by Trace Conger
Zoe Armstrong wasn't kidding when she threatened to kill me over the million I owed her. I intended to get it back to her, but I didn’t know how long it would take Valerie to clear it with the bureau. That could take a long time, and I didn't want to leave town without reconfirming my intention to pay her back.
I checked out of Hotel Beacon and drove to Hoster Hall. Someone had posted a red-and-white sign in the front window: CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. From the outside, you'd never even know the place had been on fire days earlier.
The door was unlocked and there was a crew of a dozen or so working to clean up the place. The fire had destroyed most of the inside of the club, but the fire suppression systems saved it from being a complete loss. The brick walls were scorched in some areas, but that just added to the club's ambiance. The long bar had been torched and was nearly gone. The main stage had suffered some damage, but it was salvageable.
Zoe's bartender was mopping up puddles of water on the floor. He swayed back and forth, dragging the mop from side to side. The mop handle kept getting caught on the Beretta he wore on his hip. He saw me watching him, raised two fingers to his lips and whistled the way I'd always wanted to learn how to do. Zoe approached as soon as she saw me.
"I'm glad you're not dead," she said. "Now you can pay me back."
She took her sunglasses off her V-neck, white T-shirt and slipped them onto her face.
I opened my wallet and handed her two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
"That leaves a balance of a cool mil," she said. "I don't do payment plans."
"I'll pay you back, Zoe. Just give me some time."
She walked over to where the bar used to be and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the floor, poured two glasses, and handed one to me.
"Victor?" she said.
"Dead."
"By you?"
"No. Porter."
She nodded. "He running things?"
“For now, although I think it’ll be a short stint.”
“How’s that?”
“The FBI took Alfred Spiro into custody less than an hour ago. Napoli and Porter probably won’t be too far behind.”
“And you had some role in that?”
“I did.”
“Then you just painted an even larger target on your back.”
“I’m okay with that. Those three are going to have a lot more to worry about than little old me. And when they do decide to come after me, they won’t find me. I’ll be a ghost in a few days.”
She brushed her long hair away from her face and dove into her glass. About the FBI. I have to ask, Connor."
"No. Your name never came up."
"I'm glad to hear that. You figure they'll be back?"
"The feds? Doubt it. I’ve given them enough so we can part ways amicably.”
"What’s your next move?” she said.
"I'm going back to Boston to heal up. I've still got a hole in my leg and a headache the size of your insurance claim. Then I’ll vanish.”
“Right, mirage man.”
“But I’ll still pay you back.”
“Better work fast. You don’t want to be in debt to me, Connor. Because as long as you are, you’ll work it off. Sometime soon, I’m going to call you, and you’re going to pick up. And then you’re going to say yes to whatever I ask you to do. And then you’re going to do it.”
"I just got out from under the FBI's thumb. Porter's too. I'm not working for anyone anymore. That includes you."
"You're into me for six zeros. I've put people in the ground for much less than that. You're going to work it off.”
She stared at me with a look that said the conversation was over. I took the hint and walked to the front door. Then I grabbed Zoe’s cell phone from my pocket and tossed it to her.
“Thanks for the loaner.”
She threw it back. “Keep it. That way, I know how to get a hold of you.”
I opened the door and walked out.
"Connor, drive safe. You're no good to me dead."
On that, we agreed.
33
Wiser for the Time
It took three and a half hours to make it home from New York City, but it felt a lot longer. The house was dark when I arrived. I entered through the kitchen door and did a thorough sweep of the house before limping upstairs to go to sleep. I hadn't had a good night’s sleep in a week, and it was time to end that streak.
I laid the .45 on the nightstand next to me and eased into bed. I blinked once and the numbers on the clock read 11:45. Blinking again, they read 2:15. My eyes snapped open at 3:32 a.m. to the sound of glass breaking. I sprung up, threw the blanket off and grabbed the pistol from the nightstand. I listened for more glass or the sound of the kitchen door opening, but it was quiet.
Moving through my bedroom doorway, I pressed myself against the wall in the hallway and slowly inched down the stairs toward the living room. I stopped and scanned the living room. Nothing. I heard another sound. I couldn't be sure what it was, but it came from the kitchen. I moved against the wall again, focusing in front of me, but scanning the living room to my left periodically in case someone was trying to lure me in one direction only to jump me from another. I made it to the bottom of the steps, and after rechecking the living room, I turned the corner into the kitchen, my .45 raised. I knelt and flipped on the kitchen light.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
I checked the back door, but it was still locked. All of the glass panes were intact and the kitchen windows were closed and locked. I swept the house again, carefully inspecting every door and window, checking every corner and closet twice. The place was clean. Satisfied I was alone, I returned to the living room and sat on the couch. I propped my feet up on the coffee table and set the .45 in my lap. It was still dark, and while I couldn't imagine how anyone could still be in the house, I didn't want to close my eyes. It was nearly four in the morning, and the sun would be up in a few hours. I'd check the house again in the daylight, but until then, I'd sit here and wait.
I moved my fingers up and down the slide of my .45, listening for any sign someone was in the house. Nothing came. Maybe the initial noise was outside. Maybe O'Bannon's men had been casing my place, waiting for me to come back. Or maybe Porter sent a button man to retrieve the recording I made implicating him in agent Werner’s murder.
After a few minutes, my leg started throbbing. I'd left a bottle of painkillers on my nightstand, but I wasn't about to move from the couch. I couldn't risk revealing my position.
I slumped down on the couch so my head wasn't visible through the front windows. I'd hear the front door open if someone tried coming in that way, and could rotate off the couch and get a shot off before they even noticed I was there. If they entered through the back door, I'd see them before they saw me and deliver the same result. Under the circumstances, I could still move quickly, bum leg and all. Either way, I had the advantage.
Once it was light outside, I'd walk the perimeter of the house to look for any signs someone was here. A gum wrapper or a cigarette butt, something to prove I wasn't hearing things.
It was Saturday, and I would have to get Albert from the bus terminal at six o’clock this morning. I had some time to kill. I sat perfectly still for another hour, listening. Nothing. My leg was numb now, so I eased it off the coffee table and winced as the pain intensified. The .45 was still in my lap, and I moved my finger up and down the slide to stay awake, waiting for the sun to rise.
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A Note from the Author
I’ve never found writing a novel to be an easy task, but this one was a particularly tough bastard. There were several starts and stops, and the manuscript gathere
d a lot of dust along the way. There was a two-and-a-half-year span from the time I began writing the first draft until it was published, which for me, seemed like an eternity. Hopefully the final product doesn’t reflect those growing pains.
If you enjoyed this novel, please consider leaving an online review at your favorite virtual bookstore or on your social media pages. Reviews from readers like you help me spread the word about my fiction.
If you'd like to learn more about my work, contact me, or sign up for updates and free fiction head over to www.traceconger.com. I’ll see you there.
Trace Conger
Cincinnati, Ohio
Acknowledgments
This novel would not have been possible without the generous support of several individuals. I’d like to personally thank the following people for their direct and indirect involvement in giving this project life:
Andrew Bockhold, Christine Grote, and Jeff Hillard for reading early versions and helping me course correct and my editor, Elizabeth A. White for taking a mess and turning it into less of a mess.
Thank you also to Joe Lansdale, Lawrence Block, and Roger Hobbs for your inspiration.
About the Author
Trace Conger is an award-winning author in the crime, thriller, and suspense genres. He writes the Connor Harding (Thriller) series and the Mr. Finn (PI) series.
His Connor Harding series follows freelance "Mirage Man" Connor Harding as he solves problems for the world's most dangerous criminals. The Mr. Finn series follows private investigator Finn Harding as he straddles the fine line between right and wrong.
Conger won a Shamus Award for his debut novel, THE SHADOW BROKER. His suspense novella, THE WHITE BOY, won the Fresh Ink Award for Best Novella of 2020.
He is known for his tight writing style, dark themes, and subtle humor. Trace lives in Cincinnati with his wonderfully supportive family.
Visit him online at www.traceconger.com.
Sign up for his newsletter to receive free fiction and exclusive updates at www.traceconger.com/freebies.
Also by Trace Conger
The Shadow Broker
Scar Tissue
The Prison Guard’s Son
The White Boy
