Firefight: The Soul Scorchers MC (The Scorched Souls Serial-series Book 2)

by Riley, C. L.

  All his thinking about bars had him thirstier than he’d been a minute earlier, and he’d been damn thirsty then.

  Peering through greasy, overgrown hair, his gaze followed the three laughing teens as they sauntered into Powell’s Bookstore. The tallest, a bulky football type, cast a departing glance over his shoulder. Reid started to thank him for the sure-to-show bruise on his shin but swallowed his sarcasm as more potential money donors locked up their bikes in the nearby racks. Offensive smack talk, even deserved, didn’t bode well with potential donors. He’d learned that the hard way.

  Open late, the bookstore’s customers frequently provided generous donations for his evening bottle, making the occasional abuse tolerable. Reid understood the boys believed they’d insulted him with the quarter, but he knew different. The coin brought him one step closer to the amount needed to complete his nightly purchase.

  The liquid relief he required to keep his past in the past, where it belonged, was just a block east, waiting on the second shelf from the floor on the back wall. On a good night, the relief might even extend to the present, giving him a few hours of foggy freedom.

  The future was different matter altogether.

  Keeping it at arm’s length required more whiskey than he could afford. These days he didn’t worry much about tomorrow anyway. Waking up wasn’t guaranteed, and he hadn’t had any hopes or dreams for years.

  Not since that night, you filthy coward.

  How could he forget that night with the constant reminders that came from the voice inside his head? The booze silenced the voice temporarily but never drowned it out completely. It always resurfaced, taunting and tearing at what was left of his tarnished soul. If the pamphlet toting pastors knew his secret, they would keep their soul-saving speeches for someone worth saving, someone whose skeletons rattled a little less loudly from the closet.

  A smiling older woman interrupted his rambling thoughts. She dropped a fiver in his hat and nodded.

  “Much appreciated,” he managed, his voice unsteady. The shakes were creeping up right on schedule, possibly earlier. Not a good sign.

  Eager to avoid the increasing discomfort and stop the accusatory voice in his head, he pushed up from his spot against the streetlight and staggered to his feet, making a halfhearted attempt to brush off his stained pants. Clean laundry was a luxury. One he couldn’t afford very often.

  Ignoring the glances and sidesteps from others sharing the Northwest Portland sidewalk, he stumbled forward and made his way to the corner liquor store—Harlan’s Fine Liquors.

  Hugging his hat close, he felt his stomach clench. The pre-drink anticipation lasted from the moment he reached his dollar quota until his lips kissed the bottle. Only the fiery liquid burning its familiar trail down his throat could calm the churning sea in his stomach. Tonight, to make matters worse, his leg throbbed, thanks to Mr. Football’s steel-toed boot, and his hands trembled as a fresh dose of anxiety crept up his spine into his hairline like a trail of ants marching into a picnic basket. He shivered, hoping to dislodge the imagined insects.

  Ten more steps. Nine…

  “Whatcha got in your hat, daddy-o?”

  “He’s sure holding on tight, ain’t he?” another voice snickered.

  No! Not tonight. If he’d had the energy to run, he would have.

  The two thugs blocking his path made it their mission to patrol the streets searching for anyone less fortunate than themselves. They’d earned the nicknames Starsky and Hutch. Reid couldn’t figure out why the names had stuck. They were more like bully versions of Laurel and Hardy, always attempting to be funny as they accosted their latest victims but failing miserably.

  One thing they didn’t fail at was getting what they wanted; and tonight, they wanted his money.

  He’d spotted them across the street earlier but hadn’t given it much thought. In the two years he’d made his home on Portland’s streets, they’d left him alone. It appeared the time to pay dues had finally come.

  Why tonight?

  Reid couldn’t remember feeling this edgy, not in a long time. If he was forced to go without a drink, the resulting withdrawal could send him to the nearest detox center or jail cell. That was unacceptable. He didn’t dare risk a paper trail. Someone might recognize him. If that happened, he’d face enemies far worse than the two idiots leering at his worn Dodger’s cap.

  “Why don’t you find someone else to rob? Catch up with me another day.” Reid made his own stab at being funny.

  The one called Hutch, cocked his head and yawned. Starsky elbowed him. “Give the man credit. He ain’t fallen on the ground beggin’ us to get lost.”

  “Either way, we’re taking the hat. The Dodgers are my team, man. Hand it over.” Hutch pushed his chest out, backing Reid up against the cigar shop’s brick wall. “Now,” he hissed.

  A flash of silver and a sharp prick under Reid’s ribs signaled game time was over. Despite the pressure, he held Hutch’s gaze and discerned the madness lurking behind his bloodshot eyes. Reluctantly, he surrendered his cap and the money he’d spent six grueling hours to earn.

  The blade slid away, back into whatever hidey-hole it had come from. The creep sneered, patting Reid’s shoulder. “Good man. We’ll be seeing you around.” Hutch dug inside the hat and snatched the money, stuffing it into his pocket. When he popped the cap over his dreadlocks, Reid growled, the urge to react overpowering.

  After a celebratory high-five, the duo slithered between buildings like two snakes on their way to infect another unsuspecting bum with their venom.

  “Damn it!” Reid hit the bricks with his fist. A rush of fire blazed through his knuckles, igniting his adrenaline. He clenched his teeth. It was a good thing the assholes hadn’t crossed his path back when. Walking away would not have been an option.

  “Excuse you,” a passerby snipped, making no attempt to hide her disapproval. “Young ears are listening.” She tugged a grinning boy closer.

  Fighting the urge to say something far more colorful than damn it to the “young ears,” Reid stomped with adrenaline-laced energy down the final quarter block to the liquor store. Maybe he could stock shelves, sweep floors, dump trash, anything to earn his medicine.

  He stuffed his swelling hand into his left pocket and turned the doorknob with the other, entering the gloomy store he’d visited every night since 2012. The familiar tang of cleaning supplies and the mingling odors those products couldn’t quite eliminate, assaulted his nostrils, bringing a trail of unwanted memories along with them.

  Jinn Kûru

  Kûru gazed across the murky Willamette River from his place on Portland’s Waterfront. Forearms resting on the rail, he watched a boat sail past, its passengers’ laughter reaching him on the wind. He was tempted to turn into a smoke spiral. In that form he could ride the evening’s balmy breeze to the boat and see what trivial nonsense had the foursome so filled with mirth.

  Rarely, if ever, did he experience anything close to joy, which considering his elevated station and possessions was pitiable. Hoping to find a moment of happiness in the presence of the humans he despised only served to fuel his need for vengeance.

  As the ruler of his jinn clan, he had left his desert home far behind to avenge the recent banishment of one of his few surviving family members, his nephew, Numair. The foolish young jinn had become enamored with a woman vacationing with her girlfriends in Cairo and had discovered far too late that her husband was Marco “The Smasher” Santiago, a modern day gangster and drug cartel boss with an insatiable taste for violence.

  Using magic to cover his blue skin, the love struck jinn had pursued the woman for his already abundant harem. Unluckily for him, one of her Middle Eastern travel guides was aware of genies and their ways, identifying him for what he was—a Marid Djinn from one of the most powerful bloodlines, known for aiding great kings and priests with their unmatchable brand of magic.

  The guide’s father had been a hunter, leaving his son with enough hunting skills to be da
ngerous. With the help of Santiago’s woman and her friends, they’d lured the young jinn back to the States, using him to their advantage until he became too rebellious to control. At which time they’d bottle banished him.

  Kûru had learned of his Numair’s demise too late to intervene, and his own journey to America had been riddled with problems. He had eluded several persistent hunters, making the trip even longer. He planned to enact a bloody revenge on the drug cartel’s family and businesses, and he intended to remain free in the process. If he was lucky, he would find a new woman for his own harem. His clans’ males required multiple sexual encounters to stay sane. He tired of the exotic beauties who currently roamed his palace competing for a night in his chambers.

  The one female he desired above all others was a genie. He’d lost track of her in the late seventies. She’d rejected his advances at every opportunity, which only increased his longing to possess her. Should she cross his path again, he would take her by force if necessary. It was his right, after all. She would belong to him forever.

  Mark Harlan

  Mark had never seen Reid so shaken. When he stumbled through the liquor store’s door, looking like a man possessed with more than a thirst for booze, Mark was tempted to call 911. He knew better. Reid would never forgive him, and like it or not, the guy was one of his most faithful customers.

  Every night between 7:00 and 9:00pm he could count on Reid’s money. Either a pint or fifth of Jack Daniels, depending how much he’d managed to scrape up. Sometimes, if he’d done well panhandling, he’d splurge on a bottle of Knob Creek. No cheap wine for Reid. Despite his meager earnings, it was whiskey for him.

  “They got me,” Reid stammered. “Took everything. I’d earned enough for something extra tonight. Damn!” He leaned against the counter, his whole body trembling.

  Mark didn’t have to ask to know who. The two losers known to shakedown other street residents were notorious, their victims too afraid to report them. Like other retailers, Mark stayed silent about their questionable activities. A mysterious fire had destroyed a startup antique shop after the owner made an official complaint about the twosome.

  “Where’d they jump you?” Mark didn’t want them anywhere near his business.

  “Outside the cigar shop. They’d been keeping an eye on me at the bookstore. I should’ve known better.” Reid pounded a fist against the counter, sending the shot glass display on its side. “Man, I’m sorry. Let me…”

  He righted the box and started stacking the glasses. Mark watched him for a minute. If it had been anyone else, he would have sent him on his way with a stern warning, but Reid wasn’t like some of the bums who frequented his shop.

  Over all, Mark couldn’t complain. He had a pretty good clientele of business professionals and NW Portland regulars; however, there were the others, like Reid, who drank to survive the streets and whatever demons had set up shop in their minds. Sure Reid was street savvy and about as slick as the rest, but there was something under all the dirt and stench that seemed polished, refined even. Mark was certain he’d had money at one time. Maybe even a lot of it.

  Reid never asked for favors. Mark suspected that tonight he wanted to but didn’t know how to begin.

  “Anything else you need done around here?” Reid asked, his eyes darting over the shelves, resting on the one he visited every night.

  “Well—” Mark paused, an idea forming.

  No way. He couldn’t. He’d promised.

  He glanced again at Reid’s clenched jaw and panicked expression. Perhaps it was time to break this particular pledge. Because, despite his oath, he had never quite believed his grandfather’s outrageous stories describing genies, bottles, and banishment. Sometimes he’d pull the bottle in question from its place in the safe and stroke the smoky purple glass. It was streaked with grime, just the way grandpa had found it back in 1980 washed up on the shore in Seaside, a popular Oregon Coast vacation spot.

  Reid’s raspy coughing sliced through Mark’s memories. Clearly the shakes had gripped his customer and had no intention of letting him go without a drink.

  Reid shivered and coughed again. “I could sweep,” he offered, his voice hoarse.

  Mark raised a hand. “Hold on a second, buddy. I might have something better than your usual. Are you open to trying something new?” Mark wasn’t sure what he’d do if his grandfather turned out to be right. He wondered how Reid would react. Probably ask for a case of JD as his first wish.

  “Sure, I’m open. I appreciate this. I’m willing to work, seriously.”

  “I know you are, but you can keep an eye out here while I run in the back.” Mark didn’t wait for an answer. For some reason he trusted Reid and knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere without a bottle.

  Back in the storeroom, he stared down at the safe. He hadn’t bothered looking at its mysterious contents in a long time. A part of him had known this day would come, and he couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that Reid, a homeless drunk, was the right person to uncork the treasure waiting inside.

  Crouching, he flipped through the familiar numbers and the safe opened with a groan, sending a wave of goosebumps crashing over him. He hesitated, remembering grandpa’s warning.

  “Son, I know this seems silly to you, but if you plan to take ownership of this store, you need to make the same promise your father made before accepting the position.”

  Eager to please the old man he admired so much, Mark nodded gravely. “Anything. I’ll keep the family business going as strong as ever. You can count on me. I’ll leave the bottle alone. Promise. Scouts honor and all that good stuff.”

  Mark shrugged off the chills that came with the memories, but he couldn’t quite shed his guilt. He took promises to heart, but tonight he was compelled to break the one to his granddad.

  Besides, the few times he’d examined the forbidden bottle had left him with more questions than answers, its contents impossible to determine. For all he knew it was a bottle of imported whiskey from some foreign source. Grandpa had likely been worried he’d polish it off with friends from school. But the old man’s stories of evil jinns and seductive genies had scared him enough to keep the cat-killing-curiosity at bay and the cork in the bottle.

  Just twelve in ’81, Mark had been surprisingly obedient to his parents. A belt across the ass was the alternative. With his parents now retired in Florida, and grandfather somewhere on the other side of the Pearly Gates, there was no bend-over-the-bed whooping to fear.

  In that case, why did he have such a sense of doom?

  Brad Sanchez

  FBI Special Agent, Brad Sanchez, never expected to land in Portland, Oregon, chasing the one criminal he’d failed to capture too many times to count. His bruised ego couldn’t handle another unsuccessful attempt.

  Marco “The Smasher” Santiago had managed to somehow stay at least half a step ahead of his pursuers, leaving a trail of bodies that taunted anyone who attempted to take him down.

  Brad hadn’t made his plan public, but if Chili’s most feared and admired drug lord outwitted him again, this time around, he planned to turn in his badge and retire for good.

  His career with the FBI was checkered at best, but his results made up for the sometimes less than orthodox methods he had employed over the past decades. Santiago, though, named after the Chilean city where he was born, had continued to elude him despite his best and most creative efforts. It was like the guy had a magician on his pay role. Brad had heard the rumors. Supposedly the cartel king had someone, or something, that provided supernatural protection for his numerous “business” ventures, as well as for his family and closest associates.

  Having served for several years on the FBI’s most clandestine team of operatives, Brad was acutely aware of an alternate world most of the population considered myth. Genies and jinns, in their various tribes and clans, had at one time been major players in the human realm, influencing decisions and destroying lives.

  Since the 1980’s, most genies
had been successfully bottle banished and were now guarded in secret government facilities or by individual bottle keepers. The FBI had disbanded the unit in 1995, sending Brad to the drug enforcement division, where he’d worked ever since. That didn’t mean there still weren’t a limited number of genies who remained free, roaming the human population and manipulating outcomes with their unique powers.

  He was starting to believe that Santiago was indeed using magical means to protect himself and his assets, making it that much harder to catch him engaging in the criminal chaos he continued to inflict from the South American slums to the city streets and suburban neighborhoods across the US. Santiago’s network had bypassed any potential competitors with their advances in technology and distribution. He was considered untouchable by his enemies, which he had many, and by law enforcement. Some who dared to pad their pockets with his payoffs.

  Brad intended to touch him up close and personal, right where it hurt most.

  With his experience capturing genies and collapsing drug empires, he would succeed where others, himself included, hadn’t in the past. He had to. There was too much at stake.

  Four years ago, Santiago’s influence had reached right into Brad’s life, snatching his wife and son out of it, and then killing his partner a few weeks later. How the kingpin had uncovered his real identity was a mystery never solved. Someone within the bureau had been in bed with Santiago. Finding the piece of shit agent who’d blown his cover would come the day he brought down the drug lord. Imagining what he’d do his former colleague made the wait bearable.

  In the meantime, Brad had become a new kind of agent. One who did whatever it took to put the bad guys out of business. Where he’d been unconventional in the past, he was now unbalanced just enough to make him as dangerous as the scum he hunted. Losing everything and everyone who had kept him sane was reason enough to embrace insanity. He’d chosen to channel the craziness into the fuel that kept his internal engine fired up and focused on the right outcomes.

  His superiors looked the other way as long as the collateral damage was kept at a minimum, and he stayed out of the press. He’d seen his share of shrinks since the murder of his family and partner, but he always managed to keep his badge on and his gun in its holster.