Won't Back Down

by J. D. Rhoades

  WON’T

  BACK

  DOWN

  A Jack Keller Novel

  J.D. Rhoades

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by J.D. Rhoades

  Cover and jacket design by 2Faced Design

  ISBN 978-1-947993-71-6

  eISBN: 978-1-947993-99-0

  First hardcover edition October 2019 by Polis Books, LLC

  221 River St., 9th Fl., #9070

  Hoboken, NJ 07030

  www.PolisBooks.com

  ONE

  “Hey, raghead.”

  The girl in the headscarf stiffens, but she keeps walking, eyes fixed on the door of the school. The only sign that she’s heard the taunt comes when she moves behind the boy walking beside her so that he’s walking ahead of her and her body is between him and the owner of the voice. “Hey,” the younger boy protests, but she shushes him. “Keep going. Ignore them.”

  “I’m talkin’ to you,” the voice says again, raised and harsh.

  The girl still doesn’t respond, even when a stone the size of a ping pong ball strikes her between the shoulder blades. She only stops when a pair of grinning young men come out of the front door where she’d thought she’d find refuge. They take up a position in front of her, arms folded across their chests. She stops, regarding them, then sighs and turns her back on them to face her tormentor.

  The source of the voice, a stocky young man who’s already developing a pronounced gut, is sauntering toward her, savoring her discomfort, making it last. He’s dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. His curly red hair sticks out from under the cap in odd directions, and a cocky grin is plastered across his face.

  “Brandon,” the girl says, “please leave us alone.” Her voice is calm, but she can’t disguise the fear in her big dark eyes. The boy she holds in front of her starts to go for the bigger boy headed their way, but the girl pulls him back against her.

  “It’s you who needs to leave, bitch,” the red-haired boy says. “You need to get the fuck out of my country.”

  The look on the girl’s face says that nothing would make her happier than to be far away, but all she says is, “We need to get to class.”

  The young man in the ball cap reaches for the scarf covering the girl’s head. “Take that thing off.”

  She flinches away from him and backs into the boys standing behind. One of them gives her a shove and she stumbles forward into her brother, whose handsome face darkens with rage. He balls up his fists and starts toward Brandon.

  “Hey,” another voice says, “leave them alone.”

  Brandon turns. The man approaching is tall, a little over six feet. There are streaks of gray in the long blond hair he wears pulled back, but his body is still lean and fit. Brandon isn’t intimidated. “Who the fuck are you?”

  The man stops and regards Brandon with calm blue eyes. “My name’s Jack. What’s yours?”

  “My name is fuck you, asshole,” Brandon snaps. “Mind your business.”

  The man doesn’t react to the insult. “Kind of a long name. What do you go by on the street?”

  “Hey, dumbass,” one of the other boys says. “He told you to fuck off.” He advances slightly, the girl momentarily forgotten. She and her brother take the opportunity to slip between the two who’d been blocking her and run to the door.

  The one who hadn’t spoken makes as if to go after them, but Brandon calls to him. “Forget it. We’ll deal with those sand-niggers later.”

  The blonde man looks amused as the two blockers come up to stand beside Brandon. “Sand-nigger. Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

  Brandon cracks his knuckles ostentatiously. “Three on one, dipshit.” He gives the blond man a nasty grin. “Looks like it’s not your day.”

  “Looks like.” The man doesn’t move, his arms held loosely by his sides. Brandon and his two cohorts hesitate for a moment. Brandon is the one who eventually starts forward, but he stops when the blond man speaks, his previously calm voice hard. “Here’s the thing. Maybe, just maybe, the three of you can lay a beatdown on me. Three on one’s not good odds. But I’m one hundred percent sure that I’m going to put the first one who throws a punch in the hospital. Possibly the second one, too. And I’m not talking ER and out. I mean busted all to fuck, long-term rehab, permanent damage. I’ve done it before, to harder motherfuckers than you drooling redneck assholes ever dreamed of being.” He gives them a smile that makes the two on either side of Brandon actually take a step back, a smile that says he’s not only going to do what he promises, he’s going to have a good time doing it. “So. Who wants a ride in the ambulance today?”

  As the man speaks, other students begin to gather, attracted by the growing confrontation. A murmur runs through the crowd. “Fuck him up, Brandon,” someone calls out. Brandon and the other two stand as if they’ve grown roots, afraid to go forward, too stiff-necked to back down in front of their peers. The blond man doesn’t move either, just stands and regards them with that calm yet terrifying smile.

  “Okay, okay, break it up.” A woman’s voice cuts through the hubbub. The crowd parts, the spell broken. The woman steps between the blond man and the three boys. She wears a holstered pistol, a taser, and handcuffs on the belt of her black jeans, but the badge on her chest is embroidered into the fabric of her grey polo shirt. “What’s going on here?”

  The three look at each other, then at the man still standing there, still smiling. None of them speak. The woman shakes her head. “Brandon, Jayden, Jerrard, get your butts to class. Now.” The boys move off, unable to disguise their relief at being able to leave without losing face. The woman turns to the crowd, which is already beginning to disperse. The woman nods, then turns to the tall man.

  “What the hell, Keller?” she says. “You fighting children now?”

  TWO

  A few miles away, two men sit in a white Ford F-150 and watch a man go into a warehouse. The man is about five foot six, with light brown skin and a fussy little mustache. He’s dressed in off-the-rack dress slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt. There are other cars parked in front, but no one else comes in or out.

  The two men know each other as Waller and Tench. Neither believes it’s the other’s real name, even though they’ve worked together before. Waller puts down his binoculars and continues to watch the door of the warehouse.

  “Well,” Tench demands, “is it him?”

  Waller takes an envelope from the glove box and slides a picture out of it. He looks at it, purses his lips thoughtfully, and stares, enjoying the sound of Tench impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He knows that it’s their target, but he enjoys winding Tench up. “I believe it is,” he eventually says, and puts the envelope away.

  “So what now?” Tench says.

  Waller pulls out a cell phone. “We report back and wait for further orders. Drive.”

  Tench starts the truck and puts it in gear.

  Waller dials. The person on the other end picks up after one ring. “Yes,” Waller says, “this is Mr. Petty from the realtor’s office? I believe we’ve located the property you were interested in. Yes. It’s in a bit of a rural location, but very accessible.”

  Their employer’s answer is slightly fuzzy, as if he might be using encryption on his end. His voice is clipped, with what sounds like a trace of a British accent. “How many bedrooms?”

  Waller thinks back to the boy and girl they’d followed to school earlier. “Three.
As you suggested.” He pauses. “The asking price is one hundred and fifty thousand. Do you want us to put in an offer?”

  “No. I want to see the property myself.”

  That surprises Waller. Most of his employers wish to stay as far away from the actual “transaction” as possible. Then again, this is the first time he’s ever worked for this particular client. “Yes, sir. One of us can pick you up at the airport if you like.”

  “I will call with the flight number and time.”

  “Very good, sir.” Waller breaks the connection and looks at Tench. “He wants to come down and have a look.”

  “Huh.” Tench makes a right turn. They’re headed for the town’s main street. “Wonder why that is.” Waller doesn’t answer, so Tench supplies his own suggestion. “Maybe he’s got some kind of personal grudge against this target. You know these people and their feuds. I knew an IGF sergeant back in the Sandbox who straight up murdered another dude because one of their grandfathers shot the other.” He shakes his head. “Savages.”

  “Swing back by the warehouse,” Waller says.

  “You sure?” Tench doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes the next right. “I don’t want this guy to make us.”

  “Maybe our employer’s interested in whatever’s in the warehouse.”

  “You think?” Tench looks interested. They cruise back by. Now, the big front roll-up door is raised and a large truck is parked out front. Workers with hand trucks are loading crates into the back of the truck. Tench starts to slow down until Waller shoots him an incredulous look. “Sorry.” Tench speeds back up.

  Waller shakes his head. He’s not liking this particular mission one bit.

  THREE

  Jack Keller nods at the retreating trio. “Those three were messing with some girl and what looked like her little brother. I walked up on them and put a stop to it.” He smiles, more easily this time. “And there wasn’t going to be any fight. They didn’t have the stones for it. Even three on one.”

  “And what if you were wrong?” she demands, hands on hips. “Would you really have beaten up three eleventh graders?”

  Keller evades the question. “They look awfully big to be in the eleventh grade.”

  “Yeah, well. They’re older. All three of them got held back a grade. Some of the other kids pick on them for that. So they got together…”

  “And they pick on someone else. Same old story.” Keller sighed. “Sorry, Marie. I just don’t like bullies. Whatever their story.”

  “Don’t I know it.” She quickly represses her smile with a stern look. “But I’m the school resource officer, not you. Dealing with that shit is my job, Keller. Let me do it.”

  He nods, looking contrite. “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. Now tell me about who they were bullying.”

  “Young girl and her brother. She was wearing a headscarf. Looked Arab.”

  Marie grimaces. “Alia Khoury. She’s a sophomore. Her brother Bassim’s a freshman.”

  “Refugees?”

  She nods. “Iraqi. Came here about three months ago. But not straight from Iraq. I think they’d been living in Pittsburgh.”

  “A lot of changes, really fast.”

  “Yeah. She’s a sweet kid. She’s made some friends, but her family’s really strict, so…”

  “She doesn’t get out much,” Keller says. “Which makes it worse.” Keller knows what it’s like to have trouble fitting in. “What about the boy?”

  Marie smiles. “He’s a character. The class clown. He’s having an easier time adjusting. Gets along with everyone.” The smile vanishes. “Speaking of which, I have an appointment with the vice principal.”

  “About Ben?”

  “Yeah.”

  Keller doesn’t speak. He knows Ben’s problems, and he knows why Ben has them. Keller believes he’s mostly to blame. He realizes Marie is still speaking to him. “So what brings you here?”

  “I’ve got a job interview.”

  She blinks in surprise. “What. Here?”

  Keller nods. “Custodian. Saw it in the paper.” He sees her look and frowns. “Would me working here be a problem?”

  “No. No,” she says, but her expression says otherwise. “I’m just surprised you’d want that job.”

  He shrugs. “Work is work. Got to do something.”

  “Yeah, but…” She stops. Keller knows what she’s going to say. You have money.

  “Can’t just live on what my father left me,” he says. He smiles. “I never wanted the life of a trust fund baby.”

  “I know. But mopping up teenager’s puke and cleaning toilets just doesn’t seem like something Jack Keller would be interested in.”

  “Yeah. Well. Like I said. Can’t just sit around the house all day.”

  “Uh-huh. Well. Good luck.” She steps aside.

  He doesn’t meet her eyes as he passes. “Yeah. You, too.”

  FOUR

  “You’re late, Miss Khoury,” Miss Othmar, the homeroom teacher, says as Alia slides into her seat.

  “Yes, ma’am, sorry, ma’am,” Alia says, face burning as she takes out her notebook. The teacher doesn’t pursue it. She turns back to the smart board at the front of the room and proceeds with the lesson on quadratic equations. Alia is sure the teacher knows about the bullying, but she’s a timid young woman in her first teaching job and does nothing about it. None of them do. Some of them probably even approve of it, Alia thinks bitterly.

  She hates it here in this stupid little town with its stupid little people. She’d just begun adjusting in Pittsburgh. She’d made a few friends and was even working up the nerve to try to convince Father to let her try out for a school play. Then the American man who she’d learned to hate had come to the door again. He and Father had spent an hour in the kitchen downstairs, with Alia banished to her room to do homework. She’d already done her homework, but there was no use arguing with Father. She’d sat by her bedroom door, ear to the wood, straining to hear the conversation and failing, but knowing all the while what it meant.

  “We’re going to have to move again,” Bassim said from where he sat cross-legged on her bed. He didn’t even seem angry this time, just resigned. Alia hated that. She hopes she never loses the capacity for anger.

  He was right, of course. After the American left, Father had called them down to the kitchen. He was composed as always, almost emotionless, but Alia had learned to read his moods and she could sense the anger in him. A new employment opportunity, he’d told them. A better life for them. Bassim didn’t speak, just looked down at the table. Alia had finally lost her temper, raged at her father, told him she hated him for what he’d done to the family. She knew she’d gone too far when she shouted that he was the one responsible for her mother’s death. She’d expected a slap for that, would have almost welcomed it, because the shattered look in her father’s eyes broke her worse than any blow. She’d fallen silent.

  “Everything I do,” he said quietly, “I do to keep you and your brother safe.” He stood up. “Now go start packing.”

  The harsh ringing of the class bell interrupts her memory. She stuffs her notebook in her bag and stands up. As she walks down the aisle between the rows of desks, a blue-jeaned leg suddenly appears in front of her. Alia had half expected it; she deftly steps over it and smiles sweetly at the blonde girl who glowers at her from the seat, her round, sulky face a mask of contempt. “Good morning, Amber,” she says. She doesn’t stay for the response, which she knows will be some variation on “fuck you.” She and her boyfriend Brandon are perfect for one another.

  In the hallway, Alia tenses as she sees the policewoman standing, waiting for her. She doesn’t dislike Officer Jones; for all her outer toughness, she has kind eyes, and she does seem to truly care about the students. But that caring will only attract more attention to her, and the last thing Alia wants right now is more attention. But she can’t very well ignore it when the woman motions he
r over. Alia pushes her way through the throng of students in the hall. Officer Jones is standing by her locker. “Hey,” she says.

  “Good morning, Officer.”

  Jones smiles at her. “You can call me Marie.”

  She keeps her tone formal. “Okay. Good morning, Marie.”

  “You want to talk about what happened this morning?”

  Alia fumbles her locker open. “Nothing happened this morning.”

  Jones sighs. “I know you’re being picked on, Alia. And I want to stop it.”

  Alia takes out her history book and closes the locker. For the first time, she looks the policewoman directly in the eye. “You can’t. No one can.”

  Jones’s jaw tightens. “Well, I have to try. If Jack…” She stops herself and starts over. “If that man hadn’t stepped in, you and your brother might have gotten hurt.”

  Despite her desire to be anywhere else, Alia’s curiosity is piqued. “You know him?”

  Jones looks so taken aback, then embarrassed, that Alia almost laughs. “He…he’s a friend.”

  There’s a certain pleasure in seeing the usually no-nonsense Officer Jones off-balance, and Alia can’t help but indulge it just a little. She arches an eyebrow at the resource officer. “A good friend?”

  To her surprise, Jones actually smiles. Alia can’t remember ever having seen her smile before. It’s actually a very pleasant smile. “Nice try changing the subject, kid.” Jones’s face turns serious again. “But really. Help me stop this. If not for me, for your little brother.”

  The thought of someone trying to hurt Bassim—sweet, funny, charming Bassim—makes Alia feel sick to her stomach.

  Jones sees the look on her face and nods. “Think it over, Alia. Let me help you.”

  “I have to get to class,” Alia says.

  Jones lets her pass. “You know where to find me. Anytime you want to talk.”