Seeking Vengeance

by McDonald, M. P.

  Seeking

  Vengeance

  By M.P. McDonald

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 M.P. McDonald. All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by M.P. McDonald

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Book Description:

  Sam Brennan has lost everything. Pushed past the breaking point, his solitary goal is to seek vengeance against the people responsible for robbing him of everyone he’s ever loved.

  Molly Flynn is a single mom and a paramedic whose shameful secret has her avoiding intimate relationships. When her brother shows up at her back door with an injured friend, tending to the angry man’s gunshot wounds is the last thing she wants to do, but there's something about Sam that touches Molly's heart. He's got physical injuries, yes, but Molly can clearly see his heart has been ripped to shreds. She realizes she must help heal this grief-stricken man before he makes a deadly mistake.

  Prologue

  Sam Brennan tossed back his fifth shot, craving relief from the pain. As the heat of the alcohol burned into his belly, the numbing effects spread like a warm blanket. He poured another, held the glass at eye level and admired the flickering of the fireplace flames through the amber liquid. Beautiful. He downed the whiskey in one long gulp, hardly tasting the bite anymore.

  A log popped and sent a shower of sparks swirling up the chimney. Whose idea was it to build a fire anyway? It was too damn cheery. Sam stepped back and flung the shot glass at the flames, feeling a measure of satisfaction at the explosion of glass against the back wall of the fireplace.

  "Sam? Is everything okay?"

  He turned to find Cynthia, his partner’s wife, regarding him with concern. She dried a pink bowl as she spoke. A few hours ago, the bowl had held some kind of salad. The 'guests' had raved over it between offering their condolences. He was sick of everyone's concern. Sick of holding it together. Sick of being strong. "Everything is just peachy, don'tcha think?"

  "Why don't you come back to our house tonight, Sam? Stay a few days until—"

  "Until what? Until I get over this?" He stalked towards her but stopped short, as even in his drunken haze he recognized her suggestion was only an attempt to help. Her husband, Dave, had already offered their guest room. After five years at the same field office for the ATF, they were as close as brothers, but right now, the thought of being in Dave’s home was unbearable.

  Cynthia held her ground, shaking her head in sympathy. "No, that's not what I meant." She tossed the towel over her shoulder and held the bowl in front of her, hugging it against her stomach. Tears swam in her eyes and he felt like an ass. Cynthia and Dave had taken care of the details he couldn't face. "Dave's missed you and wants to be there for you."

  Sam’s undercover status had taken him out of the office for several months and he had missed the camaraderie too, but that was before. Before his world fell apart. "I know. Dave’s a good guy." Sam’s breath hitched as he stifled a sob. Good old Dave—the guy had everything and right now, Sam hated him. He hated that Dave had a beautiful wife and two adorable children. They were the perfect family. Guilt crept through his grief. It wasn’t Dave’s fault and he wouldn’t wish his hell on anyone, let alone on his best friend, but at the same time, staying with Dave and Cynthia in their picture book home was the last place on earth Sam wanted to be tonight.

  "I…I can't. Not tonight." Waves of pain crashed over him, drowning him in their intensity. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor.

  "Sam!"

  He felt Cynthia's arm drape over his shoulders as she eased down, kneeling beside him. "It's okay. Let it out. You'll feel better."

  That was a lie. He'd never feel better. Not now, not ever. If crying would help, he'd cry buckets, but it wouldn't. Nothing would. He put his arm around Cynthia's waist, giving her an awkward hug. "I'm okay. Jus' too much to drink."

  She pulled away, searching his eyes, but he averted his face. "Sam…"

  He stood, pulling Cynthia to her feet as well. His years of working undercover had taught him that he could hide any emotion. His life had depended upon it. Now, he clung to the lessons learned, certain that if he let go and vented his grief, he'd lose his focus—lose the singular emotion that kept his heart beating.

  Revenge.

  Chapter One

  Gravel crunched under Sam Brennan's feet as he crossed the dusty lot. Sweat tickled a path down the back of his neck and he swiped it as he halted behind a row of parked motorcycles. Damn. No decals of black wings. The symbol of the Ravens biker gang had haunted his nightmares for the last year, but the tables had turned. He hunted them now.

  He turned from the bikes and squinted at the bar. Raucous laughter spilled out of the open door. Early evening meant it would be relatively safe inside, but Sam adjusted the holster under his left arm and made sure his leather jacket hid the bulge. It was a given that he wouldn't be the only one packing. Sam took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders, forcing himself to assume an easy rambling gait.

  Pausing in the entrance, he blinked a few times until his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The chatter diminished as the patrons noticed him, but after a few seconds, it ramped up to the previous volume. That was a good sign. Nobody recognized him. He'd counted on that. The thirty extra pounds he'd carried as part of his undercover persona, had melted away, leaving him back at his normal weight. His clean-shaven jaw completed the transformation. He bellied up to the bar and tossed a fifty on the scarred wood. “Bottle of Jack.”

  The bartender's eyes widened before he shrugged. “Sure.” He dug a new bottle out from beneath the bar, grabbed a glass, and set both before Sam.

  Sam gathered them, leaving the fifty as he settled at a table in the far corner where he could survey the rest of the room. He knew the generous tip would buy at least some measure of loyalty, but it would only last as long as the bottle lasted. That’s fine. He didn't intend on staying long. He poured three fingers of whiskey in the glass and suppressed a grimace. Drinking hard liquor in the middle of the afternoon was something he didn't think he'd ever get used to. He'd become a master at nursing a drink, letting the inevitable drinking companions drain the contents of the bottle.

  No sooner had he tipped the glass when his first 'guest' headed towards him. Sam pretended not to notice, keeping his eyes on the television. A ballgame played, but the sound was muted.

  “This seat taken?”

  Sam gave a backhanded wave, his eyes glued to the game. “Help yourself.”

  He pretended surprise when the man sat down. This guy was the scout. He'd dig for information and report back to some higher up. Sam had seen the routine dozens of times. Hell, he'd participated more times than he could count.

  The man would make small talk first and then Sam would offer him a drink. Before long, a few more men would approach. They would size him up, prod him for information in the guise of being friendly. If they decided he had associations with the club, as they preferred to call themselves, he'd be okay, but if he didn't pass muster, it wouldn't go so well. If he was lucky, he'd be rolled for all his cash and that would be the end of it. Sam downed a second shot, clenching his jaw as the whiskey burned a trail down his throat. If he wasn't lucky, he'd be beaten or worse. He poured a third shot. Today was his lucky day. The hard metal nestled under his arm guaranteed that.

  Sam didn't feel like playing the game today, and when the guy began his small talk, Sam glared at him. “What the hell do you think you're d
oing? Did I invite you to sit here?”

  The young guy's mouth dropped open in surprise before he snapped it shut. He leaned forward, and Sam had to give him credit for having balls. “I don't ask no one permission to sit. I sit where I want, when I want.”

  A couple of zits dotted the guy's face and Sam wondered if the pup was even legal age to drink. Not that it mattered. At this kind of bar, the state didn't make the laws. The gangs made their own and enforced them with their own brand of justice. He shrugged. “Aw, hell. I don't care. Have a seat.” Sam allowed a half-smile to play across his mouth. “Just having a bad day. Why don't you get yourself a glass and share a drink with me?”

  The hostility eased in the young guy's eyes and he nodded. “Sounds good.” He caught the bartender's attention and raised his chin. A moment later, a waitress dropped off a second glass.

  Sam poured him a generous portion and lifted his own glass. “To better days.”

  The pup grinned and added his own toast. “To hot women!”

  Sam laughed. “Can't argue with that.” He tipped his drink, consuming only a minimum amount. The kid was all right. After refilling the glasses, Sam stuck out his hand. “I'm Sam.”

  The kid darted a look over his shoulder, and after a brief hesitation, clasped Sam's hand. “They call me Flea.”

  “Glad to meet you, Flea.” He wondered how the kid had ended up with that nickname. It wasn't exactly terror inspiring, but he'd seen huge men called Rosie, so he wasn't about to question it.

  An hour later, Sam had purchased another bottle and had a couple of new friends, Tuck and Scarecrow. They were a bit older than Flea, and treated the younger man like a kid brother.

  Today, Sam was only looking to meet a few people so that he could ease into their trust. So far, his plan was working. They carried the second bottle of whiskey to the pool tables and had a few rounds. Sam made sure to lose most of the games, but won a couple, too.

  He leaned on his pool cue, taking in the others. The patches on the back of their jackets identified them as the Miscreants—a minor biker gang, but one that had aspirations. If he could get in with them, it might be his ticket to finding Ray Howard, the enforcer in the Ravens. Sam had a bullet with that man's name on it. His window for using the bullet was closing because Sam had learned that an informant was already in custody, and with his testimony, Howard would be out of Sam’s reach for years—possibly forever. Sam was sure any day, Howard would be arrested and then he’d go to trial. He couldn’t let that happen. For a man like Howard, prison wasn’t a punishment. He could operate just as well from the inside.

  Feigning drunkenness wasn't difficult as he staggered out of the bar, Flea stumbling along beside him. He wondered if the kid was in any shape to drive. “Hey man, you want a ride?” Sam's bike was big enough for two.

  Flea shook his head. “Naw, I only gotta go up the road.” He fumbled with his keys, grinning when he dropped them and bent to fish them out of the weeds lining the path from the door to the parking lot. The action saved his life.

  A motorcycle carrying two men roared through the parking lot like something out of a Mad Max movie. Sparks of fire shot from the muzzle of a gun aimed at Flea.

  “Look out!” Sam leaped, pushing Flea behind the blocks of concrete dividers at the front of the parking lot. He covering him with his own body as gravel sprayed across them. Something stung his calf like a thousand yellow jackets and he grunted. When Flea tried to get up, Sam put a hand on the back of the other man's head, holding him still. “Keep your fool head down.” He reached into his jacket for his gun.

  Glass shattered, but he couldn't tell if it was from the bar windows or from vehicles in the lot. He dared a peek over the block and saw the bike come around for another pass. Sam squeezed off a few shots, hoping the sudden swerve of the bike meant he'd done some damage. A second later, he had to duck when the passenger let loose another spray of bullets. He swore as shards of concrete stung his neck and was thankful he wore his leather coat despite the heat. He felt like a sitting duck and wasn't sure if the answering fire from within the bar was a good thing or not. While it wasn't aimed at them, bullets pinged off the blocks and burrowed into the ground all around them. He hissed at sudden burning across his back up near his shoulder.

  The element of surprise lost, the bike roared away, leaving the parking lot eerily silent except for the tinkle of glass hitting the ground. After a few moments, the bikers inside poured out. Tuck and Scarecrow leaped down the steps and rushed to their side. Others followed, shouting obscenities at the retreating tail light of the motorcycle.

  Sam holstered his gun and grit his teeth as he levered up to sit on the concrete block closest to him. His leg throbbed, but the pain across his shoulders kept him from leaning forward to inspect the damage. He sat, hands gripping his knees and tried not to pass out.

  “Flea? Man, you okay?”

  Sam glanced up as Tuck bent down beside Flea. Had the kid been shot?

  Flea's hands dropped from covering his head to the grass, and he pushed to his feet. “Shit. Yeah, I think so. Man…What the hell was that about?”

  Scarecrow scrutinized Sam before turning to Flea. “Those were Ravens. I think they're still gunning for you, Flea.”

  Sam wanted to ask about that, but sirens wailed in the distance. Soon, the cops would be crawling all over the place and that was the last thing he wanted. He needed to get to his bike and get the hell out of Dodge. Unable to suppress a grunt, he stood and took a few hobbling steps before his vision started tunneling. Damn it. He blinked and shook his head.

  “Sam? Were you hit?” Tuck's hand gripped Sam's right elbow, steadying him.

  “Nothing major, just a couple of grazes I think. Might have just been gravel.”

  “Let me see.”

  Tuck tried to steer him back to the concrete block, but Sam shook him off. “No, gotta get…going. Police will be here…soon.”

  “Sam, you're bleeding.” Flea wavered in Sam's vision.

  “I gotta go.” The police would blow everything. He stumbled towards his bike, but seconds later, Tuck and Flea were beside him.

  Tuck put an arm around Sam's waist. “Lean on me. We'll get you out of here.”

  Grateful for the help, Sam pointed out his bike and pulled his keys out of his pocket as they neared it.

  Tuck took the keys from him. “I'll drive.” Sam nodded, and climbed onto the higher backseat. The sirens were closing in. Tuck said something to Flea and shouted something to someone back at the bar, but Sam couldn't focus on what they were saying.

  A moment later, Tuck straddled the bike. “Hold on.”

  Sam clutched the side handles, groaning when he had to raise his left leg onto the peg. In spite of the warm temperature, he began shaking and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He had no idea where they were going, he just held on and prayed he wouldn't fall off.

  Dimly, he sensed another bike beside them and guessed it was Flea. The guy had been drunk as a skunk just a few minutes ago and Sam credited adrenaline for sobering up the kid so quickly.

  Tuck seemed to be taking every corner at full speed and it was all Sam could do to keep his balance. The rest of the ride passed in a blur of neon lights and a few minutes later, just the occasional blur of a porch light from a house. The road narrowed as they left town, and walls of corn, darker than the sky, closed in on them from each side.

  The bike slowed and turned onto a gravel road. Sam had to bite his lip to keep from crying out as they hit a pothole. A dark shape loomed ahead of them. A garage. Whose garage? Tuck drove behind the garage, stopping the bike out of sight of the road. The headlight from Flea's bike swept over them as he turned the corner and parked alongside them.

  Tuck leaned down and took Sam's right hand, draping it over his own shoulders. His other arm went around Sam's waist. “Come on, I got ya.”

  Sam nodded and put his right foot on the ground. Getting the left one over the seat was tricky, but with a grunt, he co
mpleted the maneuver.

  Flea came up on Sam's left. “I'm going to run up to the door and let Molly know what's going on.” He took off at a sprint.

  “Jeez, that kid has way too much energy,” Tuck muttered, and if Sam could have mustered up a laugh, he would have, but he could only nod in agreement.

  Sam wondered who Molly was and what she'd think of them showing up like this.

  It took them five minutes to navigate the side yard in the dark, the outside light didn't come on until they hit the porch.

  Hushed but heated voices came from the doorway as the trio climbed the steps.

  “Come on, Molly. You can help him. You know what will happen if he goes to the hospital. Everything will get reported.”

  “I could lose my license over this, Johnny.”

  Sam lifted his head, focusing on the slim form huddled in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her body as though warding off a chill. “Excuse me, ma'am, if you have some gauze and tape, I can fix it up in no time and be on my way. “

  It had been awhile since he'd applied a field dressing, but he was pretty sure he could do it. At least for the leg. The back would be harder, but he'd manage. Somehow.

  The woman turned to him, one hand sweeping a riot of dark curls behind her shoulder. After taking a head-to-toe appraisal, her gaze lingered on his left leg and how Sam favored it. Finally, she sighed and turned with a half-hearted beckoning gesture. “Bring him in.”

  * * *

  “Don't let the door slam; Kelsie's sleeping.” Molly Flynn led the way down the hall and turned into the kitchen. What had her brother gotten involved in this time? When would he learn that bikers were nothing but trouble? It was a lesson she had learned well and she just wished Johnny could learn from her mistakes instead of creating a whole slew of his own. She cringed at the noise the men made as they followed behind her, their boots loud enough to wake the dead as they clattered on the hardwood floor. The injured guy grunted and she heard Johnny whisper an apology.