He shook the Devil’s Cut once for effect, the dark amber liquid sloshing around inside.
“Besides, this has always been more as a favor to Riley. Even though she’s gone...”
At that he stopped, letting his voice trail away, the implication clear.
“Yeah, I always figured as much,” Reed said. “I just never wanted you to think I was using that as leverage.”
“I wouldn’t have helped if I thought you were,” Deek replied.
It was easily the most lucid statement Reed had ever heard him make.
A flush of blood colored his cheeks as he looked down to Billie, her stomach pressed tight to the floor, already again retreating to her rest when you can training.
“I will admit, though,” Deek said, “I was a little surprised to hear you working with a new partner on this.”
Reed kept his attention down on Billie a moment, considering the statement, before raising his gaze. “This is my partner now.”
He paused there, considering the days spent working with Glenn, and said, “There’ll never be another Riley. You know that.”
Seated behind the desk, Deek opened his mouth as if to respond before thinking better of it. Instead he stood and plodded off into the bedroom portion of the basement, Reed able to hear the sound of items being moved around before Deek returned, his stocking feet shuffling across the bare floor.
Side by side he placed two shot glasses on the edge of his desk before twisting off the top of the Devil’s Cut. He filled both before placing the bottle down and taking up the far glass, holding it at shoulder level.
“To Riley.”
A moment passed as Reed stared at him, holding his position, his glass outstretched, before he stepped forward and took up the drink that had been poured for him.
“To Riley.”
Turn the page for a sneak peek of The Partnership, book 4 in the Reed & Billie series!
Sneak Peek
The Partnership, Reed & Billie Book 4
A steady and persistent plume of white rose from the rear tailpipe of the Chevy Caprice as the warm exhaust hit the cold night air, beginning in a concentrated clump and spreading outward before dissipating into nothing. The acrid smell of it bit at The Muscle’s nose as he stepped from the driver’s seat and walked toward the trunk, leaving the door open behind him, the faint sound of the radio just barely audible.
Motown.
The kind of music they used to make back before computers and synthesizers replaced musicians and instruments. The sort of thing The Businessman would never understand the significance of, would never lower himself to listen to.
At half past two in the morning nobody else was out, the bridge The Muscle was parked on completely deserted, the desolation to be expected on a Tuesday night. The only signs of life were the lights of Columbus reflecting up off the water below, their source equal parts office buildings and Christmas decorations, the Midwestern city in full regalia for the holiday less than a week away.
The heavy soles of The Muscle’s boots thumped against the frozen asphalt of the street as he paused by the rear bumper, paying no heed to the exhaust as it moved up the length of him, using his body like a vine climbing a piece of lattice.
On either end of the bridge arches hung out over the roadway, offering support for a pair of yellow sodium lights. Each threw down a harsh cone of illumination, the Caprice wedged into the gap between them, the rising exhaust and the silhouette of The Muscle the only signs that he was even there.
Otherwise the world was silent, just as he knew it would be.
Just as he needed it to be.
Extracting a single brass key from deep in the pocket of his corduroy slacks, The Muscle slid it into the slot just above the rear license plate, the teeth of it letting out a low moan as it passed over the frozen metal. Feeling his pulse rise, The Muscle twisted it quickly to the side, hearing the latch release.
Keeping his free hand cupped atop the trunk, he raised it just a couple of inches before stopping, taking one last glance in either direction.
At this time of night, in this part of town, there was little chance of any law enforcement being around. He was more concerned with the occasional vagrant that was known to frequent the sidewalks and bridges along the Olentangy River, people with eyes and ears that could potentially be his undoing.
This was all meant to set an example, to teach a lesson, but The Muscle had no interest in becoming a martyr in the process.
Not with things going as well as they were, with so much still left to do.
Definitely not with his partner sitting in his suite a few blocks away, shielded from the real heavy lifting of the operation.
Content that nobody was nearby, the bitter December wind having driven everybody away, scattering them to find shelter in the more confined parts of the city, The Muscle released his grip on the hood of the trunk, allowing it to rise upward, the aging springs doing their job, pushing it up to full height.
A swirl of cold air pushed into the trunk, replacing the scent of the exhaust in The Muscle’s nose, bringing with it the same smell he had spent most of the evening with, the very same aroma that now clung to his clothes, even saturated his hair.
The bitter scent was so strong The Muscle could taste it on his tongue as he surveyed the contents of the trunk, in total only four items.
In the front right corner was a bottle of radiator fluid, a vital necessity for a car with as many miles on it as the Caprice, especially in the face of a harsh Ohio winter.
Opposite it was a tire jack, the black paint on it beginning to flake off, pockets of rust starting to pop up in their wake. Beside it was nestled a can of Fix-A-Flat, the item completely empty, something The Muscle had been meaning to toss out for months but had simply not cared enough to remember.
In total those three things consumed his thoughts for less than a second, his entire focus aimed on the fourth object. Despite being curled into a ball it still demanded the lion’s share of the space, just barely fitting inside the empty interior of the compartment.
The Muscle had found that it was easier to think of such things as mere objects, life having ended hours before, humanity months or even years before that. He had no idea who they were or where they came from, in most instances not even knowing their real name.
Not that he really cared to. It wasn’t like it mattered.
To him they were simply a means to an end, a product that could be pedaled and profited from, discarded once their usefulness had run its course, much like a greasy box after the pizza inside was consumed.
The only difference between this one and many of the others was her brashness, a brazen disregard for general protocol that emboldened her to not only speak, but to even dare question how things were being done.
Such actions could not be tolerated.
Her death would be a lesson to all, his selection of the dump site deliberate, a joint decision between he and The Businessman, both wanting her remains to be found, needing the story of her demise to travel through the network.
In their experience together it was always better to quash such things before they gained enough steam to even enter the discussion of becoming an insurrection.
By that point, they had found, it was usually too late.
Another burst of wind passed over him, whipping the icy chill up off the water below, causing The Muscle’s ears to burn. Muttering softly, he moved forward until his legs pressed against the rear of the car and bent forward at the waist, placing one hand beneath the girl’s knees, the other behind her neck.
Using his back and biceps for leverage, The Muscle pulled her toward him a couple of inches before hefting the girl up, her diminutive stature feeling a bit heavier in death than he knew her slight frame to actually be. Rocking himself to full height, The Muscle allowed her to settle against his chest as he stepped up a few inches onto the curb outlining the bridge, feeling the wind get stronger as he got closer to the edge.
A f
ew stray fingers of white could be seen interrupting the surface of the river below, the surface breaks caused by the random felled tree or rocky outcropping. Framing them were the long streaks of orange and yellow from the nearby security lamps, the occasional splash of red or blue from garish decorations filling in the remaining space.
There was no pause as The Muscle walked forward as far as he could, the waist-high barrier along the roadway pressing into him, the cold of the metal passing through his clothes.
Hefting the girl twice in his arms, The Muscle got just a bit of momentum going before tossing her body away from him. There was no ceremony to the action, no moment of reflection, nothing to commemorate her or the life she had led.
For a brief moment her pale form seemed to hang suspended in air, a ghostly flash of white punctuating a dark night, before gravity won out. Just two seconds after leaving his grasp the girl landed with a small splash, the wind carrying away the sound of it, the flow of the water dispersing the cluster of bubbles that collected in her wake.
Remaining in place against the side of the bridge, The Muscle raised his hands to his face. He steepled his fingers together and blew through them, the warm breath doing little to permeate the cold.
Ignoring the stench that seemed ingrained in his fingertips, he stood and stared a moment, waiting for some flash of the girl’s body to surface.
Only once he was certain that she was gone for good, that he would never have to look at her again, did he turn back toward the warmth of the car, the writhing path of the exhaust still rising behind it.
As he went back, he couldn’t help but allow a hint of a smile to form on his face. The mirth he felt was not borne of any joy he felt in the girl’s demise, but rather in the knowledge that what he’d just done, The Businessman would never be able to do.
For as long as that were the case, The Muscle knew there was a certain indispensability to his role in the organization, to his place within the arrangement.
And more importantly, he was now armed with new evidence proving as much.
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Thank You
As a few have commented in their reviews, I know writing this letter at the end of every work is a bit unusual for writers, but I promise it comes with two reasons that are both very genuine.
First and foremost, I cannot emphasize enough how much I appreciate you taking the time to read this work. Storytelling is something I have always wanted to do, and your interest is what makes that possible for me.
Not quite two years ago I put in place something I had always wanted to do, which was feature a dog as a main character. Having read works such as The Art of Racing in the Rain and Marley & Me, I didn’t necessarily want the dog to be a pet, even less did I want to tell the story through their eyes.
It was from there that the idea from Billie was born. Again, thanks to the positive response to her, this is now the third of what I hope to be many more stories moving forward.
The second, and I know this may rankle some folks so please know it comes without the least bit of expectation or pressure, is if you would be so inclined, I would love to hear your thoughts on this novel. As always, I continue to read every review/email that is sent, and definitely take them into account when planning future works.
Again, as a token of appreciation for your reading and reviews, please enjoy a free download of my novel 21 Hours, available HERE.
Best,
Dustin Stevens
Welcome Gift
Join my newsletter list, and receive a copy of 21 Hours—my original bestseller and still one of my personal favorites—as a welcome gift!
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About the Author
Dustin Stevens is the author of more than 50 novels, the vast majority having become #1 Amazon bestsellers, including the Reed & Billie and Hawk Tate series. The Boat Man, the first release in the best-selling Reed & Billie series, was named the 2016 Indie Award winner for E-Book fiction. The freestanding work The Debt was named an Independent Author Network action/adventure novel of the year for 2017 and The Exchange was recognized for independent E-Book fiction in 2018.
He also writes thrillers and assorted other stories under the pseudonym T.R. Kohler.
A member of the Mystery Writers of America and Thriller Writers International, he resides in Honolulu, Hawaii.
Let’s Keep in Touch:
Website: dustinstevens.com
Facebook: dustinstevens.com/fcbk
Twitter: dustinstevens.com/tw
Instagram: dustinstevens.com/DSinsta
Dustin’s Books
Works Written by Dustin Stevens:
Reed & Billie Novels:
The Boat Man
The Good Son
The Kid
The Partnership
Justice
The Scorekeeper
The Bear
Hawk Tate Novels:
Cold Fire
Cover Fire
Fire and Ice
Hellfire
Home Fire
Wild Fire
Zoo Crew Novels:
The Zoo Crew
Dead Peasants
Tracer
The Glue Guy
Moonblink
The Shuffle
(Coming 2020)
Ham Novels:
HAM
EVEN
My Mira Saga
Spare Change
Office Visit
Fair Trade
Ships Passing
Warning Shot
Battle Cry
(Coming 2020)
Standalone Thrillers:
Four
Ohana
Liberation Day
Twelve
21 Hours
Catastrophic
Scars and Stars
Motive
Going Viral
The Debt
One Last Day
The Subway
The Exchange
Shoot to Wound
Peeping Thoms
The Ring
Decisions
(Coming 2020)
Standalone Dramas:
Just A Game
Be My Eyes
Quarterback
Children’s Books w/ Maddie Stevens:
Danny the Daydreamer…Goes to the Grammy’s
Danny the Daydreamer…Visits the Old West
Danny the Daydreamer…Goes to the Moon
(Coming Soon)
Works Written by T.R. Kohler:
The Hunter
The Kid: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 3) Page 27
