The man’s head snaps hard to the side, a plume of bloody spittle flying across the floor. As it starts to roll back my direction, I hit him again, this time catching him in the same spot on the corner of his mouth. A single yellowed projectile hurtles out, rattling across the floor as the man loses a bit of resolve beneath me, his arms slackening.
Every part of me wants to continue. I want to beat on this man just the way I did his friend, going until either his head or my hand can take no more, whichever comes first. What this man even looks like, I can’t be certain, that same damn image from the park a few nights earlier all I can see as I draw back for another blow.
And ultimately, that moment in the park is what forces me to stop. I might not have been able to save Mira, but I can help these people. I can take away this man’s weapon, make sure at the very least I ensure he doesn’t hurt anybody before I finish things with him.
Instead of drawing down on the man’s face again, I steer my right fist past it toward his hands. Aiming for the underside of his right wrist, I drive my middle knuckle down on the soft spot where his radius and ulna bones come together, smashing it into the nerve pathway.
Pinned between my fist and the floor, basic physiology wins out, the man’s fingers splaying open wide, releasing his grip on the gun. As soon it does, I release my grasp with the left hand, using my right fist to pin his arm down as I slide my weight to the side. Wrenching the gun free, I shove it away from us, the metal sliding easily across the polished hardwood floor. Rotating in a lazy circle, it glides straight past the women and into the dining room, disappearing beneath the shadow of the table.
In this position, with one hand pinning him down, my body extended in a diagonal line above him, I am as off balance as I can be. I have no way of defending myself from outside attack, no idea that I even need to be worried about doing so. My entire focus is on the man, on the burning hatred I feel for him, and the answers I’ll soon be pulling out of him, just the way I did his friend.
Which is why the blow that hits me is nothing short of a sledgehammer, pitching me into the air, tossing me sideways into the coffee table in the middle of the room.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The world comes back to me one thing at a time. I hear the ringing in my ear, much louder than anything that could have been caused by the gunshot from earlier. I feel the warmth of blood on my face, striping down across my cheek, dripping to the floor. I smell the sawdust of the splintered table lying beneath me.
And I feel pain. Lots and lots of pain.
Opening my eyes, I see an enormous man framed in the doorway. I see the man I was just tangled with spread across his shoulders, both of them in matching leather vests, the emblem of the Wolves stitched across them.
Carrying the man as if he weighs nothing at all, the newcomer pushes out into the night, the inside lights shining off his smooth head. In three equal increments, he grows shorter, descending the front steps before disappearing into the night.
One at a time, neurons in my brain begin to fire anew. They alert me to what I’m seeing, tell me to get up. To give chase. To at least find out who these men are.
Pulling my hands up beneath me, I push my upper body from the floor. Turning toward the back of the room, I see Valerie and Fran both still standing rigid, their mouths and eyes all stretched into perfect circles.
“You ladies alright?”
For a moment, there is no response, neither finding their voices, before Valerie replies, “We are.”
Catching the inflection on the first word, I swing my gaze to the side. My stomach contracts tight as I see Hiram lying sprawled on the ground just a few feet away, his prodigious midsection rising and falling in quick order.
“Shit,” I mutter, dragging my knees up under me and crawling his direction. “Hiram, you okay? Hiram, talk to me.”
The words sound like little more than gasps, my body still acclimating, getting itself back to neutral after the unexpected blow. Scrambling across the floor, I come up beside him. His eyes are open and his mouth gapes, fighting to draw in enough air.
Running my hands down the front of him, I can see no traces of blood, no indications of a stab wound or worse. “Hiram? What’s wrong? You okay?”
His wide eyes roll my direction, his mouth sagging open as he tries to find the words. Not a sound slips out save his continued wheezing, his breathing fast and shallow.
“Call an ambulance,” I mutter, placing both hands on Hiram’s chest and synching my breathing with his, hoping to get him to calm down. Jerking my attention up for just a moment, I snap, “Call an ambulance, dammit!”
This time the intensity of my words hit home, Valerie moving into action, leaving Fran rooted in place and disappearing in search of her cellphone.
“Alright, I’ll be right back,” I say, drawing in deep breaths, letting Hiram see them, willing him to do the same. I don’t know if the man has a history of asthma or respiratory ailments, or what just happened to him, but I know he is not built for things like this.
And I damned sure know there is no way I can ever face Angelique or my wife’s memory if anything happens to him.
“Just keep breathing,” I say, pulling in one more oversized breath, watching as he attempts to match it.
Leaving him lying on the floor, I stagger my way to the door. My head spins slightly as I catch the doorframe, using it to brace myself as I peer out into the night.
The man that attacked me might have been powerful, but he damned sure isn’t fast. I can still just make him out on the far end of the street as he moves away, his partner back on his feet, running up ahead.
Under any other circumstances, I would give chase. I would turn and sprint across the living room, snatch up the gun I know is stowed somewhere beneath the table, and I would go raise hell. I would catch the bastards in no time, call up my friends, and we would go to work.
Now is not that time, though. My head throbs, every beat of my heart shoving new blood through my temples. Hiram is injured or worse. There are two scared ladies here that were just targeted and still have answers I need.
Nobody is going anywhere just yet.
Turning away from the door, I point to Fran and then to the kitchen table. I form my thumb and index finger into a gun and point again, miming for her to retrieve the weapon.
For a moment, she continues to stand rigid, shock taking its toll, before she nods slowly, turning and heading in the opposite direction. I don’t like the idea of sending her after it, but like even less the notion of sitting defenseless should they decide to make a second pass.
Lowering myself to a knee, I take up my previous post beside Hiram. His stomach continues to rise and fall in short order, the front of his shirt stretching and relaxing with each one.
“Come on, now,” I begin again. “Just breath. Draw in as deep as you can. This will pass, I promise.”
I don’t even know what this is, but the words sound like the best thing to say. Hiram nods in agreement, his mouth opening wider as he tries to follow my advice, pulling in as much air as his body will allow.
Which, at the moment, isn’t a lot. Especially not for a man his size.
“Nana, what the hell are you doing?” Valerie asks, returning from the back room. She pauses beside the kitchen table, looking at the older woman in a robe trying to navigate her way under the kitchen table. Snapping her focus to me, she asks, “What the hell is she doing?”
In no mood for her attitude, or the insinuation, I reply, “You want to be sitting here unarmed if those guys come back?”
The look on her face tells me she doesn’t like it, just as the second look she gives to the older woman does. Her mouth opens to respond, but she cuts it short, realizing the truth in what I’m telling her.
“Ambulance will be here in six minutes.”
Chapter Thirty
“Dammit, I put that request in three days ago!”
Standing behind his desk, Detective Malcolm Marsh is aware that h
is voice is rising. So is his body temperature. And the annoyance he feels for the man on the other end of the line.
“I am very sorry detective, but these sorts of things take time, we can’t-“
“You’ve had four days already!” Marsh yells, cutting the man off. Given the time, it is probably just some kid, nothing more than a tech left manning the shop in the late evening hours.
Still, he is the one standing between Marsh and what he wants, and for right now, that is as good a place as any to aim the animosity he is feeling.
“Yes, sir,” the young man manages, “but it says right here in the file that it was listed as a seven day, non-emergency turnaround.”
Feeling his eyes slide shut, Marsh curls his lip back, his teeth gritting beneath them. “Non-emergency? That’s what we call active murder investigations in this city these days? Non-emergencies?”
Each word is low and measured, almost dripping the vitriol that is fast rising within him.
Four days ago, this looked simple. Most likely a domestic violence case, he already had his lead suspect. He just needed the DNA on the blanket to come back to prove that Clady was making the whole thing up. Then he could get a warrant to go to his house, pick up whatever remaining evidence he needed, and this thing would be done.
Now, it is spiraling beyond anything he could have imagined. The asinine story he’d been fed was looking like it might be true, or at the very least have enough truth to it that he needed to do some more digging.
“Sir, I’m very-“
“Yeah, you’re sorry, and I’m sorry, and half the men in Hollywood are sorry, but that doesn’t change a damn thing at this point, does it?” Marsh says.
This is not how he likes to handle things. He has built his career out of being measured, in control at all times. For him to ever ascend where he wants to, he needs to remember the golden rule, which is that image is just as important – if not more so – than reality at all times. To maintain that, he needs to remain on the level. He can’t let people see him getting worked up.
Definitely can’t allow anyone to see him fumble a case as potentially large as this one.
Staring out the front window of his office, Marsh sees Tinley appear from the far side of the bullpen. Walking fast, he has a sheaf of papers gripped in his hand. Looking up, he notices Marsh staring his direction and waves them overhead, picking up his pace to a slight jog.
“Sir?” the young man says through the speakerphone, the mechanized lilt of his voice only serving to further grate on Marsh’s nerves.
“Just get me the damn report,” Marsh says. He reaches out to cut the call, before pausing to add, “And for God’s sake, upgrade the damn thing to an emergency!”
Lifting the receiver from his desk, he drops it into place. He repeats the movement a second time, making sure to cut the connection, before raising a hand to his brow. Kneading the skin of his forehead, he turns as Tinley bursts through the doorway, the papers outstretched before him.
“That didn’t sound like it went well,” he says as way of a greeting.
“Worse,” Marsh replies. “They don’t know shit, and they haven’t even started looking yet.”
Pulling up on the opposite end of the desk, Tinley pauses. A sour look comes to his face as he shakes his head, a string of garbled mutterings crossing his lips.
Even without hearing them, Marsh knows the sentiment all too well.
“What have you got?”
Raising the pages before him, Tinley extends them across the desk. Crinkled in the middle from his tightened grip, he doesn’t even attempt to straighten them as he passes them to Marsh. “We got a hit.”
Flicking his gaze from the papers to his partner and back, Marsh lowers his hand from his forehead. He reaches out and accepts the papers, turning them right-side-up in his hands. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Tinley replies. “Facial recognition pulled up a guy named Mike Lincoln.”
The top sheet in order tells Marsh that very information. It is a printout of a mugshot taken two years before, the hair and likeness being an exact match to the one they’d seen on camera at the Balboa Park security office.
And a carbon copy of the description Kyle Clady gave them a few nights before.
A handful of different reactions come to Marsh, all with varying degrees of severity. Careful to tamp down any outbursts like the one he’d just unloaded on the young man on the phone, he keeps his face neutral, flipping past the top page in order.
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, he’s heard of us,” Tinley replies. “Guy has a rap sheet a mile long. Assault, B & E, even been called in as a suspect in a few killings.”
Stopping his scan of the sheets, Marsh raises an eyebrow, letting it lift his gaze across the desk. “Killings?”
“As in, professional hits,” Tinley replies.
The feeling in the bottom of Marsh’s stomach grows more pronounced as he drags his focus back to the papers in his hand, rifling down through them. “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” Tinley says. “Never had anything stick, but he’s been brought in a few times.”
Keeping his attention on the pages, Marsh continues moving through them. He reads over a handful of arrest reports, each outlining the various incidents that Tinley just mentioned. Spread throughout the greater San Diego area, they seem to have a random pattern to where they occurred as wide as the different charges he was brought in for.
Finishing the stack, he shuffles the pages back into order, extending them across the desk to Tinley. “I think it’s time we bring him in again, don’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Myles Morgan is quite certain he turned the light off to his office when stepping out a few minutes prior. He specifically remembers walking out with his secretary and hearing her ramble on about whatever social gathering she was about to embark on. It didn’t matter that it was a Tuesday night, or that she was speaking with the man who signed her paychecks, she was completely oblivious as she prattled on about the party going down in the Gaslamp District in just a few short hours.
Which gave her just enough time to make it home and get ready before making her fashionably late entrance.
Reading between the lines, Morgan knew it meant he would be dealing with a hungover presence greeting whoever walked in the next day. Most likely still wearing the remains of whatever look she was about to go home and throw together, he visibly cringed at the thought of the smell that would be permeating his space.
Gin. And lots of it.
Damn her and her well-positioned city councilman uncle.
That part aside, the reason he remembers killing the lights as he stepped out is that he was annoyed she’d seemed so oblivious. Not bothering to turn a single thing off as she left, he made a point of doing it, plunging the entire office into darkness, even if he would soon be returning.
The effect had gone completely unnoticed.
Now back a half-hour later, his dinner in a Styrofoam container in his hand, he pauses by the front door. Seeing the faint glow of the overhead lights of his office passing through the glass, he rifles through his mental calendar, trying to recall if he has anything on the books for this evening.
As best he can tell, there is nothing awaiting his attention.
Pushing through the front door, the realization of what the light must mean hits Morgan, his stomach seizing tight. For the second time in as many days, he can feel his appetite evaporate, disgust coloring his features. His pace increases as he heads for the office, his animosity rising with each step.
“You know, we do have phones for this sort of thing.”
Sweeping into his office, he can see Elsa Teller in his periphery, though he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of actually looking over. Instead, he circles around his desk, dropping his dinner down atop it and sliding his suit jacket from his shoulders. Standing with his back to her, he tosses it onto the rack in the corner before turning, choosing to remain standing so he can
glare down his nose at her.
“You really need to develop better eating habits,” Teller replies, an accusatory gaze locked on the food container sitting between them. “It’s not like you’re twenty-five anymore.”
“Neither are you,” he fires back.
In truth, he has no idea what age she is. Not exactly, anyway. But right now, that’s hardly the point.
Raising an eyebrow, Teller gives him a look that insinuates she’s a hell of a lot closer to twenty-five than he is, before merely saying, “My, aren’t we in a chipper mood this evening?”
Shifting his head slightly, Morgan glares at her from a different angle, letting her see the angst he feels for her, before lowering himself into his seat. “Repeated unannounced visits have a way of doing that, I guess.”
“Not exactly a picnic for me, either, you know,” she replies.
There is no doubting the veracity of the statement, which again brings Morgan back around to his original question. “So why are you here? And why can’t you just call like a normal person?”
Crossing one leg over the other, Teller gives him a full view of her shapely calf, the toe rocking up and down a few inches. “You know why I’m here and why I couldn’t call.”
Lacing his fingers over his stomach, Morgan pushes the chair back a few inches, using his heel to recline. “So it’s done?”
“Hardly,” Teller replies.
Feeling his brows come together, confusion creeping in, Morgan says, “Then, again, why-“
“To let you know, we have officially poked a beehive.”
The look of misunderstanding grows deeper on Morgan’s face. With it comes a bit more agitation, fast growing weary of the coded speak Teller seems to enjoy so much.
“Or a wolf den, as the case may be,” Teller clarifies. “No point in using a metaphor for this one.”
Office Visit Page 12
