Murmur (Pierce Securities Book 5)

by Anne Conley

  “Yeah. I got something on homeboy. He talks a lot.”

  “What you got?” Hollerman’s voice asked the question, and Quinten looked up at the man whose eyes were riveted on the phone.

  “What’s it worth?” The strange voice was asking Hollerman the question, and Quinten realized this must be someone from the jail.

  A long sigh. “You tell me what you got, I’ll figure out if it’s worth anything at all.”

  “He didn’t go in alone.” Quinten was instantly alert, confirmation of what he’d been thinking. There was something he’d been missing.

  “What do you mean? Sure he did.” Hollerman’s voice was placating, a popular interrogation technique.

  “I mean, he had her ex and her lawyer feeding him information. He didn’t do it alone.” Quinten strained his ears, as if that would make the recording go faster, get to the good part.

  “Why would he tell you that?”

  A chuckle that turned into an emphysemic cough sounded, the wheeze lasting long enough for Quinten to get impatient. “They came to see him in county lockup. His lawyer and the other guy. There’s no fucking privacy there. One of them told him to just keep his mouth shut. That’s when I started listening.”

  Hollerman reached over and tapped his phone, silencing the call. “We’ve checked records, and his legal counsel is listed as Fuller and Associates.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Brandon Fuller’s daddy’s firm.

  “Yeah, thought you might want to know about it.”

  Quinten stood. “Thanks.”

  If Brandon and Argyle were working together, and had Raines in on it, then Quinten wasn’t about to overlook The Grynderr’s association with them, too.

  There was no way he’d let Valerie go to that fight. He knew with everything inside him, it was a trap.

  Valerie’s nerves were wreaking such havoc; she just knew she was going to puke before this was all over with. She swiped sweaty palms across the thighs of her jeans, again. And she wasn’t even there yet.

  Imogene was driving—a duty above and beyond her assigned tasks—but Valerie couldn’t go alone, and as soon as she’d asked, Imogene had pounced on the opportunity. Of course, she’d been mad at Quinten for forbidding her from coming to the fight, but she had to steal this last opportunity to see him in the ring. There was something tremendously exciting about it.

  Besides, it was part of her process. She was finally making a conscious effort to become normal again, and him stopping her from making this public appearance was really jacking with her mojo. He’d finally acquiesced, making all sorts of allowances, then gone back on it. Something had happened, but he wouldn’t tell her what. So here she was sneaking in. Supposedly, there was a place she could watch from and not be seen, which sort of defeated the purpose, but it was a start. Quinten wasn’t embarrassed of her appearance, but he wanted her safe. So here she was. Compromise, right?

  They drove up to the crowded gym after hours and struggled to find a place to park. Leaving the luxury of the tinted windows behind was a daunting task, and Valerie inhaled deeply before gripping the door handle. Tamping down the rising nausea, she watched the door for a bit before actually getting out. She looked before she leapt, seeing mostly men, some couples, and a pair of twittering girls go up to the door, show their tickets to the bouncer, and go inside. Trash bags hung over the windows so nothing could be seen from the outside.

  Because this fight was certainly not legal.

  She’d read up on it. A no-holds barred, gloves-off, last-man-standing type fight.

  The picture accompanying Quinten’s profile as The Haymaker had shown a fierce warrior—a man no one in his right mind would willingly go up against. Which made her question the sanity of this Grynderr character that had challenged him to a rematch.

  Valerie honestly had no idea why she was here. Stage three of her “unveiling”, as she was calling it, involved someplace very public. Besides, she wanted to see Quinten fight. Valerie knew it was an integral part of who he used to be, and she wanted to see him in his own environment. Even if it was something he’d sworn to never do again.

  And she wouldn’t do it if she never got out of the car.

  Pulling the door handle with trembling hands, she stepped out and took a deep breath of the chilly night air. Her heart pounded in her chest, but it only served to make her more aware of her surroundings. Valerie was embracing her fear. She could do this. Imogene came up and looped her arm through hers in a gesture of solidarity. The older woman was her friend, and she was along for the ride—wherever that might take them.

  At the door, Imogene showed their tickets to the bouncer, who was Ryan. His familiarity brought a small sense of calm to Valerie.

  “We’re here to watch Quinten fight,” Imogene stated proudly. Ryan looked past her at Valerie with a funny look in his eyes.

  “He’s not Quinten here. He’s The Haymaker.” He turned and led them inside. “Follow me. He has seats already set up for you guys.” Valerie tried to hide her surprise, but Ryan only winked at her. “We sort of knew you’d be here, no matter what he told you.”

  The inside of the gym was bigger than the outside, and Ryan led them with an athlete’s agility up some back stairs to a quiet room with a viewing window. It was the gym’s office. A utilitarian desk and a chair needing new upholstery sat in one corner.

  “You’ll be safe here. I’m coming up once the fight starts.”

  The fighting ring was below her, surrounded by a mesh cage, although it was more the suggestion of a cage. It didn’t look too sturdy. But the mat of the ring was stained with what she could only imagine were blood, sweat, and tears.

  The crowd was larger than she expected, comprised of a motley crew of socio-economics. There were the low-income types—obviously out for a good time and to see some gore—standing next to the upper crust of society, all hoping to make a quick buck with the blood sport.

  Valerie swore someone cranked on the heat when Quinten walked out onto the mat, climbing over the cage easily. Wearing black shorts, the ridges of his torso already slick with sweat, he oozed danger. Valerie caught her breath in the back of her throat before she did something she’d regret, like moan out loud.

  When his eyes scanned the crowd, landing on her window, he flashed a rueful smile. He knew she was here—had known she would come—yet didn’t like it much.

  “Holy moly. That man,” Imogene breathed. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d be giving you a run for your money with that one.” Valerie would have laughed at the woman next to her, but she was too busy agreeing with her. Quinten’s eyes dropped to the ground, and his focus turned to wherever it needed to be to win this fight.

  Valerie’s eyes were solely focused on Quinten as the other man slipped into the ring with him. After an interminable amount of rigmarole, with the announcer droning on and on, they touched gloves and the fight was on.

  Ryan slipped into the room with them, and Valerie spent the next several minutes not breathing.

  Dude knew something about Valerie, and he was going to find out what. That was the only reason Quinten had agreed to this fight. There was no telling what Larry was getting out of this, but Quinten would get peace of mind. At that counted for more than he could articulate when it came to Valerie’s safety. Honestly, Quinten was a little over the heavyweight limit, but this guy didn’t care when he called the rematch.

  Which was one more argument why this was a shady deal.

  Besides, Valerie was here. He’d known she would come. She’d been too excited when she found out he’d agreed to one more fight. Quinten had seen how disappointed she was when he’d told her no last night. He knew she was behind that plate-glass window upstairs; Ryan had given him the signal he’d put her there.

  He told himself it didn’t matter. She would be safe while he got the information he needed. The guys would take care of her. She’d put herself in the position of becoming bait, and he hated everything about that.

  His e
yes scanned the crowd when The Grynderr crawled into the cage. Quinten tried to examine the guy a little closer than before. Blond hair, braids, Viking build, gross skin—pasty and blemished, probably a serious drug user. Since that was what Simon had initially put him away for, Quinten would assume he’d just gone back to his old ways. He’d have to be careful. Fighters who were high rarely felt any pain.

  But one question taunted him. The Grynderr had brought Valerie up the last time they’d fought. And that was still bugging him.

  The bell rang, and they started to dance around each other, Quinten’s body open, willing the other man to throw the first punch. “What do you know about Valerie?” Quinten told himself he was just doing his job, but shithead’s answer mattered. A lot.

  “I know she’s here.” The Grynderr had foregone his mouthpiece again, as had Quinten. He wanted some fucking answers. Quinten grimaced. “And I know this isn’t about the rich bitch, Quinten Pierce.”

  “Why the fuck do you even care?” Be careful how you answer this one, asshole. He ignored the jab at Valerie. He himself had believed her to be a rich bitch when they’d first met. The fact this asshole knew so much was evidence Quinten had missed something big in this investigation. He ignored the fact The Grynderr knew his name. No one associated with the fights was supposed to know his name. Turns out, lots of people did. For one, Brandon did, and he was involved in this shit up to his neck. His hackles were up, all senses on high alert as he watched the big guy circle, bouncing from one foot to the other. He couldn’t fix this until he took this guy out.

  “Because you got the wrong guy,” the Grynderr sneered, and Quinten lunged, faking right with a haymaker that he purposefully swung out wide to loop around the back of his neck. His signature move.

  It was a calculated miscalculation to bring The Grynderr in closer and hit him with a left-handed body shot. He heard as much as felt the flesh give with a slapping thud and a breathless, “Ooof.”

  Haymakers are wild punches, but Quinten made them famous in his circle of fighters, hence the name. His weren’t wild—they just looked like it—but like everything Quinten did, they were carefully controlled bursts of power.

  It was his favorite way to gauge the opponent. He withdrew, hands up, dancing around to see how the other fighter had taken it.

  The Grynderr spat, slapped his fists together, and came at Quinten, swinging wildly. Perfect. Quinten absorbed some and dodged others, giving his opponent a false sense of confidence in his ability. Another of his favorites. He was biding his time.

  “He confessed.” Quinten was growling, unable to understand his own words, but The Grynderr only sneered back at him.

  “People have deep fucking pockets.”

  Quinten tossed a jab at him, catching him straight in the chin, and he saw the stars in the other man’s eyes as he wobbled on his feet. Quinten wasn’t looking to knock him out in the first round; now that he needed information, he wanted to draw it out. He wanted the asshole to know his mistake and be bleeding for a week.

  The crowd was in a complete uproar, but Quinten ignored it, solely focused on the blond guy dancing around in front of him. He’d gotten his feet back, and he came at Quinten, down low, grasping his hips and bringing him down to the mat, hard.

  “Who’s paying him?” Quinten asked with a grunt, even as he wrapped his legs around the guy and squeezed.

  “Same guys who’re paying me,” The Grynderr grunted in a wheeze as Quinten squeezed his powerful thighs around the man’s rib cage. A sudden burst of energy had The Grynderr rolling, sending Quinten off balance.

  Quinten was in his own head too much, and not in the fight, which was evidenced when The Grynderr sank his teeth into the meaty flesh of his right arm, enough to draw blood. An inhuman roar left his mouth, but the ref didn’t notice.

  Money pays for everything, even a ref’s ignorance. Question was, where was The Grynderr getting the money?

  In one fluid move, Quinten had outmaneuvered the mount and risen, bringing the fight back above ground. He was pissed, his arm fucking hurt, and there was no telling what sorts of diseases the dickhead had just given him. He felt something warm running down his arm but didn’t look, knowing the asshole had pulled a zombie move on him.

  The Grynderr took a flying leap at him and hit him in the chest with a kick.

  He saw the exhaustion coming from the guy, and if it had been any other opponent, Quinten might have empathized. But not this guy. He was using his body weight now because his muscles were already tired.

  “What are they paying you to do? Kick my ass?” Quinten managed a laugh he didn’t feel. “Not gonna happen.” He dodged another kick to the chest, swiping it away with his forearm as the bell rang, ending the first round. The guy’s next words chilled him to the bone in this overheated miasma of sweating bodies.

  “Distraction.”

  Quinten’s eyes immediately went to the window where Valerie should be watching. She stood there, hands on the glass, intent on him. A wave of reassurance went through him at the sight, and he smiled at her, sure he was too bloody and sweaty to be acknowledging her, but he didn’t care. She didn’t wear her mask, and he was proud of her. She’d taken this step, and although he knew it was only the first, he planned to be beside her when she took her next one.

  When the man walked up behind her, his smile dropped.

  The hit came from nowhere, The Grynderr’s fist connecting with his temple in an illegal punch after the bell had rung. But Larry’s excitement at the description of the fight echoed in his brain as he fell, watching Valerie being grabbed from behind in a weird, slow-motion film. One-of-a-kind, gloves-off, no-holds barred fight to the finish! Last man standing wins! Quinten saw the expensive cuff-links on the shirt, the satisfied smirk aimed in his direction, the gelled coif of hair. His eyes refused to close as the image blurred, even as it skewed to the side when his head hit the sweat-soaked mat.

  “Everything’s personal,” The Grynderr laughed in his ear. Quinten fought the heaviness of his eyelids, even as the crowd roared, a chorus of jeers in his brain.

  One thought was crystal clear in Quinten’s mind: He’d failed her, and now she was in Argyle’s clutches.

  Valerie was so taken by the power on display. Hearing the sharp sounds of fists slapping skin, grunts of the men, hisses of air between teeth—she was lost. Utterly taken away to a place where power and strength reigned supreme. This was foreign to her, nothing but jeers and cheers met her ears. It all felt so good—so empowering. Endorphins rushed through her bloodstream, and she bounced on the balls of her feet as if she were in the ring with Quinten and The Grynderr. She barely heard her own cheers of encouragement, she was so far gone.

  And she was so proud of herself. If it weren’t for the pane of glass, she would be with all the dozens—if not hundreds—of people down there. And she hadn’t worn her mask. Sure, she wasn’t actually with them, but it was pretty darn close. It was certainly progress.

  It was almost erotic, watching the men dancing around with an athletic grace, sweat pouring over muscles, a look of abject domination in their eyes.

  That must have been why she didn’t hear the muffled thuds of her two protectors as their bodies hit the floor.

  It wasn’t until a steely arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her arms to her side, that she realized she wasn’t alone with Imogene and Ryan anymore.

  “Hello, Valerie. I see you’re slumming it,” a familiar voice whispered in her ear, arms tightening around her middle, her feet coming off the ground. She watched with dismay as Quinten went down on the mat, the ref flapping hands above him.

  Argyle spun her away from the window—away from everything real to her right now, from the people she had once feared but were now her salvation.

  When her eyes focused on her surroundings, she found the dingy office small. Brandon was there, dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt, looking more fit than she’d realized. She’d only ever seen him in dress shirts and suits, clothes th
at hid all this muscle she saw now. He was duct taping Ryan and Imogene, who had been rendered unconscious. The faint scent of chemicals in the air gave her a clue as to how.

  Valerie squirmed and kicked, suddenly desperate to be loose from the hold she was in. Argyle and Brandon were working together, and as much as she should have felt betrayed, she couldn’t muster the self-sacrificing emotion. All she felt at this moment was rage, hate, and the need to kill them.

  Argyle continued to hold her—his familiar expensive aftershave clogging her nostrils—while Brandon went about securing the people she’d foolishly brought along to help her get through her first appearance in a crowd.

  Argyle dumped her into the one chair in the office, and Brandon came over to duct tape her to it, the ripping noises the only sounds in the office besides her own ragged breathing. It took her back in time, to when she was married to Argyle and they played their games. The games which had been fun until they’d started to hurt.

  Brandon’s face held a contemptuous sneer as he worked silently, not looking at her.

  “Just like old times,” she spat, surprised at the strength in her voice. She was scared but not debilitatingly so. More than anything else, she was pissed off.

  A dry chuckle met her ears from behind her, where Argyle still stood out of sight. In a matter of moments, she heard a pounding of footsteps as somebody came running up the stairs. Relief flooded her. They were in a public place, with tons of people below them. Surely, somebody would come to her rescue.

  When the door crashed open, Quinten filled the doorway, his expression going from victorious to thunderous in a quarter of a second as he took in the scene.

  “Hey, Quinten,” Brandon said, as if he were about to direct him to a keg for a brew. Quinten’s fists clenched, and his muscles coiled, but Brandon didn’t even flinch, turning his back on the giant man to arrange Ryan and Imogene some more. Quinten swayed in the doorway, reaching for the frame for support, and Valerie saw how hurt he was. She remembered the knock-out and wondered if he should be at a doctor.