EDGE OF HONOR: On The Edge Duet: Book One

by Chance, Jacob

  EDGE OF HONOR

  On The Edge Duet: Book One

  Jacob Chance

  Copyright © 2020 by Jacob Chance

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This novel is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to people either living or deceased, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are only used for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  Cover design by PopKitty Designs

  Edited by Shauna Stevenson at Ink Machine Editing

  Proofreading by Hawkeyes Proofing

  This book contains mature content.

  Many a time a man's mouth broke his nose.

  IRISH PROVERB

  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

  Edge of Retribution

  Chapter One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Brennan’s Mother

  1983 Ireland

  “Can we go on one of the boats, Mum?” Brennan places his tiny hands on my cheeks. “Can we, please?” His earnest brown eyes stare into mine. It’s times like these when it’s difficult not to give him anything he wants.

  “No, not today, sweetie,” I force myself to refuse. We have other plans.

  I can’t believe I brought my son here.

  “Ohhh, Brennan, Mummy loves this song.” Turning up the radio, I try to keep the mood light and distract myself. “Do you want to sing with me, sweetheart?" My nerves get the better of me and my voice sounds a bit shaky.

  “Mummy, what’s wrong?” Brennan doesn’t miss much for one so young. He’s such a sweet boy.

  “Nothing at all, my brave little man.” He’ll need to be brave to face the life he’s been born into. I can’t believe I’m sitting here with my son beside me right now. What am I thinking?

  “Do you like Dolly Parton, too, honey?” I sing him a few lines and a smile spreads across his face. He joins me belting out the next line in his childish voice—my favorite sound.

  “Pipe down, lad.” His father doesn’t like the noise.

  “Please, let him be, Tommy. We shouldn’t even be here. You know I don’t like bringing him across the border, and neither do you.”

  “Today’s different, luv, you know it is.” Tommy reaches over and places his hand on my cheek.

  “Today we’re just a family, looking to spend a day at the water. Aren’t you the one always pleading to come to Sligo? You love the ocean.”

  “Do you remember when we used to talk about leaving the North and all its trouble behind us?” I question.

  “Aye, I do.”

  “We said one day we’d take Bren and just disappear. We said we’d never look back. And we said we’d never let our son become a part of this violence.”

  He runs the back of his fingers down my cheek. “We said a lot of things back then, luv. We were young, and the world seemed like a much bigger place. We made our choice a long time ago. Brennan is our son and the life we know will hold that against him one day. It’s better he knows sooner rather than later.” Tommy stares into my eyes and I know he’s right, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like it.

  “Today is different, honey, you know it is.” I reach over and place my hand on his cheek. He raises my palm, pressing a kiss to the center before placing my hand down on my leg.

  "Come on, lad. Come sit with me." Tommy lifts Brennan, plopping him down on his lap, behind the wheel of the car. Brennan quickly stands up on the seat between his legs, steadying himself with both hands on the steering wheel. He peeks over the dash and back out into the bay at the passing boats.

  “Look at that one, Da, it’s fancy.” Brennan beams, pointing to a yacht idling slowly through the bay.

  “Ahh, you’ve got a good eye, son. And you’re right, that is definitely a fancy boat.” Tommy looks at me and winks.

  “Is that the one?” My voice is shaky again.

  “Of course it is. My son’s a natural.” Tommy beams with fatherly pride.

  My stomach anxiously rolls. “Please don’t say that.”

  “And why not?”

  "I just wish…"

  "Don't bother. Wishes are for other folks, luv, not for people like us.” Tommy reaches under the driver’s seat and pulls out a small detonator switch.

  “Can I see it, Da?” Brennan immediately starts grabbing for it.

  “Relax, Bren.” Tommy slaps at his hand but it’s too late. Brennan pulls the switch.

  “Shit.” Tommy picks him up and drops him into my lap. “We have to go, now.”

  “Go ahead and get in the back, sweetheart.” I push Brennan into the rear seat as we pull away from the cliffs.

  Thirty seconds later, the yacht explodes in a massive fireball, sending debris skyward above the cliffs and killing every man, woman, and child on board.

  “Mum, Da, look at the fireworks. Did I do that?” Brennan is pressing himself up against the back windscreen with a smile on his face.

  What have we done?

  Chapter One

  Belfast

  “I’ve heard so many stories about you. I’m not quite sure if I should bow, kneel, or genuflect.”

  Standing in front of me, awkwardly fidgeting with his jacket, he looks harmless enough, and more than a little skittish.

  “I guess I could just... stand here… then,” he stammers. “Or maybe I should turn and run?” He tries to ease the discomfort with a joke.

  I’m not in a joking kind of mood. “You should start by telling me why you're looking for me and what it is you want.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” He sits cautiously on the edge of the bench opposite from me. “As I said when I spoke to the man at your shop yesterday, my name is Patrick Cahill.” I sit in silence, prompting him to continue. He extends a shaky hand. “So, should I call you Mr. Collins or should I call you Belfast?”

  I leave my hand resting on my thigh, six inches away from the gun in my waistband. Tucking my chin, I look over the top of my sunglasses, first at his hand, and then directly into his eyes.

  “I think you should start telling your story before I tell you one of mine.”

  Fear flashes in Cahill’s gaze and he quickly pulls his hand back. Turning his head left to right, he checks over each shoulder like
he's searching for someone. “Ok, well, you see, I've been hired by an old friend of yours to deliver a message.”

  Now he’s piqued my interest. “An old friend?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “A friend of yours… a friend from back home.”

  Now he has my full attention, but not in the way he’s hoping. “Do you now? So, what’s the message?”

  Patrick Cahill is sweating profusely on this chilly September morning in Boston.

  “The message…” His hands begin to shake again and he won't stop checking over his goddamn shoulder.

  That's when I see them.

  At first glance they appear to be an average couple, strolling through Boston Common like so many others and enjoying the day, but they're not. They've passed us twice since Cahill approached me, each time closing the distance between us.

  Everyone else around us is enjoying the cool breeze and the leaves changing colors, but these two just keep clocking me.

  I immediately stand and walk away without another word.

  Cahill calls after me as I swiftly mix in with the crowd. “Wait, where are you going?” That's when I hear the first gunshot.

  By the time I glance back, Cahill is dead on the ground, with the majority of his skull and brain matter splayed out on the cobblestone sidewalk several feet behind him.

  For a brief moment everything freezes, then, like a blast wave, people scatter out in all directions, and terrified screams echo throughout the Common.

  A father shielding his wife and infant child drops to my right as I hurdle two benches and try to stay low.

  I cut between the cars stopping along Comm Ave, and two teenagers stand their ground as I pass, determined to hold their cell phones up and film what’s happening. One of them is the next to go down.

  More shots are fired in my general vicinity, but this time it’s handgun fire, and closer than before. I stop long enough to see the shots are coming from the federal agents who were posing as a couple moments ago. They must think I'm the shooter.

  More gunshots ring out and seem to be coming from up ahead. The Boston Police Department has now entered the fray. Two uniformed officers are running in my direction and firing at the agents following me up the road. I keep moving but have to duck in and out of a few stairwells, reaching the car three blocks away in less than a minute.

  “What did you do now?” Michael Shea sits behind the wheel, calmly smoking a menthol. He seems completely unaffected by the chaos behind us.

  “You know this city, Mikey, there's always something happening.” I try to sound casual, but my breathing is ragged.

  He punches the accelerator and launches away from the curb, weaving his way out and around the stopping traffic. After a few white-knuckle close calls and the sideswipe of two fairly expensive car mirrors, we're several blocks and a world away from what's become a nightmare.

  “What are we looking at, Bel?” Mikey flicks his menthol out the open window and immediately lights up another.

  “I'm afraid we’re looking at the business end of the shit stick, my friend. You better get me to the shop, on the quick.”

  “Did you say the shop?” He’s surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “I am, my friend. And then you need to find yourself a foxhole.”

  Sixteen minutes later, I make it to the dispensary, three minutes ahead of the Boston FBI.

  They come in strong, but not heavy. Two SUVs quietly block off either end of the street while a third and fourth pull up onto the curb by the front door.

  Four agents jump out of the lead vehicle in full tactical gear and clear the shop inside ninety seconds. Holding automatic weapons at their waists, they tell customers not to come back, implying they’re here to shut me down. One of them blocks my office door and stares at me in the rage-filled silence they each seem to be sharing at this moment.

  I’m guessing we all just came from the same place.

  “Explain yourself.” Karyn Smith, the agent in charge of the Boston Field Office of the FBI, stalks into my office. Karyn is a long and lean woman, who always moves with purpose and has a constant calculating look in her eyes. “Right now.” And she’s pissed.

  “I was just about to say the same,” I fire right back at her.

  “Save your bullshit and tell me what the fuck you're into now,” she demands. “And if you're under the impression you've got some kind of a pass after what happened last year, I can tell you that you’re sadly mistaken.”

  We have a difficult history.

  “I don’t know what it is you think I might need a pass for, but I’m not asking.” I’m not sure what the FBI’s angle is in all of this, but I can still smell the guns they were firing at me back on the Common, so I’m not quite ready to play nice yet.

  “Let's not bullshit each other.” Karyn paces the floor with a look in her eyes like she wants to dive over the desk and kill me with her bare hands. “What were you doing there today?”

  “Not sure what it is you’re talking about, but if you’re interested, we’ve got a good strong Indica out at the counter that’ll help remove those sticks ya have lodged up yer arses.”

  The goon at the door steps forward. “Leave us.” Karyn backs him down and orders him out, closing the door behind him. She stops pacing and leans against the wall beside me. “I've got four dead civilians, local cops shooting at FBI agents, and a crime scene spread across three city blocks downtown. I need you to tell me what you were doing there today.”

  “You mean three civilians, don't you?” I spin in the chair to face her. “Your man, Cahill, can't really be counted among the innocent now, can he?”

  Karyn starts pacing again. “I knew it, I knew it, I fucking knew it.” Now she’s talking to herself. “I f-u-c-k-i-n-g knew you’d come back one day to bite me in the ass. I never should’ve let you walk away last year.”

  “Let me walk away? Last year?” I interrupt her little rant. “You mean you let me walk away last year, after I saved your life? So I guess this is how you repay the man who saves your life? You set him up, do ya? Well fuck you, too, lady. And I'll tell ya right now, you’re gonna have to do better than this fucking bullshit.”

  “Set you up?” Karyn stops pacing. “How the fuck did I set you up?” She’s angry and not hiding it.

  “I’m not sure what the fuck else you’d call it, but your man, Cahill, just happens to breeze in here yesterday, insisting he needs to see me. And then when I show up today, your people are all over the place, and apparently spoiling for a gunfight too.” I'm not hiding my anger either.

  “Wait. What did you say?” She sounds startled.

  “You heard what I said.” I don't know why she seems surprised, but I do know I don't trust her.

  “Did you say yesterday? Is that the first time you had any contact with Cahill?” she speaks faster while I stay silent. “So, you're telling me you haven't had any previous dealings with Cahill? He wasn't delivering a message to you today from someone back home?” Karyn looks concerned.

  “I’d never heard of Patrick Cahill before yesterday, and I never laid eyes on the man until this morning.” I try to speak calmly. “Did he say what this message was and who it’s from?”

  “The message was from a high value fugitive who’s been on the run for the last ten years, an old connection of yours. A man named Navarro.”

  “Mateo Navarro?” My chest tightens when I repeat his name. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Mateo Navarro is dead.”

  “You know this? How?” she inquires.

  “I know he’s dead because ten years ago I watched him die.”

  We sit in silence as she processes what I've told her. She studies me as she decides whether she believes me or not. It doesn’t take long. “You need to come with me.”

  “That’s not happening.” A harsh laugh involuntarily launches from my chest.

  Karyn holds a hand up, raising her index fing
er. “Listen. I’m not saying I believe you, but if what you say is true and you’re not involved, then someone went to a lot of trouble to put us together today; someone with resources. We need to get off the streets, and you’re not leaving my side until I figure this out. And I’m not asking.”

  I hesitate, considering my options.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Karyn questions. Apparently I’m not allowed to think about this. She stalks back over, opens the office door, and signals her man back in. “One way or another, you’re coming,” she assures me.

  I don’t like ultimatums, but my options at this moment are limited to one: compliance.

  “I’ve decided to join you folks for a bit.” I smile and push by Karyn’s thug, who seems reluctant to let me pass. “Relax, son, it’s too early in the story to be getting your ass kicked. You don’t want to be that guy.” He steps back a bit and I slowly follow her out through the shop. “You lads leave those jars alone, I know exactly how much is in each one.” I turn back and wink at my escorts as we step outside.

  “Ignore him.” Karyn’s up ahead of me and approaching the front of her SUV when I hear the engine’s starter hesitate.

  “Stop.” I try to get her driver’s attention, but it’s too late. Karyn turns back in my direction, and for a fraction of a second our eyes lock. It's too late and she knows it.

  The blast from the SUV lifts me off the ground and forces me straight back through two sets of tempered glass security doors before dropping me in the back of the shop under a heavy pile of wood, steel, and concrete debris.