by McLean, Jay
COMBATIVE TRILOGY
Copyright © 2020 by Jay McLean
All rights reserved.
Cover Design: Books and Moods
Print Formatting: Books and Moods
* * *
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Combative
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Redemptive
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Destructive
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Epilogue
Combative
Chapter 1
I flex my fingers, watching the dried blood shift around my knuckles. I should be at home icing the shit out of them, but I’m not. Instead, I’m in a tiny room with nothing but a table and two chairs. I don’t know how the fuck I got into this mess. Actually, I do, but the asshole was talking shit and I had no choice.
That’s a lie.
There was a choice.
I made mine and I ended up here.
* * *
The door swings open, and a suit walks in—his back to me—talking heatedly with someone on the other side of the door. “I’ll handle it, Pulver,” he states before slamming the door and then… nothing. He simply stands there staring at the closed door, his head shaking. After a moment, he faces me.
The corners of my lips lift the second recognition hits but drop just as fast when he jerks his head. The action’s so slight; if I weren’t focused on him, I would’ve missed it. His gaze shifts to the camera in the corner of the room—a split-second movement—but one I understand. Rolling up the sleeves on his crisp, white shirt, the man takes the only seat available on the other side of the table. With his forearms on the table, he leans forward. “Parker.”
I smirk. “Officer.”
“Detective,” he corrects, a justified cockiness to his tone.
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I mumble, “Who’d have thought.”
His features falter but only a second before his mask is back in place. Looking down at the folder in front of him, his eyes scan the page from side to side before his gaze lifts. “Kyler Parker?” he asks, but he already knows who I am.
I nod once, giving nothing away.
His eyes fix on the cuffs digging into my wrists. After letting out a slow exhale, he leans to one side and shoves his hand in his pocket, revealing a set of keys. The second he removes the cuffs, there’s a banging on the door. His eye-roll makes me chuckle.
Another suit, a fatter one, stands at the door with his eyes narrowed. “Davis,” is all he says.
Davis stands, walks to the door and without a word, proceeds to forcefully shut it in fat-suit’s face. Once he’s settled back in his seat, he resumes his position from earlier. “You’re in a bit of a mess,” he states, pulling a picture from the folder and pushing it under my nose. “You recognize him?” My gaze drops to the picture but quickly shifts, the image making my gut twist. My nod is all Davis needs to continue. “You broke his jaw, his nose, busted a rib, and punctured his lung. You also did some heavy damage to his right eye. They don’t know if it will have full functionality again.” He raises an eyebrow. “Was it worth it?”
I clear my throat and lean forward, matching his position. I don’t say a word.
Amusement fills his eyes. “Are you mute?”
I bite my lip to stop from smiling, and the taste of my blood hits my tongue. He smirks, jerking his head toward my lips. “Does it taste like victory?”
I drop my chin to my chest and do my best to keep it together. The scraping of his chair grabs my attention. He’s on his feet now, working his way over and stopping next to me, where he takes a seat on the edge of the table. “Ky,” he starts, then pauses for what I assume is dramatic effect. “I can call you Ky, right?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before adding, “Here’s the thing. Witnesses say that you had to be pulled off of him, and even then you kept throwing blow after blow. The damage you did, there’s too much of it. Obviously he’s pressing charges, as is the owner of the bar you just trashed because you couldn’t control your temper.”
“Fuck you,” I murmur. It’s the first thing I’ve said since he’s walked in.
&nb
sp; He raises his eyebrows before clearing his throat and crossing his arms. “I could just leave you here. You could go to court—do the whole trial thing. I bet you think your chances of getting let off are high: ex-combat vet suffering PTSD… all that shit. But the truth? The truth is it might’ve worked if we were talking assault, but we’re not. We’re talking attempted murder, Parker.”
I lean back in my chair and look up at him.
“I’m here to make a deal—one that you should take.” With a sigh, he drops his head before pushing off the table. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a pair of handcuffs; the same ones I was wearing when he walked in. He circles them around my wrists—looser than they were before. “You have one night.” He places his business card in my hand. “An officer will tail you. I suggest you get a drink and think about taking the deal.”
“Fuck your deal.”
He smiles openly for the first time. “Fuck your life.”
Chapter 2
Officer Declan—the poor asshole chosen to babysit me—hasn’t moved from his spot in the last two hours. I flip the business card between my fingers and eye it curiously.
Detective Jackson Davis, right above the Philadelphia Police Department logo.
And his hand-written note: meet me at Colton’s Bar.
“Asshole,” I mumble under my breath.
“I’m the asshole? You’re the one who left and never looked back.”
I flinch in my seat—not from him being here, because I expected that, but because of the harshness of his words. “Jackson,” I greet, watching him take the barstool next to mine.
“I thought for sure you’d at least call. I didn’t expect much, maybe a ‘hey bro, I’m alive.’”
I look over my shoulder for Officer Declan, but he’s no longer there.
“I told him to leave,” Jackson states, getting comfortable in his seat. “So, I’m glad you actually read my note instead of trashing it like I thought you would.”
I dip my head and stare at the beer in my hand. “You said something about a deal?”
After ordering a beer for himself, Jackson turns to me. “I need your help.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know how to. I was already fucked, but whatever he’s offering isn’t going to save me. It’s going to save him.
It takes a moment for him to answer. “It involves you.”
My gaze snaps to his. “What the fuck are you talking about, Jax?”
Running a hand through his hair, he takes a sip of the beer just handed to him. “This stays in the vault. You got it?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“I’m working on a case. It’s an underground fighting organization, but we suspect it’s more.”
“More?”
“We think it’s a cover for a drug ring.”
“So where do I come in?”
“I need you to fight.”
“I don’t fight.”
“Pretty sure that guy you just put in the hospital would say otherwise.” He blows out a heavy breath. “What the hell did he say to get you so amped?”
My jaw clenches, my fingers curl, gripping the beer tighter. “He said the war was fake and that we were fighting for a cause that didn’t exist.” I search his face, waiting for him to tell me how stupid I was, but it never comes. After a while I add, “I fought so he could wake up every day and not be afraid to leave his fucking house and he thinks—”
“You should’ve killed him.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Deal?”
I have no real information on what the hell the deal entails, but that’s not important. What’s important is why. “Why?”
His eyes turn to stone. “They’re selling shit to kids. And when I say shit, I mean shit. It’s like ecstasy on crack or vice versa.”
“And how does that involve me?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Because, Ky, I think it’s the same shit that killed Steve.”
Ky: Age Fourteen
“Every damn day,” I mumbled to myself. I dropped my backpack and slowly walked over to the playground. Every day I’d walk past and see the same thing going on—two kids beating the shit out of someone. Normally, I’d walk away and ignore it. Yet there I was—a few steps away from them—and I’d had enough of their crap.
“We know you have money, you little shit!” one of them yelled.
“I don’t!” their victim squealed.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
“Give it to us, you pussy!”
One of the bigger guys kicked the kid already on the ground. It must have been pretty hard because he yelped and shouted, “Here! Just take it!”
I crossed my arms and pushed my chest out. “Hey! Leave him alone!”
In sync, the two bullies turned around, eyes already narrowed. “Stay out of it, Parker. This has nothing to do with you!”
I recognized the tormentors from school. They were twins, two years older than me. Harry and Barry Berry. Clearly their parents were just as stupid as their spawn.
The poor, beaten kid slowly came to a stand, patting down his clothes as he did. He had a busted lip and a cut on his cheek. “It’s okay, Ky, just go home,” he told me.
“Yeah, Ky, just go home!” Barry mocked.
I eyed Barry and his brother, wondering if I could take them both. Luckily for me, my growth spurt hit at twelve. I was tall but not that built. Not that it mattered. I’d grown up around this shit my entire life. I took a step forward and raised my chin. “No.”
“What are you gonna do? Fight us both?”
The beaten kid got between us, becoming my shield like he could somehow protect me. He couldn’t even protect himself.
“Just stop,” he said to me. Then to the others: “I gave you my money. You can leave now.”
“No,” I cut in. “Give him back his money!”
Barry stepped forward, his stance matching mine. “Or what, Parker?”
His fist was halfway to my face before I reacted by ducking and charging his stomach. The immediate impact on my shoulder made me want to scream out in pain, but I didn’t let it show. I didn’t even show it when Harry came at me while Barry and I were on the ground. He started to bend over to get me off his brother, but I kicked the back of his knee hard enough that it gave out. Their victim screamed and charged over to Harry, grabbing a backpack on his way, and started beating him with it. I got two punches to Barry’s gut before I had a chance to look at Harry—now cursing and lying on the ground, trying to defend each consecutive hit of the backpack.
With my fists balled around Barry’s collar, I seethed, “Give him his money back, and while you’re at it, give him all of yours!” Next to me, Harry groaned. I laughed. “You too, asshole!”
“Fine!” Barry said, his hand already in his pocket.
Harry cursed again. “Okay!” he yelled. “Just get this psycho off me.”
I watched the kid get one more hit in before letting out a maniacal laugh. Standing up, I took the money they were more than willing to hand me and watched them run away.
“You didn’t have to do that, Ky. I was handling it,” the kid said quietly.
I kept my eye-roll to a minimum when I handed him the money. “What’s your name?”
“Jackson,” he told me. “I live next door to you.”
I shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry I don’t know you,” I said lamely.
“It’s cool. I don’t expect you to. I guess it’s just kind of hard not to know you.”
We walked home in dead silence, only stopping when I got to my gate. “So this is me…” I looked over at my house, sure that it had changed a lot in the two years since we’d moved in. Back then, it was a picture-perfect suburban home. Now—the word shithole wouldn’t even cover it. It was exactly the kind of house you’d expect someone just like my dad and his pathetic friends to occupy. At first, the
neighbors called the cops because the loud music and the general sound of assholeness never stopped. The cops came around a few times, but they never did anything. After a few months, the number of bikes in our front yard outweighed the number of residents that lived on the street. I guess they had no choice but to put up with his shit.
Just like I did.