122 Rules

by Deek Rhew

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapters

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Pandamoon Publishing

  122 Rules

  Book One of The 122 Rules Series

  By Deek Rhew

  © 2016 by Deek Rhew

  This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known history, events, situations, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Any similarity in this book to a living person is unintentional and the author has made every effort to not identify or defame any party. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pandamoonpublishing.com/

  Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing

  Editing by Zara Kramer, Rachel Schoenbauer, Anya Kagan, and Jessica Reino at Pandamoon Publishing

  Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC

  Edition: 1

  Dedication

  For the tenacious: Never give up.

  122 Rules

  PART 1

  1

  Monica and the three goons in the death wagon drove for what felt like an eternity. A man with the chest and shoulders of a linebacker and a face chiseled out of granite sat opposite her on the backseat. Clad in a three-piece suit and dark sunglasses, he had first captured then belted her into the large SUV. But now it seemed the fun for him had ended, and he only glanced her way on the occasional mile.

  The man in the passenger front seat with the broken nose ignored her, giving his full attention to the road ahead. The hood of his sweatshirt had fallen back, revealing the bristles of a crew cut as sharp and squared away as the Super Bowl field on the morning of game day. He wiped his sleeve across his upper lip, leaving a trail of blood on the dingy gray fabric. After their altercation earlier, his groin and ribs had to be aching as well. A thin smirk of satisfaction played across her lips. If only for a moment, she’d had the upper hand.

  Monica’s smile faded as her thoughts returned to her predicament. She sat directly behind the driver. Maybe a chop to the neck or a blow to the temple would disable him? Would that cause him to lose control of the vehicle? Could she grab the wheel and yank it? If they crashed into oncoming traffic, would she be able to escape the twisted metal and broken glass? Though she hadn’t seen the driver’s face, the thickness of the man’s shoulders beneath his suit jacket rivaled Granite’s. This man could swat her off as easily as an annoying spider.

  She couldn’t out-muscle them, so surprise and distraction were her only allies. Surely these meatheads carried weapons. Could she startle one of them—maybe scream in Driver’s ear since he was focused on navigating the busy city streets and would be less able to react—and grab his gun? She would hold the barrel to his neck, forcing him to pull the car over, and blast anyone that tried to stop her. The idea had merit. But Granite sat only inches away; he would enjoy subduing her.

  Though the idea made her nerves cringe, she could dive out the door. They did that on TV all the time. Fall and roll, right? Looked simple enough. But she doubted it worked in real life. In the movies, no cars ever trailed behind the hero as she made her escape. Most likely, she would be mowed down by one of the insane taxis that prowled the boulevards. At the very least, she’d break a leg or twist her ankle, and they would recapture her.

  But the closer they got to wherever these brutes were taking her, the faster her viable options dwindled. Seeing no alternative, she tensed, fingers wrapped around the door’s release handle. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath and pulled the lever.

  The door didn’t budge.

  Shit. Child locks. Of course these guys would have thought of that. She looked up to find Crew Cut watching her.

  He pointed at her lap. “You forgot to unbuckle your belt too.” Her eyes dropped to the buckle. Duh! The corners of his lips curled up, then he turned away to watch out his window, uninterested.

  Shit.

  No one said anything for a few miles. Finally, Monica turned to Granite. “Look, before you kill me, can I at least call and say goodbye to my family?”

  * * *

  As time and distance slipped past, Monica ran and reran each scenario in her head. Each new option of escaping these men seemed even less likely than the last.

  They surprised her when they turned into an underground garage. Driver handed a plastic card to the stern security guard who met them at the gate. Another guard stayed back but kept his hand on his holster. He hadn’t drawn one of the several weapons hanging from his belt but looked competent and ready to go to war at the slightest provocation. The first guard, who looked like he drank from the same steroid-laden stream as Granite, examined the embossed card, made a call, and waved them through.

  These were not rent-a-cops.

  What the hell? She hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly not a military-like fortress. Maybe an abandoned warehouse—her mind refused to imagine what they had in store for her there—or a deserted pier, followed by a swim in the Hudson. At least they hadn’t made her ride in the trunk.

  They parked, and, in unison, the three men got out. Evidently only she required a child lock. Granite came around and opened her door, but she didn’t budge. After a few seconds, he unbuckled her belt and lifted her out of the car with the same odd gentleness he had used to deposit her into the seat.

  Learning from the mistakes Crew Cut had made earlier, they surrounded her as they marched to an armored, unmarked door. The entrance had no handle; instead, Driver swiped his card and typed something into the inset keypad. He looked into the lens of a nearby camera mounted in the rough-hewn rock wall. A second later, the door buzzed and clicked. Driver opened it. She glanced about, desperate for any opportunity to es
cape, as they ushered her inside then down a long, dimly lit, colorless hall. Granite pushed through one of many indistinguishable side doors into a narrow room. The small space, empty save two chairs and a table, had a can-it-be-more-obvious-that-it’s-a-one-way-glass mirror covering half the far wall.

  Granite took a position in the corner, perhaps to ensure her cooperation, perhaps for intimidation. Monica turned from him to the rail-thin woman who trailed in his wake. Her severe features were exacerbated by a bun so tight it pulled the corners of her eyes back, as though a discount plastic surgeon had arrived intoxicated to her facelift. She wore a crisp white shirt, creased blue slacks, and no makeup.

  As the woman began to thoroughly pat her down, Monica grabbed the woman’s arm and twisted it around. “Get your hands off of me,” she growled.

  The unmistakable click of a gun next to her ear made her blood freeze. Swift and silent as the wind, Granite had stepped forward to protect his coworker.

  Bad Facelift yanked her arm free, giving Monica a knowing, satisfied glare. She finished the frisk, even taking Monica’s watch and plucking the ring off her finger. Then she waved a wand over Monica, searching for telltale bits of metal. Granite had taken Monica’s phone, purse, and satchel bag when he had first apprehended her. The stern woman had them in a large plastic sack and now added Monica’s jewelry to the haul. Then both Granite and Bad Facelift left, closing the door behind them.

  Monica tried the knob, but of course it refused to turn.

  Shit.

  She pressed her face against the one-way glass, cupping her hands around her eyes to block out the light. If she stared hard enough, she might be able to see who watched her from the other side.

  Only her own reflection stared back.

  She banged on the glass. “Heeeelllllooo, anyone in there? You can’t just lock me up. I get a phone call.”

  When no answer came, she examined the door. She’d seen a movie where the hero had escaped by punching the pins out of the hinges. But Monica had no tools and tore off part of her fingernail after a few minutes of fussing and grunting. She rapped her knuckles on the entrance’s surface, but it felt solid and heavy. The handle seemed the most vulnerable to her efforts, but she had nothing with which to jimmy the latch open. Cursing, she kicked the door and began to pace.

  The windowless room had no clock, so she had no way to know how much time had passed. At this rate, though, she would not be attending tomorrow morning’s Legal Ethics class. She stopped and looked around at the small space. Maybe not the one after that either.

  She went back to the window and searched for gaps in the frame. Having found nothing, Monica pressed her ear to the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. Only the sound of air moving through the ducts greeted her.

  She tried banging on the glass again. “Hey, anyone home yet? I need to pee. Keeping someone from urinating is considered cruel and unusual punishment. I go to law school and know about such things.” She pounded again. “Hello?”

  Still no reply.

  Frustrated, she slid to the floor, her back against the wall, and started counting the holes in the ceiling tiles. When she reached 1,000, her stomach growled.

  Just as she considered throwing one of the chairs through the window, a short, bespectacled man swept into the room. He wore a crisp white shirt, blue tie, creased blue slacks, and shiny black shoes. This guy and Bad Facelift must shop at the same military surplus store. All spit and polish.

  He carried a file and an air of casual authority with him. He smiled at her, probably to put her at ease. It only kicked her anxiety up a couple of notches.

  “Hi, my name is Jon Smith, sorry for the wait. Can we get you anything? Water? Tea? Coffee?”

  “My phone and a cab home?”

  Jon chuckled and sat down, motioning for her to do the same in the opposite seat. “So, Monica is it?”

  She nodded and followed suit. Her chair—the no-frills, no-specific-color, plastic variety—reminded her of a larger version of the kind she’d had in elementary school. Unlike the one Jon sat in, hers had no rollers and didn’t recline. Its entire purpose seemed to be keeping the occupant uncomfortable. It succeeded. Also, it was short.

  When she settled into her seat, Jon towered eight to ten inches above her, even though, when standing, he only came up to her chin. Monica seethed at the obvious strategy for psychological dominance: he could play both sides of the coin from this position. Even when he smiled, she could see Bad Cop right beneath the surface.

  Everything that had happened since they had nabbed her at the library had been designed to intimidate her—locking her in the black SUV, ginormous goons, leaving her alone in this little room for hours on end without her cell or any way of contacting the outside world. Now this little demonstration of authority… She screwed in her resolve, refusing to give in, and sat up straight in her chair, staring into the little man’s eyes. She would make him blink.

  “Seems you had a little meeting today,” Good Cop smiled. Please tell me everything, his eyes seemed to say.

  In her psychology classes, Monica had studied ways to get information from people. One of the most effective techniques was to make a simple, open-ended, often-wrong statement then remain silent. In response to this non-question, the other person, more often than not, would start babbling, if not to correct the inaccuracy then to fill the uncomfortable empty space. Monica didn’t answer, letting the quiet spin out.

  Several tense but wordless minutes passed. He seemed reflective when he continued. “Not sure what part you play in the operation. We also didn’t see how you got there. We have been trailing those guys for months, waiting for a meeting just like that one. You must have slipped in before we arrived.”

  “You mean that little tryst between Baldy and the guy that sounded like Joe Pesci?”

  He chuckled again, though it sounded forced and placating. Just barely Good Cop; more like Annoyed Cop. “Yes, that.”

  “Look, I don’t know what this is all about. I was just reading, minding my own business, when these guys showed up and started talking. I don’t know what they were talking about exactly. But it sounded shady, so I did the Good Samaritan thing and tried to help.”

  Good Cop vanished like an apparition. “So you want me to believe that one of the biggest drug dealers in New York and his favorite knee buster just showed up without a care in the world and started yammering about their business right in front of you? Only a couple of people knew that meeting was going to take place, and you coincidentally happened to be there? That’s what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Indignation fed her building rage. “I didn’t know about the meeting, and I have no idea who those guys are. What I do know is I don’t want any part of you”—she pointed at him—“or any part of this. I’ve got midterms to study for, so unless I’m under arrest, you have no right to hold me. I am leaving now.” She stood and started moving towards the door.

  “You understand that it would be easier to take you seriously if you hadn’t just been arrested on drug possession.”

  Monica rolled her eyes. “It was only about a gram of coke. At a small get-together back in Alabaster Cove, a friend of mine gave me a little as a going-away present. I forgot about it, and when I got pulled over for speeding it fell out of my purse. I did a few hours in custody and was released. You obviously have the report, so you already know all of this.”

  “I see.” He had opened the folder flat on the desk and appeared to be reading.

  She stood next to the door, arms folded, fingers drumming against her bicep.

  “Can you as easily explain the time you spent in juvie for murder?”

  Oh shit. Dread flooded her veins and invaded the hollow of her gut. Monica moved slowly back to her seat—her very short seat—and dropped into it. Her eyes settled on the pictures Jon casually perused. They were upside down to her, but she didn’t need to see to know what they contained. Blood on the floor. Bl
ood on the bed. Blood splattered in a rainbow pattern across the wall. A dead man with his head caved in. A baseball bat with Louisville Slugger in blue script and clumps of scalp and bloody fingerprints—her fingerprints—along its sleek oak-colored length. Her body threatened to disgorge her stomach’s contents right there on the no-color floor, and only by herculean efforts did she prevent the tuna salad she’d had for lunch from making a grand reappearance.

  “I thought those records had been sealed?” Her voice sounded barren and deflated even to her own ears. “I thought it was illegal to access them without a direct order from the court.”

  Jon smiled a non-smile while his eyes drilled into her skull. “What you need to understand is that we are above the law. The sooner you get that into your genius-level head, the easier this will be.”

  Defeat, as thick as molasses, dulled her senses and deflated her spirit.

  When she didn’t answer, he continued, “So let me spell this out. Someone with a history of drugs and murder has recently traveled across the country. She allegedly ‘attends’ school but has no formal address and, as far as we can tell, no friends. Her instructors say she has well above average intelligence, but only sporadically attends class and speaks to no one. This woman with almost no societal ties and little traceability attends a meeting with a high-powered dealer and a hitman. You’re a smart girl; do you see the picture this paints?”

  The little man sat ramrod erect in his high chair in an attempt to make himself into a larger-than-life bully. Compensating for something? Heat and anger replaced the liquid lead that clogged every thoroughfare in her circulatory system. “Look, if you actually had anything on me, I’d already be in jail. But seeing as how we are having this little conversation and I have no cuffs on, you clearly don’t have any proof. Just access to records that you shouldn’t and a wild imagination for the dramatic. Thus unless you plan to formally charge me, I’m free to go.” She stood again.