Hawk's Revenge

by N. M. Catalano

  “I know,” I force the words out evenly.

  I can see the slight twitch in his jaw, he’s now two feet in front of me, just on the other side of the table with my ledger books spread out on top. I’m goading him, I know it, but I can’t help it.

  “Yes, that’s the advantage of being surrounded by people that work for you.” His eyebrows pinch together. “But we had a visitor tonight, some stranger passing through. He said he was a friend of yours, is that true?” The muscles in his jaw clench.

  The new guy at the bar.

  Everything about Frank Castillo’s demeanor tells me he does not like the idea. That should scare me.

  I’d be lying if I said that didn’t give me some twisted sense of pleasure. Some transient dude getting Frank Castillo’s panties in a wad. Anyone not a friend of Frank Castillo is a friend of mine.

  “Nope, never saw the guy before in my life.” I tell him the truth, there’s no point in lying. I’m already pushing my luck; I don’t need to piss him off more while doing it.

  His expression doesn’t change, his eyes stare into mine, studying me, reading me like a damn book, looking for anything, any piece of information I might be hiding. He won’t find anything because I’ve got nothing to hide. He’s stolen everything from me. He almost took my self-respect.

  “Good,” he runs a hand down his impeccable tie, the only splash of color in his impeccable suit. Blood red, a color so apropos for the blood on his hands. The man dresses to the nines, I’ll give him that. The devil is always perfectly dressed. He comes around the table to stand directly in front of me, invading my space and trying to intimidate me. I don’t move, I will not show him any fear. The gun I’m holding is keeping him from getting any closer and gives me a false sense of security. I know he could easily take it away from me, and I’m also well aware of the fact his two goons could put a bullet between my eyes before I even cocked the thing. Frank is giving me this small token, allowing me to hold on to it. His look, his body, everything about him, especially the lesson he’d taught me, is enough for me to behave. “Stay away from him, Jo. He’s a stranger, I don’t trust him.”

  Are you kidding me?! You don’t trust HIM? My shock has got to be visible on my face.

  “I’m serious. I will not like it if I find out otherwise,” his glare and his steely tone of voice cements his threat into my psyche.

  Castillo is Pavlov, and I’m one of his fucking dogs, programmed just like everyone else, he’s made sure of it. The realization fills me with shame and makes me hate my own weakness.

  “Got it,” I reply, my features schooled. “Don’t talk to strangers.”

  Frank’s nostrils flare as anger flashes in his eyes. It’s gone immediately as his lips curl into a sly grin. He lifts a hand and runs the backs of his fingers slowly across my cheek, the same place he punched me. My skin crawls with the contact, but I fight the urge to flinch.

  “I’m protecting you, Jo,” he says quietly. Then he grips my chin tightly, his fingers digging into my flesh, and forces my eyes to meet his. His hold is painful, but I prefer it over the caress. “I take care of what’s mine.”

  I want to scream in his face to let me go. I want to jab the barrel of the shotgun into his stomach and blow a hole in him a foot wide. And, God help me, I want to see his blood and intestines splattered all over the wall.

  The screaming realization of my dark violent desires would scare the hell out of me if Frank were any other man. If he had any sense of humanity inside him. He doesn’t, but I’m not him.

  “I know,” I whisper. The quiet words say I know I’m his property and that I have to do what he wants, no matter how much I hate him.

  His eyes move back and forth on mine, left to right, slow, so slowly, it’s almost torturous.

  “Did you want that drink?” I finally ask. I need to get away from him, I can’t stand him touching me.

  His grip loosens as his thumb strokes the spot it had been digging into. “Are you going to have one with me?”

  I take the opportunity to step back and away from his hold. “I don’t drink, Mr. Castillo. That was the first rule my father taught me about owning a bar.” I give him a cold smile. “When the dealer starts dipping into the goods, he’s as good as dead.”

  He drops his hand and laughs, but it doesn’t reach his cold eyes. “Smart man, your father was.”

  I shrug. I’m not too sure about that anymore, not with this deal he signed with him.

  “I’ve got to meet the delivery driver in the morning,” I tell him, hoping he’ll give a shit and leave.

  “All work and no play, Jo, it’s not good. But I admire that about you,” he takes a step back as he smooths his fucking tie again.

  “Bills to pay and all,” I comment, unable to resist the dig about the loan.

  “Ah, yes,” he nods. “Business is good; you should be proud.”

  I’m not, but I’m glad. The sooner I can pay you off, the sooner I can tell you to go fuck yourself.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jo, and wear the red shirt.” His gaze crawls all over me again. “It’s one of my favorites.” I want to spit in his face. I hate the way he treats me, like he owns me. But that’s Frank Castillo, he owns this whole town, everyone and everything belongs to him. Even me, and I had nothing to do with it. Not for long if I can help it. He turns and starts for the door. One of his body guards gets there first, opens it and looks outside, the other follows behind. Frank stops just inside the door and turns to face me again. I haven’t moved, I don’t know if I’ve even breathed, waiting for him to get out. “I’m serious about that man, Jo.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good, we’re clear then.” He holds my gaze for one more moment before they finally leave.

  I let out a heavy breath and my entire body relaxes, like the room is suddenly filled with precious oxygen. I think about the stranger, the man that walked into the lion’s den and stared them all in the eye.

  I knew he wasn’t part of this. Not because I’ve never seen him before, but because of the way Frank’s men reacted to him. It wasn’t because he was shockingly handsome, a menacingly dark and beautiful man. It was something else, something that put all of them on edge. He isn’t a good guy, that even I could tell. It wasn’t the look on his face that said he’d rather be anywhere else than here. It wasn’t the fact he clearly would have put a bullet in someone before he let them too close. He seemed arrogant, dangerous, and permanently pissed off. I could feel his eyes on me the entire time he was sitting at the bar, it was unnerving and he seemed to see right through me. My skin tingled and my ears searched for any word he might say, because there were none. The plain white t-shirt and Levis couldn’t hide the trouble underneath, covered in amazing looks and cool aloofness. It was his eyes, sharp, keen, and full of all the bad they had seen.

  He is that beast behind the glass you think you’re safe from, the one you know would rip you to shreds just because he could, intoxicating you with his dangerous beauty. He’s that drug you know could kill you, but makes you feel so good. He’s danger and fear and mystery, the forbidden that’s just too enticing.

  He’s someone that Frank Castillo doesn’t want me having anything to do with.

  That makes me smile.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hawk

  I had company on the ride back to my camper. My home away from home. Or is it my home, I’m in it more than I spend time at my house. To be honest, I like it. The small space and the lack of permanency has to say a lot about me. Roots lead to responsibility, and responsibility leads to disappointment. That bitch called life taught me all too well how good I am with that.

  There isn’t a car for miles except for the one tailing me when I swerve up to my RV trailer with my Chevy pick-up parked out front. That truck right there is a prime example of fine nostalgic craftsmanship, a 1964 Chevrolet C10. It’s the only thing I allow myself to have an attachment with, something I can’t let down. Cutting the engine on my bike, I lower the
stand as I pull off my helmet and turn to look straight at the car parked down the dirt road. They’ve extinguished the lights, but you’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to not know they’re there. I give it a two finger salute before I swing my leg over the bike and walk up to my humble abode. Surprisingly, I’m not the only one in the recreational campground, there are three more campers but we’re spaced a good distance apart. They’re each similar to mine in that they’re pulled, not driven, with each of the other trucks in front of them powerful and brand new. I saw the lights on in two trailers on the way in, the other was dark and the truck was gone.

  Funny how this seemingly run down community has a lot going on.

  When I get inside my RV and set my things down on the small table, I hit the power button on my laptop. Waiting for it to start up, I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, then take a seat in front of it.

  On the way down to Gulfport, I’d stopped by Cornelius Jones’ outpost. He’s my contact out in the field with The Program, the organization I work for, and, if I had to say, one of the only people I’d consider a friend. The man gets me my weapons and will pass on information if necessary. He’s almost seventy years old, is the epitome of southern congeniality, and looks like an old professor. When I first met him, I thought I was being set-up for a prank, but sure as shit, the old guy pulled out a Beretta APX semi-automatic pistol and asked me if I truly knew the fine features of the beautiful machinery. He didn’t wait for a response, but proceeded to list them in a southern drawl, reciting as if he were telling me the secrets to making momma’s biscuits passed on from generation to generation. I was floored. Since then, I never question anything the old man tells me, and never hesitate to contact him if I need anything, equipment, information, it doesn’t matter, Cornelius can get it, even if it is outside The Program. I never asked how he’d gotten involved with the most secretive, non-governmental agency, the place to go if you need trained soldiers to do what the government can’t. Or isn’t supposed to. As far as I know, each operative was once in the military, so I’ve always thought that’s how they found its members. Therefore, that’s how I’ve always assumed Cornelius got recruited, everyone else did.

  Except for me.

  Demons are born bad.

  Logging into my email, Cornelius’ information is waiting for me. I was given only the bare facts when I was presented with this non-mission, so I asked him to do a little research for me. That was if he could pull his head out of his girlfriend’s ass long enough.

  The guy is acting like a teenager who’s just found his pecker. Mrs. Primrose Merriweather; a seventyish, no holds barred, English lady with a razor sharp tongue who’d sling up your nuts in a hot second. They met when I helped out some other Program soldiers on an assignment that they went rogue on.

  I asked Cornelius to send me any basic information that I’d find interesting. With all that I’ve witnessed so far, I bet there’s a shit ton of it, you just have to know where to look.

  Hawk, my boy, I take it you’re well. Here are some things you might find interesting to see on your vacation. Take lots of pictures and maybe send me a postcard.

  Smart ass.

  The waterfront along the Gulf of Mexico I hear has some great fishing. There are several charter companies you can book daytrips out in the Gulf. Fortunately, they seem to be owned by the same parent company, so if you have any trouble reserving one boat, you might be able to contact the company and they can get you straightened out. Heck, we both know you’re beyond help, but here’s the name anyhow. It’s Southern Shore Enterprises, and their number is 228-555-1212. Seems those boys have quite an impressive fleet, not just charters, but commercial fishing, and shipping as well.

  Ain’t that something.

  If you find you’ve fallen in love with the place and decide you’d like to purchase a beautiful piece of property, Beautiful my ass, from what I’ve seen, this place sucks, I’m afraid you might not be within their paygrade. It appears that an investor bought up all the available tracts of land after Hurricane Katrina when things got flooded and some properties were rezoned as unbuildable. From what I could deduce, this caused a real estate bubble and all the values skyrocketed. If you should find that you’ve got some incredible amount of money stashed away somewhere and you are able to buy land, you’d be living in one of the highest valued areas in the country, aside from Manhattan and Miami.

  This place?

  One fact that does strike me as strange is the tax value of the properties doesn’t quite match what the market value appears to be. Very peculiar. Maybe that is due to the income level reported in the last census. It doesn’t look like there’s much commerce there which reflects in the income classifications.

  He’s right about half of that. At least what he’s found on paper, so to speak. These people are doing some business, however, it seems like Uncle Sam just doesn’t know about it.

  If I were you, son, if I’d wanted to put down some roots there, I’d look into working with this Southern Shores Enterprises. They seem like the only one doing anything.

  Anyhow, don’t do anything stupid. Primrose would get a switch and beat my ass if I had to come down there and bail you out of jail.

  Talk soon,

  C.

  I close the browser and sit back in my chair. Seems like one company owns this whole damn town. Everybody looks filthy rich, but on paper, no one is making any money. And apparently this place is packed with boats coming in and out of here in all kinds of ways.

  Closing the laptop, I go to the bathroom and start the shower, then enter the small sleeping space to undress.

  How does Jo fit into this whole picture?

  Testing the water before I step under the spray, I replay her encounters. She seemed hostile to everyone around her, especially her employees. The thing is, they sure didn’t sound like employees. One guy told her that they keep her around. Who the fuck keeps the owner of a business around?

  The answer is simple.

  The boss.

  Jo might be the owner, but she’s not the boss.

  She’s tough, that much was obvious, and not easily intimidated. She didn’t bat an eye and didn’t hesitate to stand up to a man who was twice her size. I didn’t like it, but I was definitely intrigued by her. The sick bastard I am wanted to have a front row seat, kicked back, and watch her blow a hole in the guy with her little toy, then cut his nuts off and take them as a souvenir. She wanted to, and I’m pretty certain there’s a little dark part of her that could push her to that side of crazy town if she let it.

  As I shampoo, rinse, and wash, something stirs inside me, something that’s tracing the short hem of her shorts, and the tight fit of her t-shirt. And everything that was underneath.

  At the same time, my fucking blood boils remembering how that douchebag grabbed her and threatened her. And wondering who else has. If that’s why she keeps a shot gun nearby. Smart girl. I can’t help but wonder as I turn off the water if she’s pulled it on anyone, and whom. I finish up in the bathroom, then check the doors and turn off the lights. Pulling the very same Beretta from my jacket pocket that Cornelius had so eloquently detailed its attributes, I slip it under my pillow before I slide into bed.

  The fun starts tomorrow. I have to decide who I go after first, Jo, or whoever owns this town.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jo

  “Son of a bitch!” I grumble as I trip over the case of beer on the floor.

  “Careful, princess, somebody would think you’re not the sweet southern belle you claim to be,” comes the sarcastic comment from the guy who just entered through the front door.

  “I thought you of all people would be happy about that,” I huff.

  Dropping his backpack down on the bar, he slides into the stool across from me. “What fun is that? There’s nothing like a good competition to keep things interesting.” He points a well-groomed finger at me. “If we were anywhere else other than this dump, I’d beat your tight little ass as reig
ning princess, no questions asked. Except the guys are so worried about people finding out how much they like a dick in their ass, they’re more of a girl than I am.” He slumps back in his chair. “It’s getting so tiresome being a closet queen, girl, you have no idea.”

  DJ Ambrosia, aka Niles Jefferson, the prettiest black man I have ever laid eyes on, and my oldest, and only true friend.

  It’s too early for the night crew to come in, and my favorite time to be in the bar. It’s when I remember my father the most, just him and me in here while he’d be doing the things I’m doing now, as the little girl from a long time ago who ran around conquering the world in her daydreams. This place was magical to me back then, my own private world, and anything and everything I ever wanted was possible.

  But that was then, and this is now. Daydreams have become nightmares and the princess is almost too beaten to fight the monsters.

  Swiping a stray hair away from my face, I look at him.

  Niles is our DJ, and to be honest he’s really good, too good for my bar, but he won’t play anywhere else. He says it’s all about loyalty and commitment, and all that other crap. I know the fact all the beefed up security men Frank has working the bar has a lot to do with it. And I have a feeling Frank Castillo pays Niles very well. I’m not entirely sure the reason he wants to keep him around is because of his talent, or he’s afraid I’d go with him.

  “Oh, hell no, you did not just complain about getting laid, did you?” I glare at him.

  Niles cocks his head to the side and meets my gaze. “I suppose I did, didn’t I?” He shuffles in his seat and throws a lean leg over the other knee. “I can’t help it, this wham, bam, thank you, ma’am shit is getting old. I mean, I’ve been sleeping with the same guy for two weeks –“