Table of Contents
48 Mack
Copyright
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
Epilogue
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Copyright © 2021 by SH Richardson
All rights reserved
Published by SH Richardson
Recycled Memory is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s ridiculous imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
First Edition:
Formatting: CP Smith
Cover design: More Than Words Graphic Design.
Cover Photograph: Tanya Baikie More Than Words Graphic Design.
Information address: [email protected]
CHAPTER 1
I NEVER WANTED to kill a motherfucker in my life as badly as I wanted to end that prick Marcus Mecken. Luckily for him, that would’ve been a pleasure for me, and this was all about business. My throat tickled and burned raw, as if I’d swallowed a cup full of sawdust, courtesy of being nearly choked to death by that pissed-off ex-marine. The man was better than advertised; his animal rose to the surface quicker than I expected or had been prepared for.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Teeth bared and chomping at the bit to inflict as much damage as possible, he struck without fear of consequences, fast, and without mercy. I admired that in a man, one who took without asking. He would’ve made an excellent underground champion, unmatched in wits and cunning, reminiscent of a time when men fought for something greater than money. He was also the luckiest motherfucker to ever wear a uniform. Not because he survived a war, but because he was one of a few men to ever lay a hand on me and lived to talk about it. I’ve killed people for less. Didn’t mean he got a pass, though.
His time would come, and timing was everything.
I savored a sip of Jameson. The amber liquid cooled my raging temper and gave me something less lethal to concentrate on to keep from acting rashly, an emotion I couldn’t afford given the state of affairs. The last few days had not gone as planned, and I’d been forced to make a few critical moves in the process. What should have been a simple collection turned into a full-fledged fucking shootout with my side catching all the spray. My circuit headliner took two bullets to the leg, rendering him useless for the foreseeable future. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t that good. A paper champion ideal for the boondocks, but not for a killer like Akiko Tanaka. He wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds in a bare-knuckle brawl with that homicidal maniac. I needed something more, something better than the run-of-the-mill muscle head hopped up on steroids. That man would also need a damn good reason to accept a last-minute fight, give it his all, and come away as the victor in my private little battleground. Marcus Mecken fit that bill, and I splendidly acquired his motivation.
The marker was owned by some two-bit gambling junkie who’d gotten in way over his head when he tried to test the limits of his tiny cock. Too stupid to quit while he was ahead, thought he could take the entire gate and went all in with the last fight of the evening and lost it all. Dumb fuck. Didn’t he know the first rule of gambling? The odds were always on the house. He racked up a tab of two hundred and fifty thousand in a span of fifteen minutes when all he had to do was cash out and walk. When it came time to pay up, the bastard put all the weight on his girlfriend’s shoulders and slunk away like a new made pussy. Typical. Idiots like him made my business a booming commodity and ensured a steady stream of revenue even for a Podunk town like Remington.
According to the two assholes I sent to collect my money, none of what happened during the pickup made a lick of sense, no matter how hard I turned it over in my head. The girlfriend was the daughter of a prestigious doctor but was somehow working as a waitress at a greasy dive on the outskirts of town. Bitch played dumb, claimed not to know anything about her boyfriend’s gambling or the whereabouts of my fucking cash. Before they could press her further, a mystery man showed up out of nowhere, shot the shit outta one prick and threated to do the same thing to the other. The most I got from the jumbled retelling was the man was dressed in black leather and was exceptionally skilled with a firearm.
In other words, I got jack shit.
It wasn’t until I ordered Ferdi, my right hand, to run a background check on Ms. Maribel Laine that I discovered an old connection who my father did business with back in the day. Marcus Mecken was one of Buck Calhoun’s boys and dated the tiny waitress in high school before joining the Marine Special Forces. For reasons unknown, the old biker had taken on four troubled pre-teen boys and made it clear to the underworld that they were under his protection. He was out of the game but still carried enough weight to back it up if necessary. Once all the dots were connected, I knew it was a job I had to see to, personally. Call it the perfect storm of good fortune and dumb luck, necessity and practicality. Marcus Mecken was a force, greater than I ever imagined, and just the type of person I needed to play a pivotal role in my strategy.
A unique window of opportunity presented itself at the same time my main act was taking two shots of lead to his upper thighs. The Tokyo bare-knuckle champion in the underground circuit was traveling to America, a first for the legendary recluse, and he chose my outfit to make his debut. He’d previously thought us foreigners unworthy of his caliber of combat and never ventured across the water. That alone was monumental, unprecedented even. The massive payout would set me up tremendously for the foreseeable future and fortify my plans for a ten-city expansion. Two mill buy-in mixed with back door side bets, and the take would be enormous. I accepted their terms quicker than a rabbit gets fucked.
My father had been ready to give up on our piece of the underground circuit, a losing endeavor, he called it, better suited for one of the lower ranking rival capos looking to rake in a few pennies a week if he was lucky. I saw it as something different. An untapped resource that lacked the proper vision and knowhow to really turn a profit with its short-sighted management. My brothers didn’t want it; they sought a different path within the organization. They were older and carried a much heavier burden than I did. Blood ties mixed with tradition meant everything in the underworld—to break with it meant death in most, if not all, circumstances. I had no
desire to go against established protocols. As the youngest, I had little to no power within the ranks. A sad fact I intended to change and secure my place at that table. It took five years to build my empire and garner a certain reputation towards ruthlessness as it pertained to matters of business. Make no mistake, the underground fights were all mine. I had the money, the power. All that was left was the glory.
But first, I had to take out the trash.
Incompetence. It stood before me while appearing remorseful from their poor judgment and general fuckedupness. All of this was the fault of my well-intentioned father and his so-called dire emergency. He sent these two slobs down from Boston to cover for my right hand, whom he ordered away on “delicate” business. Ferdinand Magellan O’Leary—or Ferdi, as he was called—was in charge of my security, among other things, and would’ve never been caught dead slipping like these two jackoffs in my line of sight. Two overgrown idiots with arrows sticking from their person while bleeding all over my fucking carpet. Men like this were expendable and easily replaced. It was the second time in one night they failed to do their jobs.
Their ineptitude made me appear weak.
They would pay for their mistake.
An hour ago, they’d arrived back at the penthouse, one of them carrying a lifeless body across his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. I’d thought she was dead until I moved her mop of long blond hair and placed a finger to her pulse. A snap of my finger was enough to get their asses moving towards the adjoining room, where they laid her gently across the bed. She looked like a beautiful sleeping angel dressed in all white, albeit a dirty-ass diner uniform. Her smooth blemish-free skin held a sheen of grease along her cheeks, yet that didn’t detract from her splendor. She was a magnificent morsel ripe for the taking. My semi-hard cock appreciated the visual. Unfortunately, my perusal was cut short along with my need for answers when Mecken and his boys showed up.
I knew they would come, especially after the little surprise I’d left inside the bedroom closet of little Ms. Maribel Laine. Once he got a look at that beat-down prick who tried to steal my money, nothing would stop him from protecting the woman he claimed to love. I exploited his weakness for the tiny brunette, forced him to make a decision in her best interests, and not of his own. As an added bonus, I threatened to sell my newly invited guest to the highest bidder if he didn’t comply. I took one hell of a risk by banking on what I knew about the ex-marine and the man who reared him, Buck Calhoun. It was a test of sorts, not for them, but for the man I chose to represent me in what was to be my stepping stone to greatness. Mecken didn’t disappoint as he and his boys went through these two dumb fucks like a knife through warm butter. They’d defied my orders and jeopardized my entire scheme.
That would have to be dealt with, swiftly.
Now, who first?
I took a seat behind my desk, swirling the last sip of whisky before I poured myself another. The two mindless meatheads stood at attention, pawing at the shaft of the arrows sticking inside their flesh. They knew better than to move a muscle without my say-so. The anticipation and mounting pain were killing them along with my silence. One glance at the computer screen at the weeping female sitting atop the bed in the adjoining room, and my calm began to plummet.
“What were my instructions, Sol?” I drummed my fingers on the desk, deceptive in my composed demeanor. The big man attempted to straighten his sloppy posture and failed, miserably.
“You said…” He coughed, clearing his throat that I’m sure had run dry.
“You said to invite the blond bitch to be your guest at the penthouse.”
“Hmm, yes, but that wasn’t your only directive, now, was it?”
It was a rhetorical question; he and I both knew it. She wasn’t to be harmed in any way, regardless of the reason. He gave his partner the side-eye and decided to go for broke.
“Look, boss.” Sol pointed towards the closed door. “That cunt started screaming for help the minute we walked up. What was I supposed to do, just stand there and reason with a hysterical woman while somebody called the cops? I gave her a knock on the head. What’s the big fucking deal? She’s here, ain’t she? What more could we do?”
Brainless and void of humility.
Splendid.
I momentarily thought of my father, the most brilliant and astute man I knew. An old-school Irishman with balls of steal, single-minded in his determination to secure his family’s place amongst the most powerful men in the underworld. One of the reasons he’d been able to last this long throughout the changing times was a simple yet effective formula: Do what is necessary to protect your own. Growing up, my brothers and I learned that philosophy until we knew it like the back of our hand. It’s what motivated us, drove us, to be better than our enemies. Sol had challenged my orders and defied them. There was only one remedy for that brand of insolence, so when I reached inside my desk drawer, produced my weapon, and screwed on the silencer, my lips barely twitched when I shot him between the eyes and ended his life.
I placed the smoking gun on top of the desk and addressed the other idiot in the room staring shockingly at his friend lying in a pool of his own blood. I grabbed myself a refill of Jameson and savored the burn of that first hefty gulp. I looked at my Rolex and pinched the bridge of my nose. Fatigue threatened to rear its ugly head.
What a fucking night.
“I’ll give you a one-hour head start, Jack. Leave this city and pray we never cross paths again, or I assure you, you’ll end up like your friend there.” I pointed to the lump on the floor entering the first stages of rigor mortis.
“Connor won’t like this, Darragh. He sent us down here to watch your back since Ferdi is out of town. What’s he gonna say when you tell him what happened, huh?”
“You dare speak of my father as if he has anything to do with the way I run my business?”
“I only meant…” he whined.
“I’ll tell you what, Jack. I’m a sensitive guy, and you hurt my feelings.” I grabbed the gun off the desk and pointed at him. “I think you owe me an apology, something I’d consider meaningful and worth your motherfucking life.”
“Wh-what do you want me to say, Darragh? Please, I’m sorry.”
“Say? Nothing,” I growled. “Get down on your knees and suck the cock of your dead homey over there. Do it or die. Your choice. The next time you decide to invoke my father’s name, you’ll remember who’s running this operation and where the fuck your loyalties lie.”
“I can’t…that’s so fucked up, Darragh,” he pleaded.
“Cock in the mouth or bullet to the head. Decide. I don’t have all night.”
Jack wasted no time dropping down on all fours, unzipping his co-worker, and placing his flaccid dick between his lips until it tickled the back of his throat. Bitch ass didn’t even try and put up a fight. Some fucking bodyguard. I’d be better off with a girl scout watching my back than this clown. The incessant slurping sound mixed with his sniveling blubber-filled wails was enough to do my head in. I had to make it stop for my own sanity, but he’d bought this on himself. He worked for the MacCabe family, not just my father. His focus should’ve been with me the second he arrived. Next time, he’ll think twice about his actions, if he lived that long.
“You now have…”—I took another look at my watch—“a fifty-minute head start. I suggest you use it, motherfucker.”
I didn’t bother watching him leave. His laborious gait followed by the slam of the door was enough to convince me he was gone. I placed a call to the cleaner, and within the hour, the trash was removed from my suite as if it had never been. Sol was right about one thing: my father would demand an explanation, one I was fully prepared to give him after business was settled.
And after I collected my money.
The match was scheduled to take place in two days. Until then, I had to ensure that Mecken wouldn’t back out of the arrangement and maintain his focus. It was a risk fraught with danger, yet the reward made it all worthwhile.
The blond-haired blue-eyed waitress I watched through my computer screen was a means to an end.
A very beautiful one.
CHAPTER 2
Odie
I HEARD ALL of it.
Every sordid detail right down to the threat of being shipped off to South America if my bestie’s boyfriend didn’t comply with my captor’s demands. The raised voices had thankfully died down over the last few minutes. I struggled to soak up as much as I could while tears of uncertainty flowed freely down my cheeks. I listened to talk of money owed, debt repaid, Boston mob, and a big-time bare-knuckle fight happening sometime over the next few days. Threats of death were made on both sides if I somehow ended up with my head in a cardboard box somewhere in the desert. Right about now, that sounded like a doable alternative. Jesus, my skull was pounding worse than that one time I drank Mad Dog 20/20 behind the high school gymnasium on a dare. If this was purgatory, I was definitely in the bottomless pit of hell.
Please, God, I need my cell phone.
The golf-ball sized knot on the base of my skull pulsated severely with every breath and steady heartbeat from the moment I awoke. Running my hands over my body, I breathed a sigh of relief that I was still fully dressed in my Nipsy’s uniform and absent of any noticeable signs of sexual assault. The feeling was short lived once reality kicked in and I realized I was in a strange place, lying on a strange bed, and my life was circling the drain. I suppose I should’ve felt grateful that I wasn’t being held in a soundproof room. Knowing what or whom I was up against somehow eased my fears of the unknown. The players had flipped their cards face up, revealing their hands, and I was the cheap gold watch placed in the pot as collateral.
Marcus had warned me to watch my back. Why the hell hadn’t I listened?
I can’t breathe without my phone.
The last thing I remembered was walking to my car after my shift, keys in hand, and being approached by two mammoth douchebags inviting me to some asshole’s penthouse. The second they got close, I knew it meant trouble. They were the slimy sort who often came into Nipsy’s looking for more than just a muddy cup of coffee. The dark sunglasses and form-fitting suits only added to their repugnance. They looked ridiculous. No thanks didn’t work, and fuck off was met with a harsh shove that nearly took me to the ground. I started screaming my head off hoping someone would hear and call the cops. Next thing I knew, POW, right in the back of the head. Lights out.
48 Mac (A Junkyard Boys Novel) Page 1
