.
“Get him out of there!” the second man ordered.
The first man ran around to the back of the pole and untied Logan. As soon as the rope fell away from his body, Logan launched himself at the second man. He punched the man’s jaw, followed by an elbow to the side of his head. Logan raced toward the gun, while the second man staggered backward and the first man remained frozen with a confused expression.
Logan squeezed the trigger, firing two shots into the second man’s head before he could attack. He whirled around to the first man and trained the gun on his head. Smiling, he shrugged. The man raised his hand for protection. The first round tore through his hand and cheek. When he screamed and lowered his hand, Logan fired a second bullet into his forehead.
Logan turned to regroup with his team, but a large body rammed into his, propelling him forward until he collided with the pole. The gun flew from his hand. He moved his head to the side so his nose didn’t break, but the rest of his body seemed to instantly shatter, especially his left shoulder. A fist repeatedly crushed his side. The assault paused just enough so Logan could duck and scurry to the side. The large man’s fist hit the pole, stunning him.
Staying low to the ground, Logan rushed the man and they tumbled over the haystack and to the floor. The man’s weight pulled him down first, and Logan landed on top. He managed a couple of punches before jumping to his feet and running away. The man caught his ankle and Logan tripped. Only his right hand managed to cushion his fall, while his left arm twisted painfully between his torso and the floor.
Ignoring the flare of pain through his arm and shoulder, Logan used his right arm to drag himself away from the man. A strong hand landed on his left ankle and tugged. Logan pushed up with his right hand and flipped onto his back. He smashed the sole of his boot into the man’s face three times, until the man let go of his leg. When he pulled his foot away, the man reached for his flattened nose.
Logan got to his feet, but only took two steps before a bullet whizzed past his feet. He turned around with controlled, deep breaths. “You got me,” he said. “I give up.”
The man stood, blood flowing through the fingers covering his nose. He raised his gun toward Logan and laughed.
Logan took careful steps backward. “Your friends over the
re said your boss doesn’t want me hurt.”
“You think I care what he says?” the man asked, his voice nasal and strangled. “Self-defense.”
The gun lifted, the barrel pointing at his head, and Logan closed his eyes. The shot sounded, but it did not penetrate his body. He opened his eyes just as the man fell to the ground.
“About time,” he said, as he turned to the door.
“What the hell did you get yourself into?” Jack Sullivan asked. He pointed to the other two dead men. “Did we need three bodies on this one?”
“It’s worth it,” Logan said. “We need the gas can from the van.”
“What for?”
“You mean besides getting rid of the bodies?” Logan walked over to the stacks of boxes on the back wall, one of which he had opened prior to the two men catching him. He picked up a DVD from the open box and tossed it to Jack.
“Kiddy porn,” Jack said. He swore under his breath. “And here I thought these guys were run-of-the-mill, lowlife drug dealers.”
“Looks like our source didn’t have the full story.” He shook his head as he stared at row after row of boxes stacked at least a foot higher than his six-foot three-inch frame. “Burn it all.”
When they had taken care of the cocaine lab in the other barn earlier and were ready to leave, Logan had spotted the second barn, hidden behind some tree cover. Though the first half of his team had already left, he told the rest of them to stay put, positive he wouldn’t find anything. What he saw in the box twisted his stomach and he knew they could not leave without doing something about it. Then the two men found him.
He followed Jack out to the van, holding his shoulder. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, fierce pain radiated from the injury. He thanked God they were less than an hour from the Church, where he could get it put back into its rightful place.
Jack passed by with the gas to burn down the second barn. Logan climbed in the back of the van and collapsed in the back bench seat. Lester Davis turned around from the driver’s seat. “Kid porn, huh? Sick bastards.”