The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  The brawler took it and squinted. “Sure this is you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s expired.”

  “Haven’t gotten around to renewing it yet,” Ozzy said evenly. “I’ve only been out of prison for two weeks.”

  Shovel Face twitched and handed the license back like a disease. “Guess that’ll do,” he said. “Go on in. She’ll find you.”

  When the electronic door lock buzzed, Ozzy almost laughed aloud.

  He stepped through into colorful darkness and semi-ordered chaos. The crowd competed with the music for volume—and what a crowd it was. Leather and chains, lace and latex, and lots of skin. More tattoos and piercings than a biker club convention. One kid wandered past sporting knots of studs and hoops on the sides of his head, without a trace of ear showing. A lady nearby wore ropes of fine, layered chains from nostrils to lobes, and had a dog collar tattooed around her neck.

  From what he could see of the place itself, it was pretty high-end. A long, curved oak bar with track lighting, a lounge area, a dance floor. There was a stage at the back, currently silent and performer-less. And off to the left, a huge dungeon-style door framed with black curtains.

  “Mr. Stone,” a voice to his right said.

  He looked over, and then down. The woman he guessed was Katra Solange came up to his shoulder. Compared to her patrons, she was downright conservative in a black silk pantsuit — but she made up for it with tri-color dreadlocks, full-finger silver rings, and a spider bite piercing. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Come with me.”

  She headed for the bar, and he followed her behind it and through an unobtrusive door leading to a cool, carpeted hallway. She opened a door on the left and gestured for him to enter.

  Inside was a standard, elegantly furnished office. No handcuffs or torture devices, but the walls were covered with framed photos. Most of them showed the woman who was closing the door behind him, posing cozy with some very recognizable people—male and female. Ozzy spotted A-list celebrities, fashion bigwigs, a couple of senators, and a man who looked a hell of a lot like the current state governor.

  “My insurance policies,” she said as he stared at the pictures. Absent the background noise, her voice was music, a pure and smoky Virginia drawl. “I’m Katra Solange. Please sit down, Mr. Stone.”

  He took the padded chair across from the desk and waited for her to sit on the other side. Instead, she walked over and circled him slowly with the fingers of one hand trailing the air, a few inches from touching him. She paused in front of him without expression, and then walked around the chair in the other direction.

  The bizarre little ritual felt oddly intimate, and he resisted squirming in his seat. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she actually touched him. Finally, she came around and perched on the desk, favoring him with a crooked smile. “Well. You look like a bear packed into a skin suit, and you smell like a moonshine still in a redneck’s garage.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “That’s about right.”

  “I like you. Call me Kat.” She winked and slid off the desk, this time heading for the straight-back chair behind it to take a seat. “You’re a soldier,” she said.

  He managed to hide his surprise. “Ex-soldier, yes.”

  “Army?”

  “Ten years. Jimmy told you?”

  “Old Henson said you were big. That was the extent of his recommendation.” Kat looked him over deliberately and frowned a little. “You know I have to ask about that,” she said, pointing to the five dots tattoo on his left hand.

  Here it comes. This was the part where she told him to take a hike, and he crawled back to Jimmy’s bar to finish parting the man from his bourbon one shot at a time. He thought about telling her the real reason he’d served four years in hell—but that would only make him sound like every other ex-con insisting he never done nothin’. Finally, he decided to offer the official bullshit verdict.

  “Yes, I did time,” he said. “For criminal mischief.”

  She smirked. “In other words, they didn’t like your face.”

  Ozzy blinked once, and then grinned. It was the first real smile he’d experienced since he came back to Tomasburg, and it felt good. In that moment he decided it wouldn’t be so bad working for this fascinating woman and her high-powered insurance policies.

  “I think you’ll get along fine around here,” Kat said. “What do you think?”

  “I probably will, except with Shovel Face.”

  Her eyebrows went up.

  “Your door man,” he said.

  She laughed, and the sound was sweet sin. “Funny you should mention Shep,” she said. “Because you’re hired, and the first thing I want you to do is go out there and fire his snake ass.”

  Chapter 3

  Ozzy stood on the club side of the door, armed with nothing but a swipe card to let himself back in after he took on the brawler. Kat had given him a good enough reason to do what she’d asked—apparently Shep had been letting his pusher friends in to sell some particularly nasty dope to her patrons. She ran a clean place and wanted to keep it that way. She would’ve fired him already, but she couldn’t humiliate the guy enough to keep him from coming back for revenge.

  That was Ozzy’s job now.

  He drew a slow, deep breath. Step one is get him outside. Step two absolutely could not be call 911, so he’d probably have to let Shep get a few hits in. Most brawlers who thought they didn’t have a chance one-on-one tried to up the ante with a weapon, and he’d rather avoid that happening.

  Fighting on gravel was going to suck, but not much more than prison yard asphalt.

  Aware of the small crowd of curious onlookers behind him, he opened the door and stepped into the vestibule. Shep was sitting on a metal folding chair, texting. He looked up and grinned like a dog who’d just discovered his leash was broken. “She turn you down already?”

  “No.”

  “Great. That means I gotta look at your face some more.”

  “Wrong again.”

  “So what, she bangin’ you?”

  “Strike three.” Ozzy gave the inner door a tug to make sure it was closed. “I’m your replacement,” he said. “Could you step outside, please?”

  Shep’s mouth hung open for a few seconds, but then the grin returned full force. He stood slowly and slid the phone in a pocket. “With pleasure.”

  Ozzy had to give him credit for catching on so fast. He let Shep go out first. When he followed into the parking lot, the man was already shaking his arms out and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You know I’m gonna break your face in half, right?”

  “I know you’ll try.”

  “Oh, man.” The brawler leaned his head, and his neck cracked loudly. “When I finish with you, me and Miss Kat’s gonna have a little chat about respect.”

  It took a lot of effort not to end things right away by breaking Shep’s spine, just to save any future girlfriends of his from walking into doors shaped like his fists. “I don’t suppose you’ll just leave,” Ozzy said.

  “And miss all the fun?” Shep struck a come-get-me pose. “You gonna beg me to take my job back.”

  Ozzy sighed and glanced at the door. The onlooker crowd, not so small now, had come outside to watch the show. Terrific. Maybe he should’ve brought Shep onto that stage in there to fire him. He looked back at the brawler, loosened his stance. “All right,” he said. “Break my face.”

  Shep hesitated. Wariness flashed in his eyes, and for an instant he held back. But he overcame whatever reluctance he’d felt and charged ahead.

  Ozzy sidestepped and let the man’s momentum carry him face-first into the ground.

  He expected a predictable comeback—stand, stride and swing. But Shep rolled and sprang with a gravel barrage flying from his hand. The man knew how to read an opponent. Ozzy got an arm up, but not before a good-sized chunk caught him high on the cheekbone and drew blood.

  A fist drove into him just below the sternum. He dou
bled over, feigned a gasp. When Shep went for another shot, he bent lower and flipped the man over his shoulder, slamming him flat on his back.

  This time, Shep wasn’t so quick to get up.

  “Congratulations. You broke it.” Ozzy wiped blood absently from his face. “Now will you leave?”

  Shep’s features twisted in a wince that spread to rage. “I’m just gettin’ started,” he snarled, pushing himself back up. “And I’m gonna break more than your face for that.” His hand darted into a pocket, and Ozzy caught the glint of metal.

  Time to end this.

  Shep strode toward him, drawing a fist back. When he threw, Ozzy leaned in and snagged his wrist. He twisted the arm sharply behind the man’s back, wrenched the brass knuckles off and threw them across the lot.

  He forced the brawler to his knees. “Okay, Shep,” he said near the man’s ear. “Those people watching, they think we’re just about even. You can keep it that way and go now. Save face. Or you can leave in an ambulance.” He squeezed hard enough to convey that he could break bones if he wanted to, and then let go with a shove. “Your choice.”

  Shep didn’t move for a minute. Eventually he stood slowly and brushed gravel dust from his knees without turning around. His hands clenched into fists, but he didn’t try to use them.

  He walked three steps away, then pivoted with a cold glare. “That was a mistake, friend.”

  Damn. Bluster and threats, he could brush off—but he recognized murderous intent when he saw it. He’d have to watch his back from now on, because Shep would come for him again. And he wouldn’t come alone.

  Ozzy kept his expression neutral. “You don’t want this.”

  That flicker of wariness passed through the brawler’s eyes again, before his features hardened. “Oh, I know just what I want,” he said, grinning his escaped-dog grin. “I think you know it too, sweetheart. I’ll see you around…but you won’t see me coming.”

  Shep strode for the rows and climbed into the rudely parked red Jaguar. Of course that was his car. The engine roared to life, and gravel spewed from screeching wheels as he reversed hard and sped away.

  When the Jag shrieked onto the dirt road, the crowd cheered.

  Ozzy counted silently to ten before he turned back toward the building. The crowd showed no signs of dispersing as he approached. More than one called out congratulations, slapped his back, shook his hand. A few gave him looks of blatant sexual interest. But mostly, everyone seemed overjoyed at the door man’s forced departure.

  He wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful. For two weeks he’d successfully kept his head down and maintained minimal contact with other people. Now in one night he’d gained a high-profile employer, a dangerous enemy, and a fan club.

  “Okay,” he said when he reached the inner door. “Show’s over.” He swiped the card Kat had given him and held the door open, watching the crowd carefully as they filed past. No one showed signs of a threat. Finally, just one person remained.

  “You’re bleeding,” Kat said.

  “I’ll live.”

  She smiled. “Nice work. Come with me.”

  “What about the door?”

  “That’s why I have a card system. And cameras. I want you on the inside, being visible.”

  He nodded as her strategy came clear. This fight wasn’t only about Shep. She’d wanted these people to see him in action—because from now on, just the sight of him would keep them on good behavior. He’d rarely have to get physical. And anyone who wasn’t here tonight would hear the rumors, which would make him out to be some kind of demon.

  That could work in his favor, too. It’d keep him from having to socialize.

  Kat led him back to her office, sat him down, and left for a minute. She came back with a wet cloth and a slim white package. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  He closed his eyes while she washed his face and applied a butterfly bandage to the cut. “He gashed you pretty good,” she said. “I’d ask if you want stitches, but I know the answer. You’ll live, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re a man of few words, Mr. Stone.”

  He looked at her and smiled. “Ozzy.”

  “Ozzy, then.” She smiled back, but it faded fast. “You know he’ll come after you.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  After a long pause, she said, “I get the feeling you’re already deciding how to handle it—and that you can.”

  “You’d be right.”

  “I knew I liked you.” She stared at him for another minute, and then walked around the desk to her seat. “Since I can’t have you fire Shep every night, I should probably tell you about the job,” she said. “It’s pretty straightforward—keep the peace. I’m sure you understand what that means.”

  “I’ve had a little experience.”

  “Yeah, I bet you’ve got stories worth hearing.” Her polished demeanor slipped for just a second, then she was all business again. “I’ll need you Thursday to Sunday nights, from about eight to two. I pay a hundred a night. If you want extra work, you can come in Monday afternoons for our club meetings. Sound good?”

  “Works for me.” The money didn’t matter. The house was paid off, and they couldn’t take his bank account along with his freedom. He’d never spent much while he was in the service. Most of what he’d earned was still there.

  “All right,” she said. “Things are pretty quiet here most of the time, relatively speaking. The biggest thing you’ll have to watch for is outside activity. I’ll explain that tomorrow, but basically we get some guests who don’t want to play by the rules.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She nodded. “I figure you already earned your pay tonight. So rest up, and I’ll see you tomorrow at eight.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

  It was a promise he was surprised he intended to keep.

  Chapter 4

  Roman Blade stared at the face frozen on the screen for a long time, trying to decide if he was hallucinating. At three in the morning, it wasn’t an impossible notion. And that just couldn’t be who he thought it was. The son of a bitch shouldn’t have gotten out for another two years, at least—and what the hell was he doing at Kat’s place?

  He backed up the security feed recording and let it run. The big man’s lips didn’t move much, and the audio quality on these cameras was shit. But if he turned it up and filtered some of the white noise out, he could usually make out most of the sound.

  On the video, Shep Miller said, Name?

  “Ozzy Stone,” Roman spat, just before the man himself confirmed it. “You bastard.”

  This could be a blessing, or a nightmare—and he was betting on the latter. For two years he’d fantasized about taking revenge on the man who’d engineered the most brutal experience of his life. But his former cellmate was bigger, stronger, and meaner, with razor-sharp instincts and all the combat skills Uncle Sam could pound into him.

  Roman had spent the last two years training and bulking up, and he was still nowhere close to Ozzy Stone’s league. The man could probably break him in half with a pinky.

  “You shouldn’t be here yet,” he mumbled at the screen, where a pale and tense-jawed Shep was opening the door to let Stone in as though he feared for his life. Not a big surprise there. Everything about that man screamed cold, competent killer.

  Damn it, he should’ve reviewed the tapes sooner. He usually got started between midnight and one, so he could let Kat know right away if he’d seen anything suspicious. This qualified in spades. But he’d actually felt sleepy around eleven, so he’d tried to lie down and grab a quick nap. It didn’t happen. He ended up soaking in the tub for an hour, then he’d made a sandwich and sat down here to find Ozzy Fucking Stone out of prison and in his face.

  Now Kat was gone for the night, so he couldn’t find out why the hell she’d let a creature like that anywhere near her place.

  Since he probably wasn’t going to get even the lousy two hours of sleep he
usually managed tonight, he decided to watch everything he could find with Stone before he did the full review. There wasn’t too much to go through. The feeds ran from the vestibule, exterior front, exterior back, and the main club room.

  He could’ve installed cameras in the basement playrooms any time and watched as much action as he wanted, but he wasn’t into that kind of voyeurism. And Kat’s back rooms were sacrosanct—he knew she had cameras installed in her office, but he respected her enough not to break into them.

  He switched to the main room feed and found the point where Stone entered. The man stood there for a few minutes, watching everything, saying nothing. Kat herself walked up to him, and he blinked and looked down. They had a brief conversation where Stone said all of two words. No way he could isolate the audio in here, but his lips appeared to shape yes, ma’am. At least he was polite to someone.

  Then Kat led him toward the bar and behind it. Through the door leading to her office.

  “Jesus Christ,” Roman said. “What do you want with that thug?”

  He sped the playback until Stone came back out with the same expression he’d worn going in. Stop at the door, stare at it for a minute, go out. Back to the vestibule feed. Shep sneered, drawled something. He backed it up a few seconds and ran the choppy, static-filled audio.

  She turn you down already?

  No.

  Great. That means I gotta look at your face some more.

  Wrong again.

  So what, she bangin’ you?

  Strike three. I’m your replacement.

  “No!” Roman stopped the video and gaped at Stone’s implacable face. Him, working at Kat’s? “Oh, no,” he rasped. “You can’t do this. Get the hell out of my life, you son of a bitch.”

  With a hand that wanted to shake, he clicked play and heard Stone say Could you step outside, please? Shep looked surprised for a second, but then he grinned.

  With pleasure.

  “Don’t do it, man. He’ll kill you.” Shep Miller was a cocky bastard and a pathetic excuse for a human being, and Roman hated him as much as anyone. But not even Shep deserved having Ozzy Stone inflicted on him.