A Million Reasons
Would you kill for a million dollars?
Mark David Abbott
Copyright © 2018 by Mark David Abbott
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For G
She thinks I’m awesome.
Join My VIP Newsletter
The next book in the series is currently being written, but if you sign up for my VIP newsletter I will let you know as soon as the next book is released.
By signing up for the newsletter you will also receive a complimentary copy of Vengeance, the first book in the John Hayes series, as well as advance notice of all new-releases.
Your email will be kept 100% private and you can unsubscribe at any time.
If you are interested, please sign up here:
JOIN MY NEWSLETTER
(No Spam. Ever.)
Contents
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
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Also by Mark David Abbott
Ready For The Next Adventure?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Macau
Player Eight wiped his sweating hands on the legs of his trousers as he watched the attractive young lady deal four cards from the shoe, two which she slid face down in front of him, and two she tucked under the corner of the shoe. She waited, her face expressionless, as he reached for the cards and slid them closer. He took a deep breath and carefully peeled up the corner of the first card to see what fate had dealt him. He needed a good hand—surely his luck would turn. He saw the red heart first, then the number. A two. So far okay. He tossed it onto the purple felt of the table and slid the second card closer. Positioning it lengthways, he peeled up the side, shielding the card from view with his cupped hands. Pook Kai, Shit. An eight. In the rules of Baccarat, a total of ten meant zero as the first digit was dropped. He threw the card on the table for all to see and with a shaking hand reached for the glass of cognac on the table beside him. His right eye twitched as he brought it to his mouth and downed the contents in one large swallow. The dealer slid the Banker’s cards out from under the shoe, and one by one, turned them face up. A King and a three —thirteen, but as the ten is dropped, the Bank’s score was three. He exhaled loudly and reached for his glass again. Realizing it was empty, he waved the glass at the hostess and glanced at the two hard-looking men in ill-fitting black suits, standing on the other side of the red velvet rope separating the VIP enclosure from the rest of the gaming hall. They made little attempt to disguise their interest in him. He would have to worry about them later. Now, he had to focus. He nodded at the dealer, and she slid another card in front of him. He wiggled his fingers, then peeled up the side of the card. Tiu leh lo mo! Motherfucker! A queen. Another zero! The dealer drew another card for the Bank. Again ten, but she was still ahead with three. Another loss for him. Shit! What did he have to do to get Lady Luck on his side again? He was sitting at position eight, his lucky number, and in his pocket, he had the jade beads his grandmother had given him years ago for protection, but still, he was suffering. At seat number five, an obese, middle-aged man from mainland China chortled with unbridled glee, his bet on the winning Banker’s hand resulting in a large payout. He pulled his winnings closer, his stubby fingers festooned with gold rings, and added them to the already large pile in front of him. Next to him at number three—there being no number four on the tables in Macau, the number inauspicious as it sounded like the word for death—sat an older, casually dressed man, his slightly accented Cantonese suggesting he was a Macau local. He had also lost the hand but looked relaxed, his expression giving nothing away—neither happy nor unhappy about the result.
Player Eight’s fresh glass of cognac arrived, and he leaned back in his chair and took a large swig while deciding what to do next. Despite the arctic-like temperature in the VIP section, beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. He had been playing all night… or was it now morning? He had no idea, the passage of time cleverly hidden from the gamblers by the Casino, and he had already pawned his Rolex.
The evening had started well, and he had been up for the first few hours. In retrospect, he should have quit while he was ahead, but he couldn’t leave the table, the allure of the cards having immense power over him… and he had been on a winning streak, intending to make back all his previous losses and be in profit. He had to ride the wave while Lady Luck was with him. He had played on and on, the pile of chips growing higher in front of him… Then in one cruel moment, Lady Luck abandoned him and didn’t return. He had lost hand after hand, the pile of chips in front of him dwindling as the hours passed. After the previous hand, he was down to his last hundred thousand. He really should get up and leave the table for a while. Wait for his luck to change…… but then he would have to deal with the thugs in suits outside the rope. No, he would play one more hand, all or nothing. He slid the remaining two chips into the square marked Player. The dealer looked at the mainlander who selected two gold chips from the pile in front of him and also placed them on the Player square. Player Eight bit his lip. Two million dollars! If only his luck had stayed with him, he would have some gold colored chips too. Both players looked over toward the Macanese man and waited for him to bet. His fingers played a gentle rhythm on the table felt, then he slid a chip into the Banker’s square. Attention now turned toward the dealer who again dealt four cards, slipping two under the shoe and sliding two across to the mainlander who, as the player who had placed the largest bet, had the honor of revealing the cards. He grabbed them with his fat fingers and without waiting, turned them over and tossed them on the table. A ten and an eight, a “natural” eight, the second highest hand in Baccarat. He shouted something in Mandarin and with his fist, pounded the table in delight. Player Eight breathed a sigh of relief. Finally. There was no way the Banker’s hand would be higher. It was merely a formality now. The dealer turned over the first card. A ten. The mainlander laughed while the Macanese player looked on, a slight frown the only indication of his mood. Player Eight took another large mouthful of Cognac, gulping it down as he waited for the dealer to reveal the final card. She looked around the table, pausing for suspense, then flipped the card over. Player Eight’s mouth dropped open. A nine, the only hand that could beat them. He was finished. He loosened his shirt collar and reached for the glass, his hand shaking so violently, he almost sp
illed the drink on the table felt. He gulped it down, the fire of the drink bringing tears to his eyes. Pushing back his chair, he rose unsteadily from the table.
The other players looked up at him, the Macanese player with sympathy—he had been there before, but the mainlander, despite his own loss, sniggered and said something in Mandarin that sounded derogatory. Player Eight wasn’t sure, he couldn’t hear anything, his head was pounding, and he felt dizzy. He turned and stumbled toward the exit, the security guard unclipping the velvet rope to let him pass. As he stepped out, the two hard men in suits closed in on him, grabbing him by the arms. One leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Broken Tooth wants to see you.” His knees trembled, and but for the men holding his arms, he would have collapsed on the floor.
2
Central District, Hong Kong
The courier van indicated and slowed, causing one of Hong Kong’s ubiquitous red and white taxis to honk in frustration. The van pulled to a stop, and a man dressed in a courier uniform opened the passenger door and jumped out. Jogging around to the back of the van, he held his hand up in front of the taxi, holding up the traffic as the van pulled forward, then reversed into the empty parking space at the side of the street. The courier stepped to the side and waved the taxi on, the taxi driver cursing him through the open window before driving off.
A young man in chinos and a polo shirt finished paying for a bottle of water in the 7-Eleven across the street and turned to look out through the store’s open front. He watched as the driver climbed out of the van and joined his colleague at the back. They unlatched the rear doors and started sorting through the packages stacked inside.
The young man pulled out his phone and pressed speed dial.
“Standby.”
On the next street, a white Mercedes Sprinter van sat, engine idling, orange hazard lights blinking in warning. The driver removed his earbud from his right ear and turned to the van’s darkened interior.
“Get ready.”
The courier van driver pulled out a large package from the rear of his vehicle and scanned the bar code with a hand-held scanner. He straightened up and glanced toward the 7-Eleven. Catching the eye of the young man, he gave a slight nod, then walked toward the entrance of a nondescript apartment building that loomed high over the street. His colleague closed the van doors and stepped onto the pavement, looking both ways before following the driver to the entrance.
In the 7-Eleven, the young man brought his phone to his ear again. “Five minutes.”
The courier walked into the grimy entrance lobby while his colleague took up station outside on the pavement. In the lobby, the elderly security guard looked up from behind his desk and seeing the courier’s uniform, simply nodded and went back to studying the racing form in his newspaper.
The courier summoned the lift, and when it arrived, he pressed the button for the tenth floor. The ancient lift creaked and groaned as it climbed higher, the courier sweating in the confined space. He looked for a switch to turn on the fan, but the tiny fan was insufficient to cool the narrow steel box. Sweat formed on his upper lip, and his shirt began to stick to his back. At the tenth floor, the lift shuddered to a stop, the floor of the lift not quite stopping at the same level as the corridor floor. The courier took a deep breath and as the doors opened, exhaled slowly. He stepped out and checking the address on the parcel, matched it with the sign on the wall and turned right to find the correct apartment. He stopped outside a steel grill and pressed the dirty switch that functioned as a doorbell.
He waited and after a minute, heard the sound of bolts being slid back, then the door creaked open just enough for the person inside to peer out.
“Courier,” he called out.
From inside, a face looked him up and down. Satisfied he was who he said he was, the door opened wider, and a hand reached out to unlock the grill. The courier pulled it open wide and stepped forward, holding out the package.
Inside, a gaunt middle-aged man nodded and reached for the parcel, the skin on his bony arm almost translucent. He was shirtless, his ribs visible through his parchment-like skin, and he looked much older than his years. The courier held out the scanner and indicated the man should sign with his finger on the screen. The man placed the parcel on the floor, sniffed, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand before taking the scanner from the courier and scrawling his name in Chinese characters across the screen. The courier looked down at the screen, smiled and looked up at the man. “N-goi sai, thank you.” He turned and walked back to the lift as the steel grill closed behind him.
Once out on the street he looked again toward the 7-Eleven and nodded. Inside the 7-Eleven, the young man raised his phone to his ear once more.
“He’s there. Go, go, go!”
Inspector Jimmy Leung of the Hong Kong Customs Drug Investigation Bureau crossed the road, stepping between a taxi and a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. He glanced down at the Mercedes number plate, 888, and grinned—a very auspicious number. Hopefully, it was a sign. He needed some luck. The last few raids they had carried out had been too late, their targets tipped off, clearing out well before Jimmy and his team arrived. He trusted his team with his life, but somehow, from somewhere in the Bureau, the information was leaking out. Jimmy stepped onto the sidewalk and nodded at the two men in courier uniforms who were deep in conversation with the driver of the Mercedes Sprinter.
“Well done, guys,” he said as they snapped to attention. He waved at the traffic building up in the street, partially blocked by the double-parked van. “See if you can get this traffic moving again.”
The building lobby was cordoned off, and one of his men was questioning the unhappy-looking security guard. Jimmy rode the lift to the tenth floor, stepped out, looked around for the correct apartment, and strode in. Sergeant Anson Wong, the leader of the team that had raided the apartment, grinned back at him.
“Success, sir. Ten liters of GBL, three kilos of Ice, two kilos of Ecstasy and cannabis buds, and around three hundred thousand in cash. I would say about one point seven million in street value, sir.”
“Excellent, well done.” Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, the long hours and hard work were paying off. He glanced at the thin, shirtless man sitting in the corner, watched over by one of his men.
“Have you got much out of him?”
Anson removed his baseball cap emblazoned with the Bureau’s initials and ran his fingers through his hair. He sighed and shook his head.
“He’s not saying anything. You know how they are with their code of silence.”
Jimmy pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “Take him away and lock him up. He looks like a junkie himself. Let's see how silent he is once he doesn’t get his regular fix.”
Jimmy turned and surveyed his men. “Well done team. It’s a good result. Let’s get this place cleaned up.”
3
Monday
“I love you Charlotte.”
“Do you think I don’t know that, Mr. Hayes?” she giggled, her blue eyes catching the sunlight and twinkling with mischief.
John grinned and reached out to brush the curl of blonde hair from her forehead. He looked down at her lips, inviting him to press his against hers, and he leaned forward. Before their lips touched, Charlotte frowned.
“John?”
“What’s the matter?”
She pulled away as the sunlight disappeared and the sky darkened.
“John, help me.”
“Charlotte, what’s the matter?”
Her face dissolved into nothing, replaced by the face of a man in his twenties, four days' growth of beard on a fleshy, weak jaw, his dark eyes set deep in their sockets, and his lip curled in a sneer. John felt his breath on his face, hot and rank, a mixture of stale cigarettes and liquor.
“Charlotte,” cried John, his heart pounding. “Where are you?”
In the darkness surrounding the man’s face, three more faces appeared, each regarding him with contempt. He called out agai
n, “Charlotte.” The men laughed, and he tried pushing them away, his fingers finding nothing but empty space. Finally, from somewhere in the distance, her voice, “John, help me….”
John woke with a start, his heart racing and his t-shirt and the sheets damp with sweat. The luminous hands on his watch on the bedside table showed five-thirty. He exhaled and laid his head back on the pillow, waiting for his heartbeat to slow again. The last nightmare had been over a month ago, and he had hoped they had finally stopped. John sighed, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. He switched on the bedside lamp and rubbed his face. The silver-framed photo on the bedside table caught his eye, and he picked it up. He missed her dearly.
Charlotte had been the only woman he ever loved, and not a day went by when he didn’t think of her. He touched his fingers to his lips, then the photo before setting the frame down. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep now. Barefoot, he padded across the cool marble floor into the bathroom. He flicked on the light and ran the cold tap, splashing water on his face, rinsing off the sweat, and slicking his hair back. Leaning with both hands on the vanity unit, he regarded himself in the mirror.
A Million Reasons Page 1
