Bad Faith (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 1)

by Nick Stevens

  Darius texted him. Eyes on the prize, man. They weren’t skulking around a packed club for random girls. They needed someone specific.

  He admitted he liked the change of pace of being in a club. It felt normal. A typical Saturday for Darius meant standing under a streetlight, selling stolen prescription pills to anyone with the cash. Getting pulled off the corner to find some rich white girl for a couple thousand dollars beat the hell out of twenty dollars a bag.

  Standing in the club, admiring the long legs disappearing into tight skirts, Darius thought about what his life could have been. A Black man born in southeast D.C. didn’t get many choices in life. He’d fought for everything, from the clothes on his back to the food in his belly. In a way, he looked down on the people around him. Born into privilege, they were soft. Not like Darius. Not like Brayton, Rashad, and Charlie. Darius crawled out of the projects and he brought his crew with him.

  They were kings of their own jungle.

  Darius sensed someone watching him. He turned, finding a woman in a black dress staring at him from a table, surrounded by friends caught in their own conversation. She had dark hair with unnaturally tan skin. His eyes flicked to her chest, noticing another unnatural thing about her. He nodded to her, trying to play it cool while also forgetting he’d chastised Rashad for the same thing moments ago.

  The woman ignored his silent greeting and continued staring through him before turning back to her friends and sharing a laugh.

  His phone buzzed. Brayton found their girl. Third floor. Her friends just left.

  Finally, he thought. Let’s get this over with.

  Darius missed his corner.

  Climbing the stairs to the Lounge on the third level, Mason spotted a repeat customer at the bar. At well over six feet tall in heels, Sloane was hard to miss. Tonight, she wore a designer leather skirt in charcoal and a tight onyx top. With her back to Mason, he wedged between her and the college kid angling for a drink from the bartender.

  Mason preferred the relaxed pace of the Lounge. Unlike the main floor, the music didn’t invade his skull. Conversations happened here, unlike the throbbing bass of the main floor and mezzanine. The ability to talk, and negotiate, made the Lounge Sloane’s favorite spot as well.

  “Good evening, Sloane. How’s tricks?”

  She spun on her matte black heels, flame red hair whipping around her face. A few stray strands caught in her lipstick, also matte, but red.

  “Mason! Where have you been? Some little prick was harassing me for the last hour. I just now got him to piss off. Could’ve used your help.”

  The blast of the Australian accent coming from Sloane always amazed him. It was fake, like her name. Her actual name was Katie, and she hailed from a closer wilderness than Australia.

  Katie grew up in West Virginia and somehow managed a basketball scholarship to Bryn Mawr, a division three school in Pennsylvania, in a town of the same name. At close to six feet tall, she excelled as a guard until she got injured in her senior year. After finishing her undergrad in political science, she, like so many poly sci majors, moved to the District. Fighting for too few jobs among too many applicants, she turned her looks into an asset, picked a new name and nationality, and started working as a call girl. A six-month study abroad program in Sydney gave her the accent and slang needed to pull it off.

  She’d confessed all this to Mason over a night that parts of him wanted to forget, and other parts couldn’t let go.

  “I’m sure you know how to handle yourself, Sloane.” Mason felt obligated to protect their shared secret. “And if not, you can text me or my team. I’m sure you’re well acquainted with each of them.”

  Sloane finished her drink in a gulp, slammed the glass to the stainless surface and punched him in the shoulder.

  “Hey! I didn’t mean biblically!” Mason laughed at the maligned escort. “You freelancing tonight, or waiting on someone?”

  “Truth is, I’m just out for a drink. Long week. The clowns are in session and I’m exhausted.”

  The clowns. Congress. Sloane never lacked for charity when describing her largest client base.

  “Let me take care of your tab tonight.” Mason waved over the bartender, giving her quick instructions.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ashford.” Lifting her fresh drink aloft, Sloane shouted, “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!”

  From the end of the bar, the response came back: “Oi! Oi! Oi!”

  Mason checked the man’s wrist he walked over and struck up a conversation with Sloane. He spotted a Tag Heuer Aquaracer. Respectable timepiece, but well below the status of Sloane’s typical client.

  Giving Sloane a wave, Mason turned back to the floor.

  The last call sounded just before three in the morning. The range of club lights transformed, their blues and purples gradually replaced by stark white. Known as the ugly light, its glare let patrons discover if their potential hookup looked like a model or an extra from a zombie apocalypse movie. Mason’s team shuffled people from tables and bars to the doors.

  People made their way to the exit, collecting purses and jackets from the coat check. Phones came out, arranging rides or after party plans. The security team escorted any inebriated guests outside, offering to arrange taxis or car services if needed. The customer care was excessive, but it matched Gridlock’s prices.

  Content letting his team handle cleanup, Mason stood outside, taking in the crisp April air. Summers in Washington D.C. were brutal, but Spring was a gift. Even in Gridlock’s downtown location, you could smell the rebirth of the city this time of year.

  He waved at Sloane as she climbed into a car with tonight’s stranger. She shot back a devious wink.

  As a group of partygoers loaded into a car and pulled away, shouting in the alley pulled his attention around the corner, to the back alley behind the club. A woman’s voice, high pitched and plaintive, echoed off the brick and concrete walls.

  “C’mon, baby, it’ll be a good time. You know you want to come with us. We got some people for you to meet.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  Mason rounded the corner of the building. Four men towered over a woman with dark hair. The harsh yellow light from surrounding buildings gave her face a skeletal glow. He edged closer, keeping his steps quiet. The long alley offered nothing for cover, leaving him exposed if things turned violent.

  Backed against the dumpster, the woman didn’t notice Mason’s silent approach. The men, their backs to Mason, focused on their prey.

  He’d seen each of the men earlier, buying drinks but nursing them. None of them were together in the club, yet here they were, together, at the end of the night.

  The tallest of the bunch reached into his waistband, his hand coming back with something small and dark. “This bitch. We trying to help her out and now she’s not gunna help us?”

  The woman’s eyes went wide at the sight of a small knife. The weapon surprised Mason, too. Everyone entering Gridlock had their bags searched and went through a metal detector wand. Either he had it on him all night or picked it up after he exited the club.

  “Let me go. I told you I have a boyfriend.” Her voice broke. With nowhere to run, she pressed her back against the steel wall of the dumpster.

  “Yeah, where is he? He ain’t here. You got four boyfriends now. Don’t you want to party?”

  “Miss, is everything alright?” Mason stood about ten feet behind the men. He stood exposed in the center of the alley.

  The tallest of the four looked over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. “She’s fine. Mind your own business.”

  Mason stepped forward, closing the distance between him and the quartet of men to five feet. His frame, at well over six feet, stood several inches over the apparent leader. Two of the men turned to see who was dumb enough to interrupt their fun.

  The man on the far left, the heaviest of the four, advanced. “You deaf old man? We’re busy. Get the fuck out of here before we stomp you. Or worse.”

  Mas
on caught the man’s stare, freezing him in place. “Old? I prefer experienced.”

  Another of the four men shouted, “Fuck him up B!”

  The other two turned, but kept the girl boxed in.

  A hollow laugh escaped Mason, echoing in the empty alley.

  “Look kid, I can see you’re not in any shape for this,” Mason teased, pointing to his immense waistline. “This isn’t a video game. You and your friends need to move along, or I’ll put you in a hospital. It’ll be hard to shovel junk food into your face with two broken arms.”

  The one with the knife yelled, “Don’t take that shit Brayton! You gunna let him disrespect you like that?”

  Embarrassed at being called out, Brayton charged Mason, telegraphing a punch while still feet away. Mason shifted to his left, moving to the outside. Putting his weight behind his left elbow, he felt a crunch under his joint as it made contact with the man’s jaw. The limp body collapsed on the pavement.

  The other three stood silent, eyes on their incapacitated friend.

  The one with the knife pointed it at Mason, holding it at shoulder level. “You’ll pay for that. You know who we are? What’s gunna happen to you?”

  Mason gestured to the inert body lying near his feet. “You’re failing to appreciate the situation, kid.” Reaching into his suit coat, Mason extracted a collapsible baton, the weight comfortable and familiar in his hand. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the baton extended to its full twenty-six inches.

  “Hey Darius, let’s get out of here man,” the thug closest to the girl offered, his voice wavering. Darius stared back at his friend, eyes wide.

  “That’s good advice Darius. You should take it. Let the girl leave and we can all head home. I could use a burrito.” Mason backed away from the men, trying to deescalate a messy confrontation for the second time in a night.

  Darius charged at Mason, bringing the knife back like a baseball pitcher. Mason hefted the baton to his shoulder, its length extending over his head. He kept his knees flexed and his center of gravity over the balls of his feet.

  Darius slashed from left to right with the knife, attempting to push Mason back. After the third slash, Mason spun from his hips, using the full mass of his two-hundred pounds to drive the baton through the wrist holding the knife. He held back with Brayton. Darius took the full impact.

  The knife clattered on the pavement. Darius’ mouth gaped open, staring at the hand hanging limply at the end of his arm. He eyes shifted between Mason and his destroyed arm, unable to believe what happened seconds before.

  Another member of Darius’ crew ran up behind him, grabbed his shoulders, tugging him away from the scene. The fourth had already backed down the alley.

  “Let’s go man! We can’t get caught up out here.”

  Still in shock, Darius didn’t resist as his crew dragged him down the alley. The three backed away, keeping their eyes on Mason.

  “Hey, come get this one!” Mason pointed the baton at the crumpled figure of Brayton, still motionless. He kicked the knife up the alley, away from Darius and his friends, then backed up several steps, giving the uninjured pair a wide birth to collect their unconscious friend.

  As the crew stumbled from the alley, Mason spotted the girl standing by the dumpster.

  Walking to the cinderblock wall that was the back of Gridlock, he pushed the tip of the baton against it, collapsing it to its ten-inch length.

  “Are you okay? Those guys didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  She shook her head. “No, but they were going to until you got here.”

  “Why don’t you get a Lyft home, miss…?” He left the question hanging.

  “Laurel. My name’s Laurel.”

  “Nice to meet you, Laurel. I’m Mason. I work here, at Gridlock. I think I saw you with a big group of ladies tonight.”

  “Yeah, we had a group. I lost my phone. I think one of my friends has it in her purse, but she left earlier with some guy, an intern at the Department of the Interior, I think. Whatever, he was boring.”

  Mason debating leaving the girl on her own for a split second, but he knew those men might came back. “Well, I can’t leave you out here after what happened. Where do you live?”

  Laurel lived about a twenty-minute walk away, near Logan Circle.

  As they started off, an indigo sedan at the end of the alley silently pulled away, its lights extinguished.

  Chapter 2

  Mason and Laurel turned right onto 10th St NW, taking the most direct route to Logan Circle. Laurel drifted along the sidewalk, complaining about her sore feet.

  The attack outside the club bothered Mason. Gridlock had its share of disputes and the occasional fight like every other club. The level of violence in the alley never happened before. At its worst, some drunken college girls may take a few swings at each other or at a dismissive man, but security wands at the front door kept out the weapons.

  Mason made a mental note to refresh his team’s training on searching guests next week.

  She paused outside the Gucci store, fixating on a glossy pink purse. Stopping a few feet past her, Mason stared down a dark blue Lexus as it rolled north. Mason noted the red arch on the license plate, indicating the car belonged to some embassy or consulate. Rhythms in the District pulled staffers into offices at all hours, even on a Sunday. As the time approached four in the morning, more drivers would be on the road soon.

  Pointing to the purse, Mason asked, “What’s something like that cost?” Mason knew the price of every nice car and watch, but his knowledge of fashion still lagged.

  Laurel smiled back at him. “That’s the mini. It’s about two thousand dollars. Want to get one for your girlfriend?”

  “No, nothing like that. Helps me with my job. Identifying the people with money.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Oh, those girls are carrying knock-offs.”

  The stolen luxury sedan rested at the intersection of 10th and G Streets NW. From the angle the driver chose, he watched his target and her unexpected escort. The driver recognized the man from the nightclub as some kind of security guard.

  The driver needed to figure out where the security guard was taking the Fitzgerald girl. With the Metro closed for the night, the driver assumed she’d take a ride share or a taxi. From there, grabbing the girl should be easy.

  Now some security guard showed up, ruining his plans. He’d have to figure out what to do about Darius and the rest of the crew. First, he needed to know what Darius said to the girl. Too far away to overhear the brief conversation in the alley before Darius took his beating, the driver could only record a video of the fight. He’d watch it later, looking for clues.

  The security guard moved with confidence and experience. He dispatched the fat kid without hesitating. The guy never gave ground, even when Darius came with the knife.

  The baton was a nice touch, the driver thought as his hands rubbed the steering wheel. Telescoping batons were illegal in most places. Carrying one meant a felony unless you had a permit.

  Maybe the guy had a permit. After all, he worked security in a nightclub. Those can be violent, as tonight’s altercation showed.

  Or, the driver considered, maybe the guy didn’t care about permits.

  Pushing the engine start button, the car purred to life. The driver considered running the man down and snatching the girl. Even with the cameras dotting every corner of the District, he thought he could clear the city before anyone realized what happened.

  The car rolled north on 10th. He saw the girl, paused outside an expensive-looking store. He imagined her buying everything in sight on daddy’s credit card.

  Behind tinted windows, the driver got a close look at the security guard. The guard stood sentry on the sidewalk as the dark car rolled past.

  The driver continued on, staking out a location at a nearby park. The vantage allowed him to see which direction the pair might take.

  As they crossed New York Avenue and turned onto Massachusetts, the driver guessed
their ultimate destination from earlier surveillance. Putting the sedan into drive, he set off for Logan Circle.

  Mason waved an arm, urging her to continue their walk.

  “I realize I never thanked you,” Laurel said, eyes on the concrete.

  “You’re welcome. What was that about anyway?”

  “I don’t know. The one with the knife kept talking about these people he wanted me to meet. Said there was lots of money in it for me.”

  “Odd. It looked like they had something else on their minds. Did they say anything else?”

  “No, but they sounded scared. Of someone. Like they needed me to keep this guy happy. Something about that scare me more than anything.”

  Crossing New York Avenue, Mason’s brain churned over the details.

  “How did you know it was a guy that had them scared?”

  Laurel shrugged. “Isn’t it always a guy?”

  “Good point.”

  Minutes later, Laurel and Mason turned left onto Massachusetts Avenue, with its assortment of apartments, office blocks and dry cleaners. Mason learned she was a student at George Washington, studying English.

  Mason teased, “Isn’t that like majoring in poverty?”

  She looked up, scrunched her nose at him. “That’s what my dad said too.” In the improving light, he made out her large brown eyes, still puffy and pink from her earlier ordeal. Wavy dark hair grazed her shoulders. He could see gooseflesh on her arms, the tank top and flowing pants she wore offering little protection against the early morning chill.

  “You look cold. Want my jacket?”

  Smiling up at him again, dismissing his offer with a wave. “Nah, I like it a little cooler. I love D.C. when it’s like this.”

  “One of the best parts of my job is getting the city to myself every morning.”

  They passed Thomas Circle Park, turning right onto 14th St NW. Shut restaurants lined both sides of the streets. Mason’s stomach growled, his previous meal a distant memory.