The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  A tall, heavyset man stood with folded arms in front of a door in the far right corner. Gabriel wound through the bar toward him and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes directly. The bouncer fixed him with a threatening stare.

  “I’m here for the action,” he shouted over the clamor.

  “Who said anything about action?”

  Gabriel produced a battered wallet from his back pocket and fished out a crumpled twenty, the only cash he had. Trying not to think about how he’d acquired it, he pressed the bill into the bouncer’s upturned hand. “Freddie said I’d find some here.”

  The bouncer grunted, reached back and opened the door. “Move along. Eli and Jeff’ll see to ya.”

  “Thanks.” Greedy son of a bitch.

  Gabriel entered a short hallway. The door closed him in, and two men ambled out from a recessed area at the other end of the hall.

  He approached slowly, keeping his hands clear of his body. These people didn’t like to feel threatened. The men regarded him with similar expressions of ridicule before the taller of the two nudged his companion and smirked.

  “Your turn, buddy. Have a blast.”

  “Ah, Jesus,” the other man groaned. “Who let you in here, kid?” He glowered and held up a hand. “Stop there. Hands on the wall.”

  Gabriel turned, bent slightly, and placed his palms against the cool surface.

  “Don’t move.” The guard shifted behind him. Hands clapped against his body in hasty rhythm, gingerly at first, gathering more force as the search progressed downward. Once he’d finished, the guard shoved hard against the small of his back and dropped him to his knees.

  “Got some ID?”

  Gabriel struggled to his feet. “Why should you care about ID? I’m already in.”

  “Just give it. I’m curious how old you are.”

  “Come on! I’m old enough.”

  “Shut up and give it.”

  With a sharp glare, he fished out his wallet and flipped it open to his driver’s license.

  The guard snatched the wallet from him. His eyes widened briefly, and he motioned for his buddy. “Jeff, c’mere.”

  The taller man approached with a grin. Eli tossed him the wallet, and Jeff’s smile faded. The stares they pinned on Gabriel sent shivers through him. “What? I’m legal.”

  “Yeah. Okay, pal.” Jeff handed the wallet back, and both men moved aside. “Go on down and do your business.”

  What the hell was their problem? Nothing in his wallet should have made them suspicious.

  He walked past and entered the recessed area. Another door. This one opened on a set of stairs going down, and a medley of familiar, unwelcome sounds.

  After a while, all these fights looked the same.

  Here we go again. He trudged down the basement stairs, already tuning out the flat smack of flesh meeting flesh. Thudding noises rose above the din of a crowd gathered to watch men beat each other senseless. What fun.

  He fished out Lillith’s picture and searched the crowd for fresh faces. He’d seen too many of these people before, talked to hundreds of lowlifes and scumbags. So far he’d learned only that she’d been seen in the company of prominent members of an underground community of street fighting, prostitution and drugs. Members of this organization were identified by a symbol — a five-colored star.

  In all his time in the city, he hadn’t even glimpsed the goddamned star once. Maybe the organization didn’t really exist … but he couldn’t entertain that possibility. No organization meant no Lillith, because it was his only lead. Without it, he’d never find her.

  A skeletal brunette leaned against the wall alone, smoking something. It might have been a cigarette or a joint, or worse. He stopped and brushed back a greasy lock of hair from his eyes. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “I'm looking for someone. Have you seen this woman?”

  The brunette turned glassy eyes on him, blinked and tried to focus on the picture he held out. “Why?” she slurred. “You a cop?”

  “No. She’s my sister.”

  “Oh.” The woman stared at the photo a few seconds longer. “Nope, haven’t seen her. Sorry.”

  “All right. Thanks anyway.” He walked away and searched the blur of faces for a new target. Most of his conversations these days went the same way. ‘Are you a cop? No, never seen her before. Piss off.’ Just like all the other people at all the other bars.

  Give up. The suggestion drifted through his mind, imploring and small. Not happening. He couldn’t stop. Six long months of searching, and he’d just now come close. Someone here had to know something.

  He showed the picture to three more people, got two no’s and a piss off. The odds were good the next person would tell him off, too.

  Fists clenched in frustration, he entered the heart of the mob and headed toward the roped-off space in the center of the floor. The fighters — two shirtless men drenched in sweat, panting and bleeding — circled each other like stray dogs after the same scrap of food.

  This close to the action, the stench he’d come to associate with these fights surged strong, carried on ripples of stale air. A hot smell, like molten metal doused with salt water, of pain and sweat, of victory through punishment. Here the cheers and hisses became deafening, a callous demand for bloodshed. The fight wouldn’t end until one of the men collapsed and couldn’t get back up. Far as he’d been able to tell, that was the only rule.

  Battling despair, he silently repeated the words he tried to motivate himself with after every rejection. Just one more time. The next one will know something.

  He singled out a grinning drunk in a nine-to-five suit who swayed on his feet with a half-empty beer bottle clutched in one hand. Drunks usually stayed cheerful while they crushed his hopes. He approached, thrust the photo before the drunk’s face and shouted over the crowd.

  “Hey, have you seen her around?”

  The drunk looked from the picture to him. His grin widened. “I mighta seen her.”

  Gabriel’s heart thudded against his chest. “You have? Where?”

  “Christ, I dunno. It was like a week or two ago.” The brow furrowed. “Lessee. Think it was over by Harlem, mebee right near Uptown.” His smile twisted into a leer. “I seen a lot more ’a her than that, too. She’s a tight little piece.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, she cost me a coupla hunnerd, that little lady,” the drunk blathered on. “But she was worth every penny, know what I mean?” With a sloppy wink, he tried to nudge him, but stumbled.

  Cold fingers of apprehension squeezed Gabriel’s stomach. Lillith, a prostitute? No. “Are you sure?” He held the picture closer to the drunk’s rheumy gaze. “This woman here. You saw her?”

  The drunk squinted. “Mmph. Mebee not. The eyes ain’t quite right. Hair’s wrong too…”

  “So it wasn’t her?”

  Laughter dribbled from the drunk’s mouth. “Hey, wha’s it matter, right? Ya seen one whore, ya seen ’em all.”

  Gabriel’s temper nearly ran away with his tongue. He drew a deep breath and shook the photo. “Look. Please. Was it her, or not?”

  The drunk lifted the bottle to his lips. After a deep swig, he blinked a few times and stared at the picture. “Nope. Sorry, it musta been somebody else.” The grin resurfaced. “She’s hot, though. How much you want for her?”

  Gabriel snapped.

  He balled his free hand and launched it at the empty smile. His knuckles met the man’s jaw with a dull smack. The drunk flew back to land flat on the floor. The crowd shifted away, and the drunk struggled to prop himself onto his elbows. Blood bubbled from his lips. Turning his head, he spat a mouthful of thick liquid. Along with a tooth.

  Gabriel shoved the picture back in his jacket. “That’s my sister, you bastard. She’s no whore.”

  The drunk sat up with a wheeze and looked from his recently departed tooth to Gabriel, as though he couldn’t quite make the connection between the two. At last he lifted to his feet and swiped a clumsy arm across his blood
-smeared mouth.

  “Whassa matter witchoo?” The words tumbled from lips that couldn’t seem to move properly. Pain registered in the drunk’s eyes, and anger lurked beneath. “Why’d you go an’ do that?”

  “Fuck off.” Gabriel turned and pushed through the packed crowd toward the outskirts of the room. Behind him, the drunk shouted something, and he glanced over his shoulder. Another man had grabbed the drunk, holding him back.

  Gabriel broke free of the knot of people, only to walk into a denim-clad, devil-bearded Hispanic who didn’t look happy to see him.

  “You’re causing a lot of trouble, kid.” The Hispanic ran a hand through short brown hair and let out an exasperated breath. “Why’d you go and slug poor Kev there? He’s only having a good time.”

  Frustration sharpened his fury and buried his restraint. “Get out of my way.” He shoved the man with both hands.

  The instant drop in the volume of the crowd turned Gabriel’s irritation into cold fear. Even the fighters stopped and gawked, as though he’d just shot the Pope.

  “You touched me.” The man sounded genuinely amazed. “You pushed me. First you knock my cousin’s teeth out, then you try to punk me?” His words rang in the silence. Veins popped into relief along his neck. He stepped forward.

  Dull pain exploded in Gabriel’s gut. His breath gasped out, and he landed on his knees.

  He hadn’t even seen the blow coming.

  “Out,” the Hispanic barked.

  The floor beneath him vibrated. Murmurs hummed through the departing crowd like water whispering down a drain. He started to rise, but someone behind pushed him down.

  Something solid planted itself between his shoulder blades. It felt like a foot.

  “Not you. You stay.” The voice belonged to the man he’d pushed.

  “You want his wallet, Diego?” a man behind him said.

  “Yeah. Then let him up.”

  The pressure on his back increased. A hand wrestled his wallet from his pocket. His head throbbed with confusion. They weren’t mugging him. So what was so goddamn fascinating about his wallet?

  The foot retreated. He coughed and stood. Another Hispanic, a heavily muscled thug in a tight blue tee shirt, had joined the one called Diego.

  Diego looked from the license to Gabriel. He closed the wallet, held it between two fingers and tapped it on his open palm. A dark smile surfaced. “After the shit you just pulled, I’d kill you for free,” he said. “But it’s your lucky day. Right now, you’re worth more to me alive.”

  Chapter 2

  Gabriel stared dully at the man, who obviously wasn’t very observant. At the moment he wasn’t even worth a pound of flesh. “Look, I’m sorry about your cousin,” he said. “Can I have my wallet back?”

  “Sure.” Diego grinned and dropped it on the floor. It landed with a flat smack that reverberated through the empty basement.

  He looked from the wallet to Diego. “How about handing it to me?”

  “You want it, you get it.”

  “Come on, man.” He glanced over his shoulder. At least only one thug was back there waiting to hit him from behind. “I said I was sorry.”

  Diego stopped smiling. “Pick it up, ese. You won’t like how I give it to you.”

  Damn it. He shouldn’t have slugged the drunk. Maybe his father had been right about one thing. One of these days, his temper would get him killed.

  Maybe today.

  He knew this guy would beat him down if he didn’t go along with the ploy. Hell, he’d probably beat him down anyway. But it’d be worse if he did nothing. Trying to stay out of range, he bent and reached for the wallet.

  Diego kicked him in the head.

  Pain flared in his jaw. He dropped to the floor and rolled onto his back, momentarily stunned. Blood seeped into his mouth. He spluttered, turned aside and curled inward, shielding his head with his arms.

  “Damn. You still have all your teeth.”

  Before he could think to move, Diego stomped on his arm and drove it against his face.

  He yowled and scuttled away. Blood gushed this time, splashing down his chin to streak the floor. With one hand clamped to his jaw, he scrambled to his feet and stood, gasping. His wallet lay where Diego had dropped it. A few drops of blood glistened on the scuffed surface.

  The man gestured at the floor. “Thought you wanted that. So pick it up already.” The grin stayed put, made him a demented joker without the jingling cap. Diego could have posed for Satan’s custom card deck.

  When he made no move to try again, Diego said, “Nails, give the kid his wallet.”

  Fuck this. He could live without it.

  Gabriel whirled and sprinted for the stairs. The muscled thug gave chase, and Diego’s laughter followed him. He grabbed the rail and propelled himself up, two and three steps at a time. He’d almost reached the top when he collided with a wall.

  The wall had hands. They grabbed his arms and held him back. It was the man who’d restrained the drunk earlier.

  “Where’re you runnin’ off to?” The man turned him around and pushed him down the stairs, toward the thug standing at the bottom.

  Another round of laughter rolled from Diego. “Kaiser, you just accidentally did something right. Get him down here.”

  “Sure, boss.” Kaiser’s hand fell on his shoulder.

  Gabriel jerked away, walked slowly down the stairs and stopped on the last step. Glaring, he pulled together all the strength he could muster and lobbed a fist at the first thug’s face. But Nails caught his wrist in mid-swing with one hand, and drove the other into his stomach.

  He bent double with the blow. Nails tossed him headlong away from the stairs. He tumbled once and landed in a heap. Nails strode over, hauled him to his feet and pressed him face-first against the wall, pinning his arms behind him.

  When Gabriel thrashed in his grip, a knee rammed his spine.

  “Hold still,” Nails grunted. “You owe Diego a couple of teeth.”

  “Hey. Calmate, ’mano,” Diego said. His voice sounded closer. “Just give the kid his wallet. Changed my mind about the teeth. Permanent damage might lower the prize. You know that ritzy son of a whore’s always looking for a fuckin’ loophole.”

  Fear drained the fight from him. Not a damned bit of what Diego said made any sense. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “What prize? Whose loophole?”

  Nails stuffed his wallet back into his pocket, ground him into the wall and held him there for long seconds — then let go without warning. Gabriel sagged, but managed to stay on his feet and turn to meet Diego’s painted smile.

  “Didn’t you know? You’re a wanted man, Gabriel Morgan,” he said. “If that’s a fake name, now’s the time to ‘fess up, lose a few teeth, and scram.”

  “W-wanted? By who?”

  “Marcus Slade.”

  “Who?”

  Diego shrugged. “If you don’t know, I guess you’ll find out when we get there.”

  “Wait. Wait a minute.” Gabriel closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Why would some thug offer a reward for him? It had to be a mistake. He would have pinched himself, been convinced he was dreaming, if the sharp ache in his jaw and his gut weren’t so real. “There’s eight million people in this city,” he said. “Has to be more than one Gabriel Morgan.”

  “Maybe. Got a point?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Slade!” He forced himself to breathe evenly. “I’m nobody. Whoever this guy is, he’s not looking for me. I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass. In our world, that’s enough.” Diego motioned a hand in the air. Nails and Kaiser moved in. “You aren’t gonna come quiet, are you? Don’t matter to me, one way or the other.”

  “Hold on. I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.” He stepped back and flinched when he hit the wall behind him. “I don’t even live around here. I’m from upstate. Buffalo. I’m just trying to find someone, that’s all.” He reached for Lillith’s photo.
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  Nails and Kaiser were faster. They pulled guns.

  “Damn it, it’s just a picture! Your buddies upstairs already searched me.” His pulse jumped and hammered in his throat, and a tremor shot down his spine. These men would kill him without hesitation. They’d shoot him where he stood, and then go to wherever thugs went for a nice dinner with clean consciences.

  With a sickening jolt, he realized Diego never said this Slade guy wanted him alive.

  At last, Diego extended a hand. “All right. Let’s see it.”

  Caution held back his relief. He still had to convince them he wasn’t the right guy. Not a rival or a narc, or whatever they thought he was. Just some random nobody looking for his sister. He slid the photo out slowly and handed it over.

  Diego took it. His eyes widened briefly, and he grunted. Shit, somehow he'd pissed the man off again. But then Diego gave a wintry laugh that twisted his stomach.

  “Sorry, kid. You’re definitely the right one.” Diego lowered the photo and met his eyes with manic glee. “Nails. Put him out.”

  Nails reversed his grip on the gun, and the butt end smashed his temple. White-hot agony filled his head and faded to black.

  Chapter 3

  The Marquis-Grant was four stories of smells-like-money, situated just off Fifth Avenue in high uptown Manhattan. Close enough to Harlem to qualify the neighborhood as borderline gauche, the hotel and the small but immaculate grounds around it stood unscathed by graffiti and litter. Marcus Slade fancied himself a businessman, and would have no less.

  Diego threw the Rolls into park. He killed the engine and twisted around to address Kaiser in the back seat. “Bring the kid around back. I’ll roust the prick.”

  Kaiser grunted an acknowledgment, slid out of the car and reached back in to haul the limp, bound body toward him. He slung the kid over a broad shoulder and disappeared into the alley next to the hotel.

  From the passenger side, Nails watched him fade into the darkness. “You sure he can handle it?”

  “No sweat. That kid’s not gonna come around for a while, anyway.” Diego faced forward and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Out the window, a stretch limo with tinted windows rolled up, slowed to a near stop, and kept going. Slade’s clientele tended toward the loaded side. This one must have been looking for a discreet drop.