Ricochet (Out for Justice Book One)
Copyright © 2018 Reese Knightley
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Warnings
Please be advised that this book is intended for adult readers aged eighteen and older due to; sexually explicit content, language, and violence. Trigger warning: abuse. Stand alone. No cliffhanger.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art provided by Morningstar Ashley
Editing provided by Heidi Ryan of Amour the Line Editing
Fleuron graphic by TPS Publishing
Interior Design and Formatting provided by
Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design
Copyright and Trademark Acknowledgments
The author acknowledges the following copyright and trademark owners in this work of fiction. Uber, Venmo, PayPal, Gatorade, World of Warcraft, Hummer, Tums, Skype, Lethal Weapon, AA (Alcoholics Anonymous).
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Shoved beneath the bed by his mother, he pressed his hands over his ears to muffle her screams. Through a sliver of light beneath the bed skirt, he could see the side of his mother’s blue blouse. Her chest jerked and heaved. Dusty brown work boots cut off his view.
A violent bang cracked through the room, sending his heart racing and a warm stream of urine beneath him. Two men argued and he held his breath, biting one fist. The boots moved on. He kept his eyes riveted on his mother. He couldn’t remember when she stopped jerking. Wiggling backwards, eyes squeezed shut, he panted quietly.
Harsh, cruel hands reached for him and he fought them, terrified, screaming. He clawed at the floor for purchase, but it didn’t matter. Brutally yanked from his hiding place, a man with a cruel face looked him over. At eleven years old, he cried for his mother, and learned early on that crying only made it worse.
Noah
Six years later
Noah’s fingers twisted the leather band around his wrist until he felt the comforting burn against the irritated skin. Standing before the mirror, he pulled a brush through his shoulder-length, blond hair and tied it back.
He fiddled with each of the shirt’s long sleeves, making sure the material laid flat with no wrinkles. He smoothed a hand down the front. God fucking forbid if anything looked out of place; everything had to be perfect, no scars showing. He adjusted the chunky leather band covering his raw wrist. Being considered a prized possession, he had to look flawless.
A fist hit the door and he jumped.
“Five minutes!” One of the guards yelled.
“I’ll be right there.” The monthly meeting held a special kind of hell. It was where he sat at the right side of Terrance Manning, the man who ran this compound. The man who was grooming him to become his second-in-command.
Fingers squeezing the edges of the sink, he took several quick breaths before turning toward the door. He schooled his features. All he needed to do was avoid that fucker Stevenson and he’d be in the clear.
Ricky Stevenson was becoming a big problem. Two weeks ago, the man had changed the orders behind Manning’s back and had dragged him into the fucking mess. His stepfather had plans for the drugs Manning knew nothing about. Their boss would be enraged if he ever found out what Stevenson had planned. Even though it had never worked before, Noah tried reasoning with the guy.
“Does Manning know about this?” he asked, looking doubtfully at Stevenson.
“What the fuck did you just say? You’re my fucking kid, not his. You’re only breathing because I say, not him!” His beefy stepfather advanced on him.
Ricky Stevenson, was in his mid-thirties. For a drug dealer, the guy was fit and muscled from years of working construction. His weathered face was deeply sunburned from the many hours spent outside. Sharply cut sideburns that almost reached his chin gave him a menacing look, which matched an equally volatile disposition. Sliced deep into the skin of his forehead ran a thin scar that trailed through one black eyebrow; the result of a knife fight.
No match for the guy’s size and rage, Noah lifted his hands to protect his face. He tried to fight back, but was pummeled. He couldn’t remember much of the beating after a punch to the head, but later, he’d woken up dizzy, in pain, and nauseated. He had kept his mouth shut from then on.
Mac
Half-asleep, Mac reached out and patted the bed, searching for the ringing phone.
“Hello?” Groggy from only a few hours’ sleep, the word came out in a low rumble.
“Mac Mackenzie?”
“Yes,” Mac rasped. Putting the cell phone on speaker, he rolled to his side.
“I’m Harlo Miller, the owner of Miller’s Bar in San Diego,” the man said.
Well, that was random. “What can I do for you, Mr. Miller?”
“Sir, we have a situation. There’s a Ben Heins here. I found your contact information in his phone. He’s drunk and has hurt himself. Also tore up my bar somethin’ fierce.”
Mac pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“I don’t want to call the cops, but he’s caused some damage to my place. Can you come pick him up?”
“How bad is he hurt?” Mac sat up.
“Bruised ribs, and he has a cut over one eye that I taped.”
Okay, not badly then. “I’m not in San Diego at the moment.”
Too far away to go down there and drag Ben’s ass out of the place, Mac clenched his jaw. He was tired of letting himself get dragged into Ben’s messes. The man had destroyed Mac’s trust, yet never failed to reach out when he wanted something. And the fucked up part was Mac always helped. Next time, he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t leave Ben in a bar when he was injured.
“I see. Well, then I guess I can call the cops, but there’s damages to be paid.”
“Tell me how much and I can PayPal you the money and call a taxi to come get him. Will that work?”
“Yes, thank you. That should do it.” Miller rattled off the amount of two thousand dollars and some change. Mac rubbed his chest. He should just tell the guy to have his ex thrown in jail.
Beautiful fucking Ben. He was not only his ex-lover, but they had served one tour together. Watching each other’s backs on and off the battlefield, they had been close. But that was a long time ago, and Mac wondered how much longer he could keep bailing Ben out.
Mac sent the money and ordered the car, and then tossed the phone on the mattress. Dropping b
ack on the bed, he pulled a pillow into the curve of his body and hooked one leg over it. Of course, his mind wouldn’t shut up, and after a few minutes, he gave up trying to get more sleep. The pillow lacked the hardness he craved, and its softness became a taunting reminder of how alone he felt. Shoving it aside, Mac flopped onto his back.
The soft hum of the fan filled the room, sending a cool breeze over his sprawled body. It seemed like he couldn’t go a month without Ben causing some kind of scene and dragging him into it.
Suddenly irritated and before he could slide further into a funk, he flung off the sheet and sat up on the edge of the bed. The red glow of the bedside clock displayed three a.m. No sense in trying to get more sleep; he had to be up in a few more hours anyway.
The shower was hot, and the pressure helped ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. Shutting the water off, he towel dried his hair and brushed his teeth. Deciding against a shave, he avoided his reflection in the mirror.
Dressed in black tactical pants and a black tee, he stood on the balcony sipping the one-serving-sized cup of coffee the hotel provided. Bracing a hip against the railing, Mac looked out over the lights of San Jose. He’d spent his teenage years growing up in the California city. Back then, he had pictured his life turning out very different than it was today.
The loud knock on the door made him frown. Checking the peep hole, the hallway appeared empty. Easing to the side of the door, Mac pulled his gun.
“Who is it?” he called out.
“It’s me!” US Marshal Jake Coleman’s laugh came muffled through the door. The man was a natural born prankster pain in his ass, but Mac could think of no better partner to have on the force. Jake had covered his back more than once in the year they’d been together, and Mac considered him a damn good friend.
Mac yanked open the door and scowled before tucking away his gun. “Not funny, Coleman.”
Jake grinned wide and slid past him. “I hope you have coffee!”
Before he could answer, a second knock came on the partially opened door.
“Well, hell.” Mac smiled. “This is a surprise.” In seconds, his arms were filled with one of his oldest and dearest friends, Becca Johnson. They’d known each other since childhood, and her mother and his aunt still lived next door to each other in a quiet little San Jose neighborhood.
“You missed me!” Becca squeaked and peppered his cheek with a few kisses.
“Maybe.” Mac grinned, tugging at her long ponytail before she danced away, laughing. With Becca, he could goof around, have fun, and laugh. With her, Mac didn’t need to pretend. There were very few people who knew the real him, and Becca was one of them. She was his best friend, and no matter how much time passed between phone calls and visits, it was as if they’d never been apart.
Becca gave Jake a squeeze as she passed.
“Hey, hey, hey,” another voice called out, shoving at the door when Mac jokingly tried to push it closed. “Don’t forget the best part,” Kane said, pushing his way in, carrying coffee. Mac barked out a laugh before hugging his other best friend, FBI agent Kane Quintana.
Kane just happened to be Becca’s boyfriend. The pair had met during a Halloween party through mutual friends and had hit it off.
Injured and staying at his aunt’s house next door, Mac had been at the same party. Just out of the military, he’d been angry at Ben, the war, and the world. It was sometime after that, during the time he was recuperating from his military injury, that Kane had tried to get him a job.
“The FBI needs a man like you.” Kane always talked about how great the FBI was. The man went on and on about this and that until one day, Mac stopped saying fuck off and had joined the US Marshals office instead.
It was worth it just to see Kane hyperventilate. Kane had called it Mac’s desertion to the dark side.
“A fucking marshal?” Kane’s mouth gaped.
Mac had just laughed. From there, he had gone on to pass every physical and mental test the USMS threw at him, thankful his injury hadn’t damaged his eyesight.
Two years ago, the US Marshals had welcomed Robert Patrick Mackenzie into the fold, and while Kane had grumbled, Mac knew his friend was happy for him.
Noah
He used a piece of gauze to dab at the wound on his wrist. He’d opened it up again. Carl wouldn’t like that.
“Here, let me see it.” As if on cue, Dr. Carl Denning’s request drifted through the air. The calmness in the veterinarian’s smooth voice came from years of working with animals. Dr. Denning hadn’t been at the ranch very long, but in the two weeks the vet had come back and forth to tend to the livestock, the man had become somewhat of a friend to most of the teenagers there. Noah hated every man he met, but Carl was okay. The man had insisted they call him Carl and drop the title. Noah popped a piece of candy into his mouth. Carl kept a jar on the counter and Noah always stashed a few in his pockets.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he offered, holding out his arm, knowing it was futile to argue with the somewhat pushy but caring doctor.
Toenails clicked on the floor and a soft nose nuzzled at his free hand. Noah couldn’t stop the smile when Baby licked at his palm.
“Humor me.” Carl pushed the leather band away from the wound around Noah’s wrist and doused disinfectant over the raw skin beneath.
Noah didn’t flinch. It stung, but he’d felt far worse.
“Hi, Carl.” Jenny’s soft voice carried through the room. The vet glanced past Noah and spotted the girl sitting on one of the counters with her back to the wall, knees drawn tightly to her chest, and a small paperback in her hands. Ratty jeans and a man’s T-shirt hung on her skinny frame. Jenny Myers had come to the ranch over a year ago. She’d been young, starved, and addicted to heroin. The girl was distrustful of most people, but highly protective of those she cared about. And she cared about him. Jenny watched his back as much as he watched hers. So far, the both of them had managed to survive.
Carl smiled at Jenny. “I didn’t see you there.”
She shrugged. “I told him that it’s gonna get infected,” she said, waving the book toward Noah’s wrist.
“Oh, give it a rest, Jenny.” Noah pulled away from Carl’s grasp.
He crouched, and Baby moved into his arms. The dog had been a stray a year ago; skinny, lost, and angry at the world just like he was. Through kind words and sneaking the dog snacks, Noah had gained Baby’s trust. He buried his face in her fur, and Baby nuzzled and nipped at his hair.
“Wait, how’d you get that bruise?” The vet frowned and reached for the collar of his too-big T-shirt.
Noah twisted, avoiding Carl’s outstretched hand, and straightened the shirt’s neck, covering the marks.
“Carl!” One of Manning’s men came to the door of the large barn. Outside, the sun had risen, and the man’s frame was a halo in the doorway. “You’re needed in building three. One of the Heifers is giving birth.”
“All right, I’m coming.” Carl looked at Noah and Jenny. “We will talk about this later,” the man said before he exited the office and left the building.
Jenny closed her book and tucked it away. Slipping from the counter, she approached Noah.
“I’m leaving here,” he said flatly.
Jenny’s eyes went wide in her pale face. “How are you going to get out of here?” She clutched the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You know they only allow you out for school.”
“Then I’ll do it at school.”
“Noah,” she whimpered, wrapping her skinny arms around him. He folded her into his arms and held her tight. He wasn’t going to live like this any longer.
“Maybe someone will save us.” Her voice trembled.
“Yeah, like that will ever happen,” Noah replied bitterly, blinking his eyes against the sting of threatening tears. He’d tried that route with teachers and the police. Their boss’s pockets went deep in this backwoods Oregon community.
He released her and she caught his hand, lacing their fingers together
. He couldn’t take her with him. Jenny didn’t go to school. Sometimes, she could sneak out of the compound, but most of the time, she stayed there if she wasn’t being used.
When he got out, he’d tell someone about this place and have them come back for her. He pulled Jenny with him to the back door of the building and stopped. He told Baby to stay. Having the dog in the house would be like signing Baby’s death warrant. Sneaking a look out the door, he saw that the coast looked clear.
“You never know, maybe somebody will help,” she whispered. But Noah wasn’t going to hold his breath waiting.
“I’m going to find a way out, even if it kills me.”
A sound drew his head up and the soap slipped from his fingers. He cried out when Ricky Stevenson came through the shower curtain. Noah raised his arms but was no match for the man’s savage blows. Losing his balance on the slick tub surface, he fell hard and smacked the bottom of the tub.
“Get the fuck up.” Stevenson yanked him out of the tub.
Noah could barely stand when the man ordered him to walk. Slamming him naked into a chair, his stepfather put a gun to his head.
Noah coughed, gasping for breath and blinking the water from his eyes. Rage and terror brought a rasping sound of fury from deep in his throat. A hand brutally fisted into his hair, and the gun bumped his temple.
Terrance Manning stood across the room, watching and toying with his own gun in a display of power. The message was clear, leave and you die. Manning was massive, in peak physical condition even though he was in his late forties. The man was dressed in his usual military clothing with a crew cut to match, and his cruel gaze never changed. Something cold, dark, and calculating lived inside of the drug lord, and whatever the hell that something was, it scared Noah to death.
“I want you to be strong, Noah, but I don’t want you to be stupid,” Manning said in perfect German. The man took pleasure in beating toughness into him.
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