Ham

by Dustin Stevens

  Because he knows if they did, I’d come find them.

  Raising my chin just a half inch in understanding, I reply, “Ham.”

  The man’s hand drops back to the top of the doorframe. He lingers a moment before a corner of his mouth curls upward. A small smirk rocks his head back an inch.

  “Yeah you are.”

  V

  The Decision

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  The roll-top door drops down into place, blocking the morning sun from view behind me. Staring out the rearview mirror, I watch as it moves steadily downward, the sound of the chain pulley it is operated by rattling just outside my window.

  Parked beside me is the truck I drove up from the desert, Baja California plates still in place. The exterior looks the best I’ve seen it in years, the usual layer of red dust washed from the surface, the body waxed to a shine.

  Just one more checkbox on the full-service package, I guess.

  Not until the roll top is in place, the interior of the garage plunged into a state of semidarkness, do I bother pushing open the driver’s side door and stepping out.

  Just a few days have passed since my last time inside the shop, though so much seems to have shifted. When I first arrived on Sunday morning, I had nothing more than the thin file Mikey dropped off the night before and an incredible amount of annoyance, both by his unexpected visit and my own miscalculation in waiting to read what he brought me.

  With those was the fear that my sister was in trouble, that single concern being what drove me ahead.

  Now, I am secure in the knowledge that Amy and her daughter are okay. Both a little worse for the wear, but they are safe and will pull through.

  All things considered, those are wins.

  I also have a pair of wounds in my left leg, both tender as hell as I put my foot down on the concrete floor. Using both hands to support some of my weight, I hoist myself free of the SUV, hopping slightly as I shut the door behind me.

  “You good?” Ramon asks, one eyebrow arched as he walks forward, gaze aimed toward my leg.

  Still dressed in the cargo pants and the tank top from the night before, the blood from the gunshot has dried and crusted, the material hanging stiff.

  “Through and through,” I reply. “All good.”

  “You sure?” a second voice asks. Seeming to appear from nowhere, I know who it belongs to, even if I didn’t hear his arrival behind me. Taking another step, I turn to see Mikey approach, both men in my periphery as I balance largely on my right foot.

  The wound has been cleaned and cauterized, a self-done procedure that wasn’t the most pleasant experience and will leave a pair of nasty scars. Still I can smell my own burned flesh, the closure not one I would have preferred, but the only available option at the time.

  More than anything, that’s the source of the lingering pain I feel. Tiny icy jabs continue to work through the area, a result of seared nerve endings. Along the back where the opening was especially large, I can feel skin tugging as it gets used to the non-elasticity of the furled scar.

  Enough to keep me out of the ring down at Jake’s for a while, but definitely not long.

  Assuming, of course, that I ever end up back down that way.

  “I can give Shag or somebody a call if you want,” Mikey adds.

  Once more, gone is the faux mirth and joking. Even though I am here to turn things in and move along, he is still in work mode, all business.

  A stance I must admit isn’t the worst look on him.

  Professionally speaking, anyway.

  Grabbing my pant leg just above the knee, I tug it up, revealing the length of my calf. A compression wrap is currently holding everything in place, cinched up with a band of elastic tape.

  “Already cleaned up,” I say. “Round came from an LAPD Glock that’s in the back with the rest of the gear.”

  Casting a glance to Ramon, I add, “I assume disposal is part of the full-service package as well.”

  Dipping his chin slightly in agreement, he says nothing, his gaze flicking toward the SUV and back to me again.

  “So it’s done?” Mikey asks.

  He doesn’t clarify what it is or ask any further questions, two things that are again appreciated.

  “It is. All your toys are stowed in the back, just like I found them. Only thing missing are the Idaho plates, currently in the bottom of a Dumpster in the mountains.”

  Grunting, Mikey fishes into his left pants pocket. Digging out my keys, he flashes them for me to see before extending them my way.

  “You can hang onto that stuff if you want,” he says. “Technically, you did pay for it.”

  I know what he’s getting at by making the statement, the truth having nothing to do with wanting me to feel like I got a fair return on my investment.

  Extending a hand, I accept the keys, offering him the closest thing I can to the response he’s looking for.

  “No thanks,” I reply. “I’ll pick up whatever I need for myself.”

  I watch in real time as the answer resonates with him, his eyebrows rising slightly. A hint of excitement ripples over his features, the corner of his mouth peeling back.

  “Yeah?”

  Rattling the keys, I take a step back. I gesture to my leg, signaling that I have some things to take care of first, but that he shouldn’t be surprised if he gets a call from me in the not-too-distant future.

  “Thank you, both,” I say, not voicing an answer to his question as I glance between each of them. “Coming in blind like this, I appreciate the help.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ramon replies, his lips drawn into a tight line, earnestness on his features.

  “Always,” Mikey adds. “Anytime.”

  Taking another step toward the truck, I offer only a nod. My thanks have been said, unspoken farewells made. It’s not like any of us are the sentimental sort, needing to draw out a goodbye.

  Nor do I think it will be long before we all see each other again.

  Doing my best to minimize my limp as much as possible in front of them, I turn toward my truck. Taking the long way around the back end, I make it almost back to the driver’s door before a thought occurs to me.

  Pausing, I rest both forearms along the top rail of the bed and ask, “Tell me, just how much of my cut is left over after the full-service package?”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  The man standing at the door is a few years younger than Hector Lima. Somewhere in his mid-twenties, he is of Latino descent, his skin light brown, his hair shorn down tight and neat. Shoulders square, he stands like a soldier at attention, his gaze unblinking.

  In his right hand is a black duffel bag. Judging by the strain on the straps in his hand and the square form of it, Lima guesses it to be completely full, though the contents he can only guess at.

  Standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other on the edge of the door pulled wide, Lima gives the man a long look. He tries to place whether he has ever seen him before, the face vaguely familiar, though not registering in any particular way.

  “Yeah?” Lima asks.

  “Looking for Lima and Bocco,” the man replies.

  Behind him, Lima can hear a floorboard squeak. A moment later, a footfall accompanies it.

  Bocco is nearby, peering over his shoulder, remaining several feet back from the open door.

  “That’s us,” Lima replies. Once more, his gaze goes to the bag in the man’s hand. Sensation ripples across his chest as he again considers the contents.

  In the last twenty-four hours alone, they saw Jensen Spiers and his partner both get killed. Saw the woman that did it.

  A few days before that, they hassled some guys away from the school down the street.

  In the previous months, they’d made quite a bit of money by peddling information about some of the low-level pushers in the city.

  To think any one of them might be pissed and looking to put an end to things wouldn’t be a stretch. What they’ve been doing
has been lucrative as hell, but it hasn’t been without risk.

  “Why?” Lima asks. “Who are you?”

  “Ramon,” the man replies. His features remain neutral as he lifts the bag to waist height. “For you.”

  Behind him, Bocco comes a step closer, the sound of his boots echoing against the floor.

  “What is it?” Bocco asks.

  “From Ham.”

  The man says nothing else, waiting until Lima accepts the strap of the bag. Finding it much heavier than anticipated, he watches as the man turns on a heel and retreats down the front walk. Not once does he look back as he climbs into the driver’s seat parked along the curb and moves away, the silver SUV he drives looking exactly like the one in the woods the night before.

  Closing the door slowly, Lima turns to see a look of open uncertainty on Bocco’s features. Matching the same thing Lima is feeling, he carries the bag over to the table in the center of the room, his gait listing slightly to the side under its weight.

  Placing it down, he peels the straps back to either side before pausing, glancing up to Bocco.

  “If she wanted us dead, she would have done it in the woods, right?”

  Most of the ride home the night before, the two both sat in silence. Each trying to come to grips with what had happened, they were more than halfway home by the time either spoke.

  When they did, they both came to the conclusion that the only reason the woman let them live was because she had heard Spiers’s incoherent rambling. In his manic state, he had inadvertently exonerated them.

  Never before had Lima thought of himself as Robin Hood. Certainly not of Bocco or Dwayne or Monte as a band of merry men.

  Still, that didn’t mean what Spiers had been spouting was entirely wrong. They were technically robbing from one group to give to another, though who was rich and who was poor in this scenario could be left open to interpretation.

  “I guess,” Bocco replies.

  In the time since their extremely brief encounter, Lima had spent a lot of time thinking about the woman. About the way she carried herself in the wake of all that happened.

  About how, even shot and bleeding, she was in complete control of herself and everything around her.

  Ham, for sure.

  Reaching out, Lima grabs the zipper. Peeling it back slowly, he feels his stomach clench. His lungs constrict, his breathing stopping completely as he stares down at what is inside.

  His mouth goes dry as he glances up to Bocco, his friend’s eyes bulging, before lowering his focus to the gaping bag between them.

  And the stacks of cash filling it, all banded together, stuffing the bag until it cannot hold another dollar.

  A mirrored opposite to my first trip north, the setting sun sits just outside my driver’s side window. Bright and bold, it causes me to pinch my left eye closed in an attempt to block out some of the glare.

  Strong and unrelenting, it warms the glass beneath my shoulder, helping to loosen my muscles and minimize some of the stiffness in my leg.

  Along the side of the road, a sign welcomes me to Utah, nothing but limestone and rock painted in red striations stretched as far as I can see.

  A little cooler than I prefer, but otherwise damned near perfect.

  I remember once reading a philosopher that said something to the effect that life, from day to day, is nothing but chaos. Random things, nonrelated events, situations beyond our control, all smash into each other, causing us to move and react in real time.

  It’s not until after the fact that we stop and look back, realizing it all came together like it was supposed to.

  This last week has been a microcosm of that for me.

  Just days ago, I was standing in a ring along the Pacific Coast in Mexico. I was about to drag someone not worth my time into the second round solely for the purpose of snagging a few hundred extra dollars.

  And then I was going to go back to my trailer out in the sand, to live alone, to train, to continue preparing for a life I no longer lived.

  Later that night, I received a thunderbolt from the clear blue sky, contact from my sister in the form of a plea for help.

  When in reality, it was me that needed help.

  The days since have been a sequence of random events, one mistake after another, but it has been the most alive I have felt in years. I have reconnected with every person in my life I care about, have finally found a purpose for the skills I’ve spent a lifetime honing.

  Nothing about the last week was supposed to happen. But if it hadn’t, I would likely be sitting by myself in that rusted-out trailer right now. Or tending my tiny vegetable patch. Or working on my aging pickup.

  Alone. Hiding. Pretending it was where I wanted to be. What I was meant to be doing.

  A few days ago, Amber asked me if my name was Ham, like the sandwich. At the time, I told her yes, because that’s what I’m supposed to tell a ten-year-old, but it wasn’t the truth.

  The truth is what caused Mikey to have to tamp down his excitement standing in his garage this morning. What made Lima smirk slightly last night.

  Ham isn’t just a name. It is an attitude. It is a way of living.

  It is who I am.

  Ham.

  Hard as a mother.

  Keep reading and check out the sneak peek of the upcoming new Reed & Billie novel, The Bear!

  Sneak Peek

  The Bear, A Reed & Billie Novel Book 7

  Prologue

  Growing up on the plains of Oklahoma, Reed had seen hundreds of storm cellars before. Ranging in size and shape, age and austerity, the sole thing they all shared was their purpose.

  To act as a safehouse, a bunker sheltered from the elements, nestling all that stepped inside from the chaos that ruled above.

  More than once Reed and his family had been forced inside the bunker that butted up to the back of their home outside of Oklahoma City. Responding to the enormous sirens blaring across the city, they had dropped whatever they were doing, grabbing up the family pets and whatever else was within arm’s reach, before sprinting for the back door.

  Once there, it was simply a matter of sitting and waiting in the filmy yellow glow of the bare bulbs hanging above. Listening to the sounds of the wind howling and random debris thrashing about, wondering what kind of world they would later emerge to find.

  But never before had Reed encountered anything like this.

  Not once had he ever even heard of a situation where the danger waited inside the bunker.

  Switching the extendable baton to his left hand, Reed glanced to Billie standing beside him. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, burned his eyes, as he looked her way, checking her posture, seeing the adrenaline that gripped her body in much the same way it now did his.

  “You ready?”

  With her body coiled, Billie offered only a single sound, a guttural growl that began deep in her diaphragm and rolled out over her exposed teeth.

  “Alright,” Reed whispered, extending his right hand and curling his fingers around the silver handle on the cellar door. Jerking it back with one quick pull, he allowed it to fall open to the side, slamming against the sunbaked earth with a mighty crack.

  His knees bent, his body poised, Reed switched the baton back to his right hand. Billie crowded in beside him, the striated muscle along her ribcage flush against Reed’s thigh.

  Together they both peered inside, the last gasps of daylight doing little to illuminate what lay within.

  Nothing more than a narrow column of concrete stairs descending into darkness.

  Chapter One

  The coffee resembled battery acid, like it had been sitting in a pot that badly needed cleaning for the last several hours, the staff avoiding making a new one for the final few stragglers of the night. The hamburger patty was premade and fatty, the type that could be bought ten-to-a-bag at the Costco in Muskogee. The squirrel’s nest of fries that had accompanied both was little more than shoestring potatoes, fried to a color that God never i
ntended and a consistency that would likely be felt upon exiting in the morning.

  The Bear had managed to choke down every last bit of it.

  A man of his appearance tended to leave an impression. That, he could do nothing about. But he could do as much as possible about everything else he presented, making himself as forgettable as possible.

  Things such as finishing his dinner, as was expected of a man his size.

  It was the first time he’d ever been inside the diner, the place nothing more than space carved out of the first floor of a sagging building right along Main Street. If the sign on the door was to be believed, it had been opened and serving the town of Warner for more than fifty years, most of the furnishings inside bearing out that very thing.

  Along the front was a row of booths, their seats covered in tan and gold vinyl. Frayed and cracked along the edges, stray stripes of grease or dried ketchup could be seen spotting many of them, time and apathy having cemented their place as part of the interior décor.

  Running parallel to them was a front counter lined with stools rising straight out of the floor. Most of the chrome had been rubbed away along the support posts and the foot rungs at the bottom, years of foot traffic having buffed them down to the bare metal.

  Not that one would be able to discern as much on this particular evening. When The Bear had arrived, there was a single couple in the first booth sharing a slice of what looked to be strawberry pie. Both well into their sixties, neither had so much as glanced at him as he moved past, intent on finishing their dessert and being on their way.

  Just six minutes after his arrival, they had done just that, leaving The Bear to his business.

  Which was the purpose for his visit.