by David Carter
DEAD MAN WALKING
DAVID CARTER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 David Carter
Cover design © 2018 by rockingbookcovers.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All rights reserved.
For Kat.
Your strength, courage, and determination will forever inspire me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Firstly, thank you to my beautiful wife, Diane, for your continual support and patience through this journey. It means everything to me.
To my fans and followers on social media who continually encourage me to push myself and deliver the best I possibly can, I salute you. Your support is always appreciated and never goes unnoticed. You are the reason I do this. Thank you all for making the pain and sacrifice worth it.
Thank you to John Hewett, Sharon Dean, and Wayne Logan. Having support in my local town is huge, and being the cover story of the first publication of The Friday Edition was one of the coolest things that’s ever happened to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I’d like to once again thank my editor, Sally Odgers, for her wisdom, cast-iron stomach, and ability to put the finishing touches on my work. Blaze just wouldn’t be the same without your expert advice. You’re the best!
And finally, thank you Toni Arnesen for your time and effort in proofreading this novel. There is nothing like a fresh set of eyes for that final polish!
Find David on Facebook: @davidcarterauthor
Or on Instagram @the_fit_author
“Happiness often sneaks through a door you didn’t know you left open.”
John Barrymore.
Also by David Carter
Blaze series
From The Shadows
Sinners & Scarecrows
Dead Man Walking
Prologue
Auburn Prison
New York
1982
Stefan Wagner’s restraints clinked and rattled as he sombrely stepped into the execution room. From all four corners, guards armed to the teeth made sure he made no abrupt movements. Death awaited him. There was no turning back. Life as he knew it was over.
“Move it, asshole,” the black officer escorting him said, roughly shoving him in the small of his back. He couldn’t wait to be rid of this parasite.
Wagner took a seat in “Old Sparky”, a crudely built electric chair sitting in the centre of the room. He inhaled deeply before assuming his position. He was ready for the afterlife.
The officer tightened the bindings around Wagner’s wrists, ankles, and pasty-white skinhead. “The world will be a better place without vermin like you,” he said gruffly.
Wagner ignored his taunt, gazing across the empty space towards the viewing room opposite him. Family members of the victims he’d brutally murdered in the name of his beliefs and bloodline mercilessly stared back.
He felt a surge of confidence as two of his comrades entered the viewing room at the rear of the crowd. They gave him a nod of certainty, that his legacy would continue, that everything he stood for wouldn’t be lost or forgotten; they would expand his empire to heights of which he could not even contemplate.
The officer placed his hand on Old Sparky’s operational switch, and said to Wagner, “Your time is up. This is the end for you and your people. Have you any last words?”
Wagner spat in disgust, and in an oily voice replied, “Oh, this is certainly not the end.” He paused to cackle in amusement. “This is merely the beginning.”
The officer angrily pulled the switch and looked on with pleasure as he fried the leader of the notorious Aryan Brotherhood.
Chapter 1
North Country
New York State
April 2017
John Herbet slowly backed his Chevrolet pickup and boat trailer to the edge of the Hudson River with excited anticipation. I can feel it; today is my lucky day. I’m gonna catch the biggest fish and win the tournament! he thought.
After launching his boat, he fired up the motor and took a deep lungful of crisp air as he leisurely chugged upstream towards his favourite fishing spot. Thirty minutes later he baited his hook, opened an ice-cold beer, and waited for the fish to bite.
Two frustrating hours went by and after catching nothing but undersized yellow perch, he decided to try his hand at his secret spot. He motored upstream until he made anchor and repeated his routine.
The moment he dropped his line, he had a bite.
A big bite.
His rod folded over on itself; the line strained under the weight.
“Holy shit!” He struggled as he reeled it in bit by bit. “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch!” he said through gritted teeth as the giant fish slowly came to the surface.
He reached for his net to haul the beauty onto his boat. No wonder that was hard, I must have dragged a ton of algae up with it, he thought as he saw the stringy mass appear above the water.
Then he saw what the algae was attached to. Except it wasn’t algae at all. He dropped his net and almost toppled into the river in shock. The algae turned out to be long strands of hair.
Human hair.
John felt the colour drain from his tanned skin as he saw the woman’s body surface from the bottom of the Hudson.
Three hours later, FBI Special Agent Morgan Doyle cleared a path through the mob of detectives and reporters swarming the scene. There was something intriguing about the victim’s body that one of the detectives had noticed. He was an acquaintance of Doyle, and knew that the laughed-upon agent would be most interested with his discovery.
Doyle inspected the victim and thanked his detective-friend for the tip-off. He promised to make it up to him some day. That’s the fourth body found in the area in three months. I know I’m onto something, he convinced himself.
Doyle called his superior, explaining the relevance of the woman’s body. He felt confident he would listen to his theory this time. After an intense wait while his superior considered his case, he replied, “Maybe your theory isn’t as laughable as we first thought. I’ll go out on a limb for you this time. What do you need, Doyle? Name it and I’ll approve your request.”
Doyle breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, I’m getting somewhere with these bureaucrat-assholes, he thought. “I need an asset,” he said. “Someone with no ties, no boundaries, ruthless to the bone, and who isn’t afraid to die if things go south.”
His superior exhaled deeply into the phone. “It’s your lucky day, Doyle. I happen to know where you might find such a man. We’ve been monitoring an underground fighting ring in downtown Manhattan, full of ruthless brutes with a death-wish. But be warned, what you see will likely make your stomach churn. And make sure no one identifies you; you won’t walk out alive if you’re made.” He relayed the details.
“Thank you, sir,” Doyle replied. “I’m gonna show you all that I’m not as crazy as you think I am.”
“Make sure you do, Doyle, or it’s your ass on the line. Understand? No more time, money, and resources wasted on your hunch; case closed. Do we have a deal?”
“We have a deal,” Doyle replied, and clicked off the call.
Chapter 2
New York City
The maniacal crowd swarmed inside the underground Manhattan arena as the bell signalled the fight was about to begin.
Two contenders.
<
br /> One victor.
No rules.
The fight was dubbed by the promoter as “Black verses white”—a battle between the current reigning underground champion: the violent and aggressive Jermaine Miller, and the mysterious, unknown contender, who had earned the right to fight for the title by destroying whatever pieces of scum were thrown in his path. No one knew who he was or where he had come from. Everyone simply referred to him as Blaze. He was covered in tattoos and built for fighting arenas such as these; he was ripped with muscle from head to toe.
Many anxious men violently pushed and shoved their way through the sea of pungent, sweating bodies, frantically throwing bundles of crumpled bills onto the bookie’s table, placing their last-minute bets on Jermaine. Anyone who had seen him fight in the underground circuit was expecting a bloodbath.
Skinny-Jay, a renowned gangsta and the event promoter, sealed the cage shut from the outside with a padlock and chain. Let the mayhem begin, he thought with a toothy grin. His upper row of golden teeth glinted in the bright lights dangling from the ceiling. He pulled back his long braided hair as he adjusted his red fedora hat before shuffling his way back to his viewing booth, parking his lard-ass on an unfortunate velvet red couch; cigar in hand.
The noise from the crowd was intense. The volume was increasing by the second. Only one man would emerge from the cage; the loser would be thrown into a dumpster for the rats to devour. No one would remember his name.
The bell clanged and the fighters locked horns. The crowd roared as one. Blaze, the smaller of the two and the bookies’ underdog, easily fought off his slightly larger opponent. He was lightning fast. His bare fists swatted away Jermaine’s attempt to wrestle him to the ground and he let fly a brutal combo of punches to his face.
POP, POP POW!
Jermaine’s head snapped back with each blow. Blood poured from his rounded nose and chunky lips.
The crowd went apeshit. This was not written in the script.
Jermaine retreated while he regained his faculties. His vision cleared enough to witness every muscle in Blaze’s body convulse as he jumped high in the air and delivered a savage kick to the side of his face. Jermaine went down. Hard.
“Get up, bitch,” Blaze ridiculed him.
Jermaine snorted at his remark. He pulled himself up and launched at Blaze. He slammed him hard against the cage. It rattled and shook as Jermaine reached for Blaze’s neck and wrapped his giant hands around his throat, bashing the back of his skull against the rusty, blood-stained iron grill.
Blaze maintained his composure and reached for Jermaine’s nuts. He violently squeezed and twisted the unnaturally large package. Jermaine was as tough as they came, but brute strength and cock-size counted for little when one’s balls were being squeezed within a fraction of containment.
I guess it’s true what they say about black folks, Blaze thought with a smirk, then headbutted Jermaine’s fleshy nose. He let him fall to the ground to recuperate; he wasn’t finished playing with him just yet.
As the fight continued, two men looked on with great interest from the back of the arena. They were both drenched in sweat as their black, long-sleeved shirts covered their racial tattoos. The two skinheads figured that in a predominantly Negro crowd, this was one occasion they were better off to not reveal their true colours. Scarface was mesmerised by the skills of Blaze. He kept his eyes pinned on the fight as he said to Lucky, “You found out who this guy is yet?”
“I’ve been asking around,” Lucky replied. “But I ain’t found out shit. He’s a fucking ghost.”
“No bother; either way I want him— bad.”
“What makes you think he can beat Jermaine? Surely he will eventually wear his weak-ass down?”
Scarface appeared deep in thought as he scratched the red scar tissue on his left check and down the side of his neck, then replied, “I don’t think so. I can see the pain in his eyes. He’s fighting for something, or someone. There’s no way he’s losing this match. Every fight I’ve seen of his he almost seems possessed.”
“Care to put your money where your mouth is?” Lucky said with a grin.
“How does one thousand sound?”
“Make it two.”
“Done.”
The two men shook hands and watched on as Jermaine and Blaze wrestled violently on the ground.
Jermaine cursed in pain as Blaze tore a sizable portion of his ear off with his teeth. They untangled and went to their separate corners. Blaze casually let the chunk of earlobe and cartilage slide from of his mouth and fall to the cage floor. Blood mixed with a stream of saliva dribbled over the stubble on his chin. “I think you left your lipstick in the toilets with your boyfriend,” Blaze snickered.
Jermaine charged at Blaze with everything he had. I’m not about to lose to this piece of white trash, he thought.
He was severely mistaken.
Blaze let the memories of his recent past flood his mind. His eyes narrowed, his pulse accelerated; his anger reached boiling point. As Jermaine rapidly approached him, Blaze dropped into a crouch, then launched himself forward with explosive power. The impact was brutal: two physically gifted men colliding at full velocity. But it was Blaze who got the upper hand. Jermaine crashed on his back and suddenly had a savage monster in his face, snarling and delivering blow after crippling blow. Blaze didn’t let up. His arm-speed only increased. His bare knuckles relentlessly pounded Jermaine’s bloodied, mangled face.
The crowd went silent as Blaze ceased his attack, then started cheering with excitement as he dragged the motionless body to the side of the cage. He stood him up for everyone to see, then repeatedly smashed Jermaine’s skull into the cage’s steel frame. Eventually it cracked open. Blood and shards of bone spattered out over the onlooking crowd at the foot of the cage. They all savoured the taste of death as their screams of admiration filled the arena.
Jermaine’s body flopped to the ground.
Game over.
Lucky shook his head in disbelief as he handed over a wad of cash to Scarface. “Guess you were right,” he said. “He’s a crazy motherfucker.”
Scarface smirked. “We could definitely use a guy like him. Do whatever it takes; find out where he lives.”
Lucky assured him he would.
Skinny-Jay unlocked the cage and announced Blaze as the champion. The crowd was still going berserk as Blaze accepted his match fee and stepped down onto the arena floor. The crowd mobbed him, as everyone wanted to touch their new hero as he made his exit. Blaze punched over the first man who laid a finger on him. “Get your fucking hands off me,” he snarled.
Skinny-Jay’s posse of gangstas escorted Blaze across the room without another word spoken.
Nobody, except Blaze, noticed the tall, lone figure standing in the back corner of the arena dialling a number into his cell phone. He seemed to look out of place in the raucous crowd.
“I think I’ve hit the jackpot,” Agent Doyle said when his superior answered. “I just watched a man destroy Jermaine Miller with barely a scratch laid on him.”
“Excellent,” his superior replied. “He must be one hell of a brute if he beat Jermaine. What’s his name?”
“That’s the thing: no one knows. He’s not from around these parts. But from what I’ve gathered, everyone calls him Blaze.”
“And you think he would be accepted into the brotherhood if we convinced him to play ball?”
“I’m one-hundred percent confident he’d get in. Scarface and Lucky are eying him up after winning his bout tonight. If anything I’d say they’ll be begging him to join, and soon.”
“Excellent. Go ahead and make the necessary arrangements. And after you’ve given him a full vetting, I want to see first-hand what he’s made of.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Doyle replied, then clicked off the call and followed Blaze out of the arena.
Chapter 3
Agent Doyle shivered as he stepped outside into the cool evening breeze. It was the first week of April.
Spring was officially declared in New York. The lingering remnants of winter coursed through the vast city streets as Doyle pushed his way through the crowded sidewalk, tailing Blaze.
Blaze walked along with a slight limp and his head down. The hustle-bustle and bright billboards illuminating the countless city sky scrapers didn’t excite him in the slightest. He stopped and leaned back against one of the buildings along the sidewalk and lit up a cigarette. He’d given up smoking a few years earlier, but the recent events of his life demanded some kind of refuge for his broken mind. The smooth inhaling and smell of tobacco smoke calmed him enough to forget about his pain for a fraction of time. Minutes later, he tossed his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and heaved himself up, which was when his brilliant, underutilised mind noticed something. The tiny black hairs on the back of his shaved scalp tingled; something didn’t feel right. He trudged along for a few blocks and entered a 24/7 convenience store. He purchased two pre-paid burner phones and a pack of Camels before heading down the nearest flight of stairs towards the underground subway.
*
Doyle discreetly slipped through the turnstile after him.
Blaze leaned back against one of the grimy tiled walls. His muscles bulged through his thin black singlet as he folded his arms while waiting for the train to arrive at the platform. He looked mean, bearing his tapestry of outlandish tattoos for all to see. His negative aura cast a wide circumference. Doyle kept a safe distance between them, pretending to read something interesting on his phone.
Moments later, the train whooshed into the station. Once it had stopped, Blaze slipped into the rear carriage and took one of the two vacant seats. Doyle took the other. As the doors were about to close, a frail old lady clambered aboard. She stumbled as the train jerked forward. Blaze instinctively leapt from his seat and caught her before she hit the aisle-floor. “Are you okay?” he asked her.
