Warning Shot

by Dustin Stevens

  Warning Shot

  My Mira, Book Five

  Dustin Stevens

  Warning Shot

  My Mira: Book Five

  Copyright © 2019, Dustin Stevens

  Cover Art and Design: Paramita Bhattacharjee, www.creativeparamita.com

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Sneak Peek

  Thank You

  Free Book

  Bookshelf

  About the Author

  What I want back is what I was.

  —Sylvia Plath

  ...just because time passes doesn’t mean

  we are making progress.

  —Robert D. Hales

  Prologue

  The confines of the room were just too pressing for me to stay inside another moment. After spending more than a week in the tiny space, I could feel the walls beginning to press on me. Every stray shaft of light that passed through the window, each shadow that moved past the limp lace curtains, felt like someone peering in.

  Another person stopping to look in on the fishbowl that had become my life.

  Bursting out of the place, I hadn’t had a particular end goal in mind. No set spot where I was heading, just knowing that I had to get away. I needed to be someplace where I could stand and peer into the distance.

  Know that I was alone. That the conversation I was about to have couldn’t be overheard.

  Standing alongside the dried-up remnant of what was once the motel swimming pool, I stare down into the cracked concrete well. I look on at the bits of desert brush poking up through the bottom. See a few discarded trash items bleached white by untold years left under the harsh California sun.

  A not-so-subtle metaphor for the way I have felt this past week. A reservoir now left dry and empty, cast aside and forgotten.

  Phone clutched in my hand, I raise my gaze to the horizon. With the motel at my back, I can see my own shadow stretched out on the ground before me, eventually swallowed by the darkness pushing in from every direction.

  A light breeze dances across my skin. With it comes the faint rattle of sagebrush.

  Otherwise, there is nothing, the relocation having done exactly what I wanted.

  Despite the air being much cooler than just a few hours before, I can feel sweat on my brow. The taste of it is salty on my lips.

  My heart pounds in my chest.

  I have no idea what the man I am about to speak with will say. If he will provide any guidance, or if his words will just push me further into the rabbit hole that has become my life.

  If this conversation will just be another box checked off. One more pitstop on a journey I may never finish.

  Just as surely, I know there is no way I can’t place the call. Not after the day I’ve had. The people I’ve met and the half-step of progress I seem to have made.

  Exhaling slowly, I sweep my gaze along the horizon once more. Moving left to right, I take in everything, straining for the slightest bit of movement. Any excuse to take pause.

  Once more, the world is completely desolate.

  Leaving me no choice but to pull the phone in my hand to life and dial.

  Chapter One

  The exact date of inception for the Wolves is completely unknown. Odds are, the first men that came together had no idea that’s what they were even doing. Simply a group of like-minded individuals that began to assemble with regularity, at some point they probably looked around, recognized what had happened, and decided to make it official.

  Or, at least official enough for them to have some vests made and a bar built. Hold an election to name a leader and some deputies. Most likely, that too was just to cement the obvious, citing whomever had been around the longest - or was the oldest, or who had the nicest motorcycle - as the man in charge.

  Over the years, some things have become a bit more formalized. The application for membership is a process that is held annually or as there is sufficient interest to demand it. Elections are held whenever there is need, the sitting leader being unwilling or unable to continue.

  Just such a thing being how Ringer first ascended to the head of the organization.

  Beyond those essentials though, there is precious little in the way of procedure. An organization predicated on complete freedom, the idea of having strictures in place stands counter to everything they believe in.

  There is no set of rules for new pledges to memorize and recite. No handbook on how certain matters are to be handled.

  Definitely nothing for a time like this.

  Seated in his corner post, Ringer is infinitely aware of this. All night he has been running that singular thought through his mind, sitting and watching as the bar around him slowly fills up.

  Fellow Wolves circling back from their various searches throughout the greater San Diego area.

  Some have returned from the charred remains of their prey Kyle Clady’s home, having arrived just moments too late to grab him. Others have sifted in from the house of their fallen member Mike Lincoln, the spot where Clady had most recently been.

  A few still had even come back from the hospital, seeing to a couple of other members that had the misfortune of running into Clady at Lincoln’s house.

  With each man that steps inside, every crestfallen expression on their face, each ardent refusal to make eye contact, Ringer feels his ire grow. Casting aside any interest in the rotation of fresh beers Maxie brings him from the bar, he sits rigid in his seat. Long hair hanging down on either side of his face, anger smolders behind his dark eyes, his gaze fixed on the polished wooden tabletop before him.

  The last ten days have been a disaster for the Wolves by every discernible definition. In just under a week and a half, they’ve now lost multiple members, have had many others completely decimated in physical altercations.

  They’ve been unable to complete a simple assignment that Lincoln was first hired for, still searching for a single old woman.

  The police have sauntered right into the very bar they’re now sitting in, openly appraising the place, all but telling them they are being watched.

  The majority of that, Ringer places squarely on Clady’s shoulders. A widower left behind at the hands of Lincoln, the man has proven a formidable opponent. On the
back end of his time as a Navy SEAL, his training – and that of his friends – has been evident.

  As has been the fact that he is woefully outnumbered and acting completely on his own, two things that mean no matter how good he might be, his end is fast approaching.

  An end that - for now - is secondary in priority for Ringer.

  The bar is nearly full, more than twenty members present, as the first hint of dawn begins to peek over the horizon. A faint glow rising to the east, it passes beneath the swinging doors of the front.

  Many of the men barely notice. Those in conversation continue talking, grouped around tables or standing in odd clusters. Others line the bar in silence, sitting hunched over, nursing beers.

  A sense of awkward tension is in the air, nobody really sure how to act. If they should stay or go. How the developments of the night before will influence whatever comes next.

  Given the relatively quiet state of things, it isn’t hard for Ringer to hear the sedan approach outside. The tires biting into the hardpacked earth lining the front of the bar or the brakes squealing lightly as the vehicle comes to a stop.

  Flicking his gaze upward, he hears a pair of car doors slam shut. He watches as a moment later shadows stripe the faint illumination spilling under the swinging doors lining the front of the bar.

  The instant the source of the shadows appear, Ringer is on his feet. Slamming his chair back behind him, it mashes into the wall, the sound loud enough to bring all discussion to an instant standstill. Like the proverbial record scratch, the interior of The Wolf Den goes silent, every man turning to peer in his direction.

  And upon seeing the intent set of his gaze, immediately shift to look at the pair of late arrivals before them.

  Pushing through the door in tandem, on the right is a recently patched member named Snow. Still in his mid-twenties, his dark hair is full, the crevices between his muscles still bearing some baby fat, giving him the appearance of being built but not necessarily defined.

  Noticing everybody turned toward the door, he pulls up just a half-step inside the room, his jaw sagging slightly.

  A move that is completely unwarranted, the ire Ringer feels in no way directed at him, even if the concentrated attention of everybody inside might give such an impression.

  Whatever blame that cannot be attributed to Clady, Ringer places squarely on the man standing beside Snow.

  “Byrdie,” Ringer mutters, the name alone tasting bitter on his tongue.

  Fifteen feet away, Byrdie, one of three deputies of the Wolves, pulls to a stop. Different from Snow in every way, his skin and features have been weathered from years of the life. The hair on either side of his head has been shaved clean, the top grown long and hanging down over his neck.

  Even several days removed, the remnants of a previous encounter with Clady are splayed across his face, swelling and bruising distorting his features.

  Given a wide berth on all sides, he is an island unto himself. Casting a scowl in either direction, he raises his gaze to Ringer before twisting his head toward the bar.

  “Maxie, beer.”

  Lifting his left palm, Ringer halts the directive before the barkeep even has the chance to move.

  “Don’t you dare, Maxie. This is a bar for Wolves only.”

  Jerking his attention back, Byrdie’s eyes flash. His top lip peels back over teeth shiny with saliva.

  “That’s how this is going? You’ve been getting your ass kicked for a week solid now and need a patsy to try and save face?”

  Ringer’s hands curl up into fists. Warmth rushes to his face, sweat lining his brow.

  For a week solid now, Byrdie has been the one getting his ass kicked. He was the one that rushed into the house in Chula Vista and allowed Clady to get the jump on him. The one that had let his wounded pride get in the way and had decided to torch Clady’s home, eliminating their best chance at finding him.

  Had just a few hours before ignored a direct order to sit on Lincoln’s house, allowing Clady to not only show up but put two of their members in the hospital.

  Not that Ringer needs to say a single word of that. Every man present knows Byrdie has long been walking a fine line of insubordination, the last week only bringing it to a head.

  “There is no formal process for removing a member from our ranks,” he says, ignoring Byrdie’s comment. His voice raised slightly, he makes sure everyone can hear, never moving his focus from the man before him.

  “Exactly,” Byrdie replies, the scowl shifting into a leer. “When I patched over, I pledged my loyalty to the organization, and the organization did the same to me.”

  “You pledged it, but you haven’t shown it,” Ringer says, pushing straight forward. “You’ve put yourself ahead of the brand.”

  Rolling his shoulders back, Ringer allows his vest to slide down. Catching it before it hits the ground, he places it on the table beside him.

  Too much of the last week, he has been content to remain in his spot, directing things from on high. That time is now past, the moment arriving for him to finally become the active face of the organization he is meant to be.

  “But just to make this fair,” Ringer continues. “You peel your cut off right now too, and whichever one of us is still standing at the end of this gets to put theirs back on.”

  Chapter Two

  The body of Dr. Brendan Hoke was released from the scene by the medical examiner at some point around midnight. Given the method of murder, time and cause of death were both pretty straightforward, rendering everything that needed to be determined onsite pretty scant.

  In the wake of getting the remains out of the tiny second floor carveout that served as a combination office, storage space, and occasional sleeping quarters, the criminalists had then spent several hours scouring through everything. Photographs were taken. Anything that even resembled evidence was bagged and sent to the crime lab for analysis.

  Stepping away to allow most of that to play out, Detective Malcolm Marsh had waited until just after six the next morning before returning. Content that the various parties that had gone before him could ably perform their tasks and get him their reports when needed, he had purposely timed his arrival when he knew that the place would be empty.

  Eight hours earlier, he’d made his first pass through. He’d been summoned by his partner Mark Tinley, the two of them doing an initial assessment, something that hadn’t been easy given the grisly nature of the scene.

  Once that was complete, any low-hanging fruit stripped bare, they’d both extricated themselves under the agreement to reconvene at seven.

  An agreement they both knew meant Marsh would arrive at least an hour early, the pattern so ingrained in both now as to have become routine.

  In the exact same spot as when he first arrived the night before, Marsh stands with the paper-covered heels of his dress shoes just inches away from the top step. Hands in his pockets, he examines everything before him, the thin light of morning just starting to peek through the dormer windows to either side.

  When first he’d arrived the night before, it looked like the place had been lit up in Technicolor, the saturation levels turned to the highest marks. Bright red arterial spray coated a decent chunk of the walls and floor, the vast majority of Hoke’s blood supply having exited his body.

  Splashed in every direction with abandon, most of the surfaces in the room had been rendered almost indistinguishable, little more than landing places for bodily fluids. Under the bright glare of crime scene stanchion lights, the place looked like a set piece from a low-budget horror picture.

  A look that has now only nominally improved.

  Hours after the fact, the fresh blood has dried and hardened. Passing from red to brick or even black, it seems to coat everything in a wide swath in the center of the room. The coppery tang of it sits sharp in the confined space, the scent of mildew likely not far behind.

  Taking a step forward, Marsh lifts a hand to his face. Curling his fingers, he presses the b
ack of them flush against his nostrils, blocking some of the odor for the time being. Still unable to stop a light sheen of moisture from rising to his eyes, he blinks rapidly, keeping his vision clear.

  Much of the time since leaving the place has been spent digging into Dr. Brendan Hoke, an effort that rendered precious little. Despite being a physician, the man’s financial records were in dire straits. Barely able to scratch together enough money to even have an active checking account, the only vehicle listed in his name is the Honda still parked in the driveway downstairs. According to official records, the house is the only property he owns in San Diego, though it is obvious it isn’t a full-time residence.

  Taken together, it means Marsh can effectively remove money from the list of motivations behind this one.

  A man with things as tight as Hoke kills for money, not the other way around.

  Given the scene before him and the chosen murder weapon, he also feels reasonably certain in ruling out love as well. Never before has he seen a jilted lover choose to use a garrote, those generally trending toward either attempts to make it appear natural – sleeping pills or some such thing – or crimes of passion.

  Shoving someone down a flight of stairs or putting a bullet in their chest.