by Trace Conger
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
License Notes
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
Forty
Forty One
Forty Two
Forty Three
Forty Four
Forty Five
Forty Six
Forty Seven
Forty Eight
Forty Nine
Fifty
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Scar Tissue
Copyright © 2015 by Trace Conger
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is dedicated to Dennis and Dottie Conger.
Thank you for your continued love and support.
It’s also dedicated to Dave Conger.
Thanks for giving me so much material to work with.
“Rally round the family! With a pocket full of shells.”
—“Bulls on Parade,” Rage Against the Machine
“Old man take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you.”
—“Old Man,” Neil Young
“Death settles all obligations.”
—Unknown
One
EVERYONE PAYS FOR THEIR MISTAKES. Some pay more than others. I’d learned over the years that blowback comes in all shapes and sizes, but it always comes. You can’t hide from it. You can’t outrun it. One day, you turn around to find it staring you in the face. Your next move defines who you are and who you’ll become. There are right choices and there are wrong choices, and the line between them isn’t always clear.
Blowback. It always comes.
FAT SAM STEPPED OUT OF the home on Fort View Place in Mount Adams, a neighborhood on Cincinnati’s east side. He set his biggie-sized red-and-white cup on the front porch, pulled the door closed, slid a key into the deadbolt, and twisted his wrist. The metal bolt slid snugly into the strike plate.
He turned back toward the street and scrutinized the half dozen cars parked along the curb. Fat Sam’s eyes assessed each vehicle, noting its license plate, whether the passenger seat was empty, or if it looked out of place in the familiar neighborhood. Satisfied, he bent over, grabbed his cup from the gray concrete porch and then shuffled down the driveway toward his own vehicle.
To anybody on the street, Fat Sam would have been an imposing sight. He stood over six-foot-five, was as wide as a forklift, and might have weighed as much as one, too. He wore an oversized Memphis Grizzlies t-shirt, baggy jeans, and tan work boots. Steel-toed.
Sam arrived at the end of the short paver-stone driveway, a neatly manicured mosaic that was too narrow for his custom-built Ford Expedition. He slurped from his straw and inspected the street’s vehicles again. Nodding to no one in particular, he clicked the key fob in his left hand and the parking lights on the navy-blue SUV blinked as the doors unlocked. Sam crossed the street and opened the driver’s door. He ducked his head and squeezed in behind the wheel, the SUV moaning as Sam settled into the seat. He wedged the monstrous drink container into the console’s cup holder, fastened his seat belt, and fired up the engine.
He was about to shift into gear when he felt the muzzle of a gun press against the back of his head.
“You’re Sam, correct?” said the voice from the back seat.
Fat Sam hesitated.
“Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” said the voice. “I’m not here to kill you, Sam. But I damn sure will, unless you do exactly what I say. We good?”
Sam eased his head forward to relieve the muzzle’s pressure. “We’re good,” he said.
“Peachy. Here are the rules. First, why don’t you go ahead and move that rearview mirror so you’re not tempted to get a look at me. Same with your side view.”
Sam reached out and turned the rearview mirror upward, catching a glimpse of the green baseball cap behind him. Then he pressed the button on the driver’s door. The whir of the mirror angling toward the pavement cut the silence inside the SUV.
“Second rule is you keep both hands on the wheel at all times.”
Sam gripped the wheel at ten and two. “Okay,” he said.
“Super. Now tell me about the contract on Finn Harding?”
“What contract?”
“I received a blast email last week from the Dark Brokerage, Bishop’s little information-sharing service. It was an open contract on Finn Harding, whereabouts unknown. A twenty-five-thousand dollar bounty on his head. I assume it went out to your entire user database. That contract.”
“Right.” Sam rubbed his hands on the steering wheel. “Bishop set that up. An automatic protocol, a trigger in case something happened to him. All I was supposed to do was log into the website and hit send. When I found Bishop dead in the RV, that’s what I did. I logged in and hit send. Just like he said to do. I didn’t order anything.”
Sam heard the man shift against the leather seat.
“So it was Bishop who had the brilliant idea to send every Dark Brokerage account holder after this Finn Harding character?”
“Right. Like I said, only if Bishop turned up dead. And he did.”
“And Finn killed him?”
“I guess. I wasn’t there. But, if it wasn’t Finn, then it was someone working with him.” Sam eyeballed his drink in the cup holder. A bead of condensation dribbled down the cup onto the console.
“How many
people did it go to? The email? Did it go to everyone in your database or just a certain category?”
“Everyone, I guess. I don’t know. I didn’t manage the user list. Like I said, I just pressed send. Everything else was already set up.”
“Why didn’t you go after the contract yourself? You’re local. Seems like you’d have an easy time finding Finn.”
“I don’t need that kind of heat on me. Plus, I’m a glorified admin, not a killer.”
The man in the back seat was quiet.
“I can tell you that most of the people on that distribution list were hackers and information resellers,” said Sam. “They’re not killers either, but there might be a few who could pull it off. Assuming they can find Finn, which is probably a long shot. I’d wager he’s long gone by now. There were two…” Fat Sam stopped.
“Go on,” said the man in the back seat. “Two who?”
Fat Sam’s shoulders slouched into his seat. He felt the muzzle bury deeper into the back of his head.
“I received an email yesterday, to our admin account. Two brothers. Last name’s Nolan. They said they were close to finding him, but they didn’t give any details. It could all be bullshit.”
“Nolan? Brothers, you said?”
“Yes, but I don’t know anything else about them. Don’t even know their first names or where they are. Finn could be on the other side of the country by now.”
The man in the back seat shifted again. “Sam, here’s what I need you to do. Email that same distribution list and call off the hit. Tell everyone the contract has been closed and the twenty-five thousand has been claimed. Then reply to the Nolan brothers and tell them the same thing.”
“Why? Then no one will be looking for…”
“Wrong. I’ll be looking for him. And I’ll get him. But you’re going to call off the dogs so I can take care of Finn Harding my way. I don’t need to worry about a bunch of hill jack amateurs fucking things up. I’ll handle it the right way.”
“But if more people look for him, there’s a better chance of finding him.”
“We’re not painting a fence here. You’ve got too many cooks in the kitchen. I’d bet most of them have no idea what they’re doing. That means they’re more likely to do something stupid, which is either going to tip Finn off or get the police involved. If either of those two things happen you can be sure Finn will disappear for good. We’ve only got one chance at this. And I’ll do it the discreet way.”
“And you won’t have any competition for the bounty.” Sam closed his eyes tight, regretting saying it before the last word crossed his lips.
“You’re going to pay out anyway. Might as well pay someone who knows what the fuck he’s doing.”
Sam sensed a smile from the back seat.
“I’ll wait while you send that mail,” said the voice.
“I’ll have to get my phone from my pocket. And I’ll have to let go of the steering wheel.”
“Fine, but do anything stupid and I’ll relocate your frontal lobe to that stop sign up the street.”
Fat Sam arched his back and slowly reached into his front jeans pocket for his mobile phone. As he turned slightly to the right, he felt the muzzle slide across the back of his head. Once he slipped the phone from his pocket, he squared his shoulders against the seat and began typing, his fat thumbs tripping over themselves on the small screen. He replied to the Nolan email first. Then he sent a message to the original distribution list indicating the contract was closed. A moment after hitting send, Sam heard a muffled ding in the backseat. Whoever was behind him had just received his email.
“Okay, looks good,” said the voice. “You’ll have Finn Harding in a week.”
“Assuming you can find him,” said Sam. “What if he’s already gone?”
“Doesn’t matter where he is. I’ll find him. Then I’ll be in touch for my money.” The muzzle rattled against the headrest’s steel rod as the man pulled it away. “You kept up your side of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine. Put your forehead on the steering wheel and count down from sixty.”
Sam struggled to place his forehead on the wheel. As he bent forward, his gut pressed against his insides making his teeth clench. Fat Sam heard the rear door open. “Wait,” he said. “Who are you anyway?”
“You not knowing that is the only thing keeping you alive.”
The rear door closed and Fat Sam sat alone in the SUV, grimacing and counting backwards.
Two
BROOKE, MY EX-WIFE, KNOCKED on my apartment door at 11:00 am on Sunday morning. She was here to pick up our daughter Becca, who stayed with me most weekends. I twisted the deadbolt and opened the door. I’m not sure if Brooke intentionally dressed to get my attention, but regardless, she had it. She was the type of woman who looked good even when she wasn’t trying to. Today it was a pale blue t-shirt, with a brown leather jacket. Her long, tight jeans disappeared into light-brown knee-high boots. The gentle waves in her dark red hair told me she’d spent time on it.
Brooke walked in and dropped an oversized yellow purse onto my kitchen table.
“How was the weekend?” she said.
“Great. Pizza at Dewey’s on Friday night and then Disney on Ice yesterday.”
“Did she have a good time?”
“Of course, she had a good time,” I said. “It’s Disney on Ice. What kid doesn’t love that stuff? I have to give those characters credit. I’ve been on ice skates once in my life and it’s tough as shit. Can’t imagine doing it while sweating my balls off inside a Goofy costume.”
“That’s something I’d pay to see.”
“Me on ice skates or in a Goofy costume?” I said.
“Both.”
Becca stepped out of the guest bedroom. She saw Brooke and raced to her side.
“Mommy!” she yelled, wrapping her skinny arms around her mother’s waist.
A cordless drill screamed from the guest bedroom. Brooke jerked her head toward the sound.
“It’s Albert,” I said. “He’s installing a bookshelf.”
Becca tugged on her mother’s leather jacket. “I’m helping,” she said.
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” said Brooke. “Go pack up, sweetheart. We’ve got a few errands to run and then later we’re having dinner with Daryl.”
I waited for Becca to disappear into the guest room. “How is Dr. Dickhead anyway?”
“He’s fine.”
“You two still getting along?”
She twirled a lock of red hair between her fingers. “We’re getting along just fine, thanks.” Brooke looked around the condo as if ready to take roll. “How about your new little fling?” She peeked over my left shoulder. “She here?”
“You mean Jennifer? She doesn’t visit while Becca is here.”
“Right. Because then you’d have to explain to your daughter why you’re diddling her school nurse.”
“I guess I’ve got a thing for healthcare professionals.”
“I’m a healthcare professional, Finn. She passes out bandages, checks for lice, and stops nosebleeds.”
“She probably sees it differently.”
Brooke shrugged her shoulders. “We should all have dinner sometime. The four of us. Like a double date.”
“No thanks. The last thing I want to do is introduce my girlfriend to the guy who stole my wife.” I rubbed the finger where my wedding band used to be. “He might poach her away too.” I smiled. Brooke didn’t.
Brooke leaned to her left and stared through the open guest room door to check on Becca’s progress. A pounding hammer replaced the whirring drill.
Her eyes returned to mine. “I need to talk to you about something, but not in front of Becca.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about cheerleading,” Brooke’s voice was low. “Did Becca mention it?”
“Mention what?” I said.
“She wants to join the Catholic Academy’s cheer squad, but the woman who runs the program won’t let her.”
/> “Why not?”
“Because she’s a bitch, that’s why.”
“That’s a bit snippy, even for you.”
“She and I don’t get along and she’s taking it out on Becca by not letting her join the squad.”
I stepped into the kitchen and poured a cup of lukewarm coffee from the carafe. “I can’t imagine you rubbing anyone the wrong way.” I smiled again. Again, Brooke didn’t.
“Trust me, that’s exactly what it is. That bony bitch hates me and she won’t let Becca cheer with the other girls. It’s not right to punish Becca like that. She really wants to do it.”
“First, I didn’t even know Catholic schools had cheerleading teams and second, why does she want to be a cheerleader anyway? She’s six years old.”
“It’s not a team, Finn. It’s a squad. And she wants to do it because all her friends are doing it. She’s too young to be pulled into the middle of Candy Cooper’s petty bullshit.” She leaned to her left again to make sure Becca wasn’t in earshot. “So can you do something about it? Get her on the squad?”
I took a sip. “Wait, her name is Candy Cooper? That’s horrible.”
I didn’t spend a lot of time at Becca’s school—the Cincinnati Catholic Academy—so I never saw women like Candy in their natural habitat, but Jennifer had shared enough stories for me to know their type. Stay-at-home moms who always one-upped each other with a new luxury SUV, a shinier watch, or a bigger piece of jewelry. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against stay-at-home moms—or dads for that matter—but this was a peculiar breed. Always running committees, and apparently the cheerleading program, with an iron fist strong enough to make a dictator jealous.
These women never missed an opportunity to blabber on about their husband’s job and spent most of their free time roaming the mall, sipping mimosas at the local salon, and talking shit about one another behind each other’s backs. And they were always looking to validate their significance beyond arm-charm status. My guess was this Candy Cooper didn’t like Brooke because she didn’t buy into her bullshit “I’m-better-than-you” society. Brooke was probably way hotter too.
