King: A Power Players Novel

by Leo, Cassia

  Before I could stop myself, I scroll through the previous texts exchanged with King to suss out my dead client’s texting style. The tone of the earlier messages seems to imply this guy is both scared and resentful of King. Based on the fact the last text message inferred they don’t share a father, maybe King is the dead addict’s stepbrother.

  Using more acronyms than I’m comfortable with — to mimic my dead client — I tap out a response to King.

  Me

  Made a stop. Feeling fresh AF. OMW. ETA 10 min.

  King

  Stay put. I have your location. Be there in less than 30 min.

  Holy shit.

  My hands begin to tremble from a sudden surge of adrenaline as I realize I have just a few minutes to pack up my stuff and get the hell out of here.

  Even if I don’t take the money, I can’t stay. If this King guy knows I saw all that money in that suitcase, he probably won’t want to leave any witnesses to this obviously illegal activity. If I have to get out of here, I might as well get out with the money.

  My stomach vaults into my throat at the prospect of stealing something so valuable. I’ve never so much as stolen a stick of gum. What would my dad think of what I’m about to do?

  Sometimes, in life, the most difficult path is the only path that makes any damn sense. When that happens, you put on your big girl pants and hit the dirt. Don’t let anything or anyone distract you.

  I swallow the lump that forms in my throat at the memory of my father’s words. Then, I pull up my big girl pants.

  Grabbing my backpack out of the closet, I rip my shirts and jeans off the hangers and stuff the clothes inside. I slide my arms through the straps of the backpack and take my purse off the hook inside the closet. Slinging the bag diagonally across my chest, so I still have both hands free, I grab the second-most important thing in this room besides the cash: my guitar case.

  As I open the door to my suite, I lean my head through a small crack to see if anyone’s in the hallway. Except for the faint rhythmic sound of moaning from a suite on my left, I can hear and see no one in the vicinity.

  I grab the handle on the suitcase and head out into the corridor, carefully and quietly closing the door behind me. With one hand firmly gripped on the black plastic handle and my other hand wrapped around the handle of my guitar case, I walk briskly toward the white and red illuminated exit sign at the end of the hallway.

  Deliver me… Deliver me o’ light at the end of the tunnel.

  I hold my breath as I pass the door to Millie’s suite, silently hoping that she doesn’t hear the faint squeak of the suitcase wheels as they struggle beneath the weight of approximately fifty pounds of cold, hard cash. I let out a stale breath as I pass the suite next to Millie’s, but my relief is premature and short-lived.

  “Where are you going, Miss Brianna?”

  The sound of Millie’s husky voice sends a jolt of fear through my every nerve ending. My breathing quickens as my lungs attempt to keep up with my racing heartbeat.

  I turn around slowly, opening my mouth as my brain scrambles for a logical reason why I would be moving out on my first night here. But the moment Millie sees my face, she clutches her hand to her flat chest and gasps.

  “Girl, what happened to you? Did he hit you?”

  For a moment, I’m beyond confused, until I remember banging my forehead on the towel rack.

  “Y-yes!” I proclaim, seizing on this obvious explanation for why I would be leaving so soon. “He—He banged my head against the—the headboard. And, hey, I like it rough, but not that rough. You know what I mean?”

  What the fuck are you talking about, Izzy? Get a grip, or this is going to blow up in your stupid face.

  Millie’s sparkly red lips are pursed, though I’m not sure if it’s in disapproval of my client’s behavior or mine. “Nuh-uh. Millie does not play that,” she says, her brown skin shimmering as she exits her suite as if she’s going to give my client a piece of her mind.

  “No!” I shout, then I quickly lower my voice again. “No, please don’t go in there. He… He just passed out. I think he’s drunk—or something. I don’t want him to wake up until I’m gone. Please.”

  She narrows her eyes at me for a split second before her face softens and she opens the door to her suite again. “Okay, missy. I’ll give you a twenty-minute head-start, then I’m calling Danny.”

  My shoulders relax as I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, Millie. I owe you big time for this.”

  She glances at the metal suitcase. “Fancy suitcase. Did you come in with that?”

  I flash her a tight smile as I begin turning away from her, readying myself to make a mad dash for the exit. “Yep. It belonged to my dad. He’s dead. Okay, I’d better get going. Thanks a bunch, Millie!”

  “Mm-hmm. You take care now, Miss Brianna.”

  I don’t have time to glance over my shoulder and check if that note of skepticism in her parting words is visible in her facial expression. I need to get the fuck out of here.

  I burst out the back exit and my muscles tense as a warm breeze unsettles the wispy blonde hairs around my face and raises goosebumps on my bare shoulders. I feel so exposed out here with all the windows looking out onto the back parking lot and my hands fully occupied. The eighty feet of asphalt between here and my silver truck may as well be a minefield.

  This time, I don’t hold my breath or tread softly. I race toward the truck, utilizing the adrenaline coursing through my veins like a power-up in a video game.

  When I reach the truck, I dig inside my purse for my key fob and fumble a bit as I deactivate the alarm. Wrenching open the driver’s side door, I quickly pull the door on the extended cab ajar. In one swift motion, I grab the side handle on the suitcase and use that adrenaline to heave it into the compartment.

  As it drops with a thud onto the lightly-padded seat, I feel a searing pain from the right side of my neck down to my shoulder. I may have pulled something, but I don’t have time to even think about that. I toss my guitar case on top and hastily shut the cab door.

  Climbing into the driver’s seat, I toss my purse onto the passenger side and slam the door shut. I jam the key into the ignition, and my tires squeal as I gun it out of the parking space.

  I don’t have time to be quiet anymore. It’s been at least fifteen to twenty minutes since King sent that text saying he would be here in thirty.

  As I drive around the pink one-story building with the cracked stucco and the green and purple neon Area 69 Brothel sign, my right hand reaches into my purse to retrieve my phone. I navigate to my phone app and tap the first name on my favorites list.

  The sound of the ringing is loud and clear through my truck speakers as it connects to the Bluetooth on my phone. It rings a second time as I arrive at the driveway leading out of Area 69 onto Highway 95.

  Except for the single streetlight across the road, and the oncoming headlights, it’s pitch black out here in the middle of the Nevada desert. You could toss a dead body fifty feet down the road and no one would see it until sunrise.

  The phone stops ringing, and Tiff answers my call just as the approaching headlights pull into the brothel parking lot.

  “Shh. Just a minute,” I reply, to quiet Tiff.

  I want to turn away from the vehicle, just in case it’s King, but my curiosity gets the best of me. My eyes follow the black SUV as it approaches on my left. The passenger seat is empty.

  By the time I turn my attention to the driver, I’m looking at him through the driver’s side window instead of the windshield. The glass is too darkly-tinted to see through.

  I look away quickly before he decides to look in my direction, and I peel out of the parking lot, heading east on Highway 95 as fast as I can.

  My heart is pounding so hard and fast, I can feel it in my fingertips. When I’m at least a quarter of a mile from the brothel, I hold the phone closer to my face, though I don’t need to, considering the call is coming through my truck speakers.<
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  “I did something, Tiff,” I whisper.

  “What? I can’t hear you. Are you okay?”

  “I can’t talk. Just…” A knot forms in my throat as I realize I’m actually saying good-bye to my childhood best friend. “I’m… I’m just tired of Vegas. I need to get away. I… I might come back, and I might not. But I’ll call you if I… I gotta go.”

  “Iz, you’re scaring me. If you’re in trouble, you know how to tell me,” she prompts me to give her one of the code phrases we’ve agreed on.

  “Tell my mom I left the dog outside” is for when I’m on a bad date, and I need her to call back pretending to be my mom, who’s supposed to tell me to get home and put the dog inside the house.

  “Tell my mom I left some clothes in the washer” means I’m on a good date and I may spend the night with the guy.

  “Tell Jolene I’m not in trouble” means tell my mom I had to leave, but don’t tell her where I’m going. Only Tiff knows the one place I’d go if I ever decided to leave Vegas.

  “Tell Jolene I’m not in trouble,” I say, my words landing with a thud as heavy as that damn suitcase. “I love you, Tiff.”

  I end the call before she can reply. Then, I turn off the phone, lower the driver’s side window, and toss it out onto the highway.

  I glance in the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of my own reflection: messy blonde ponytail, hollow cheeks, mascara smeared around hazel eyes that look as dark as the road ahead of me.

  I look away quickly, watching in the mirror as the tiny electronic speck of my phone disappears from the range of my rear lights. But as I turn my attention back to the dark stretch of highway in front of me, the muscles in my chest tighten with fear and heartbreak.

  I left my necklace in the nightstand. The necklace my father gave me. The necklace with my real name etched into the heart-shaped charm.

  3 King

  June 10th

  No amount of inspections, route clearance formations, or protective gear can prepare you for the moment your vehicle hits an IED.

  Jameson! Jameson!

  Sarge! Sarge, can you hear me? Sarge!

  The voice sounds hollow and distant through the high-pitched ringing in my ears.

  The moment my eyelids flutter, sand pours into my eyeballs. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I make my first attempt to move. My left arm is pinned to my side by something that feels suspiciously like a body. I can move my right hand just enough to use my fingers to clear the dust from my eyelids.

  I shake my head a bit as I open my eyes. “I’m here,” I call back to my men. “Is that you, Hunt? Are you—”

  “I can’t see, Sarge,” says a weak, gravelly voice that sounds like it’s right on top of me.

  “Hunt, is that you? I think we’re under some dirt and debris. Can you move? Don’t try to move if you don’t think you can… I smell gas… Fuck.”

  Corporal Garrett Hunt was the best damn combat engineer in my unit in Afghanistan. He always triple-checked every route and bridge. Didn’t take chances with unidentified vehicles. A stickler about maintaining route clearance formation. But nothing can prepare you when you’re up against a four-hundred-pound improvised explosive device.

  When our convoy was hit that day, and a spark caused a secondary explosion that lit us up like the Fourth of July, Corporal Hunt didn’t hesitate. He covered me as if I were his blood brother.

  As I drape the sheet over Garrett’s dead body and watch Santos lift him off the pink toilet, I realize I failed him.

  I’ve spent the past four years working for Garrett’s father’s money laundering outfit, repayment for the physical and mental scars his son sustained protecting me. And Garrett’s father — who goes by Hunt — is big on “paying your dues.”

  I’ve tried to help Garrett get clean. God knows I’ve tried. But when you have access to the best black-tar heroin and unlimited cash, you’re pretty much guaranteed a fast track from the Land of Nod to the morgue.

  “I don’t need this stuff here,” Danny Hefner says, his dark eyes sweeping around the room nervously, probably hopped up on cocaine himself. “I don’t need the cops poking around here.”

  I shove him out of the way as I exit the bathroom and head for the closet. “Who was in here with him? I need the girl’s name, address, and phone number.”

  “I can’t give you—” He stops short when I shoot him a deadly glance. “I’ll get it.”

  All that’s left in the closet is a couple of hangers and a gray UNLV hoodie crumpled on the floor. I snatch it up and look inside, seeing if the girl was stupid enough to put her initials on the tag. My phone is vibrating like crazy in my back pocket. Hunt is going to want to know where that suitcase is. I should never have trusted Garrett to facilitate the drop.

  For four years, this arrangement has worked. Garrett picks up the cash from various criminal enterprises and brings it back to the casino. The money is divvied up to my team members in amounts between $8,000 and $10,000, to avoid automatic tax reporting. Then, that money is gambled away at various casinos around the state of Nevada. We rotate teams and casinos, and, with Hunt’s help, we’ve done it this way for four years without a single hiccup.

  I should have seen that Garrett was getting too sloppy. Just like that fucking four-hundred-pound IED, I should have seen this coming.

  I strip the covers and sheets off the bed, shaking them out to see if anything falls out, a phone, a diary, anything, but there’s nothing. I open the top drawer on the nightstand and roll my eyes at the Holy Bible, King James edition.

  I was named Kingston Jameson at birth by a father who wanted me to be a king and a mother who believed in the glory and mercy of God. But God had no mercy when he took my mother from me while I was in that hellish desert on the other side of the world. And he sure as hell hasn’t proven his glory to me in the years since.

  I slam the drawer shut and round the foot of the bed to search the other nightstand. But as I reach for the knob, Danny Hefner arrives with the girl’s contact information. I copy her name — Brianna Everly — and her address and phone number into my contacts.

  “I’ll send someone to sanitize the room,” I say, tucking my phone into my back pocket. “You have any idea where she’d go? She got any friends around here? Someone I can talk to?”

  “Her friend got her the job, but she doesn’t work here. What was her name?” Danny mutters to himself as he tries to remember.

  “We’re all set,” Santos says, entering the room.

  “Thanks. Just hang tight,” I reply, nodding toward the corridor. “We might need to question some people.”

  “No one here knew her,” Danny corrects me. “But I think her friend’s name is Tiffany. She’s a friend of a friend. I can get her last name.”

  I cock an eyebrow at him. “Then get me her fucking last name. I haven’t got all night.”

  He nods hastily. “Right. Of course. I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

  I roll my eyes as he leaves again. “Help me sweep the room,” I motion to Santos.

  He looks behind the curtains, and we both pull out the bed to look behind the headboard. I peek behind the framed art prints on the walls, under the bed and furniture, inside the lampshades. I guess the girl didn’t try to make herself at home on her first day as a prostitute.

  As this thought occurs to me, I remember a pickup pulling out of the lot when we pulled up about fifteen minutes ago. I was in the backseat of the SUV while Santos was driving, and I had no reason to suspect anyone was leaving with the suitcase when we arrived, so I didn’t think to check out who was driving the pickup.

  “Did you see who was driving that pickup when we pulled into the lot?” I ask Santos as he lifts the mattress to look underneath.

  He lets it drop and scowls at me. “It was a blonde. Was that her? Should we go after her?”

  I shake my head as I take a seat on the edge of the bed. “She’s long gone by now. We’re better off trying to find out where she’s headed.”


  I stare at the UFO pattern on the high-traffic carpet for a while as I try to think of what I would do if I were still a clueless grunt scraping by on my $2,900-a-month staff sergeant salary. What would I do if I found a suitcase full of cash back then?

  As usual, whenever I think of my time in the military, I think of missing my mom’s funeral. I shake off the guilt and reach for the drawer on the nightstand, the one I haven’t searched yet. Pulling the knob, I smile as a glint of gold sparkles at the bottom of the dark drawer.

  I stand from the mattress and peer inside, reaching down to grasp the delicate gold necklace with the heart-shaped charm. As I turn toward the light pouring in from the corridor, I hold the charm at eye-level, squinting as I read the words etched into the back:

  For Izzy

  From Pop

  * * *

  “Rise and shine, ginger,” I say as the curvy redhead in the oversized Raptors T-shirt, who’s currently tied to a metal dining chair in her breakfast nook, blinks her eyes open.

  Her eyes widen with terror, and she tries to scream, but the duct tape over her mouth won’t allow it. She glances at her boyfriend, who’s slumped over in the chair he’s tied to right next to her. Tears spill over the rims of her eyelids, and she begins to hyperventilate as her nose gets stuffed up from the crying.

  I nod at the girl, and Santos grabs the corner of her duct tape. “Try to scream and I’ll put the tape right back on. I don’t give a fuck if you suffocate. Are we clear?”

  She nods vigorously as snot begins to drip out of her nose. Santos rips the tape off in one swift motion and she yelps.

  “Ah-ah-ah, you gotta be quiet, ginger, or that tape’s going right back on. You got me?” I remind her as she begins to sob.

  She squeezes her eyes shut and nods again. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. I promise. Please don’t put it back on,” she pleads as she glances at her boyfriend again. “Is he dead? Oh, my God. Did you kill him?”