Hawk's Revenge

by N. M. Catalano

  Crooked as hell.

  Liquor is not the only merchandise being moved in the bar.

  I don’t know what I’m really doing here, but my bet is I’m not here to make a drug bust. There’s something bigger, dirtier, and a whole lot of bad.

  I don’t really give a fuck about the drug running.

  The funny thing about not giving a fuck about anything is that life’s simple. Simple allows for peace of mind, regardless if its authentic, or it’s just a farce.

  Everything is telling me I left that somewhere at the Mississippi border because I’m feeling all kinds of crazy shit. I’m not happy about that. Seems since I pulled into this two-bit town, a whole lot of Jo has taken up a big portion of my thoughts. Especially since the king exited his private chambers and bestowed us with his vile presence. I can’t help but wonder if he came out to lay his eyes on me, or see what I was doing with Jo. Funny how that happened the only night I was at her end of the bar, and we were actually talking. Jo and I hadn’t said but two words to each other before that. Communicating is non-existent now. By the looks she gives me, I can imagine all the pretty words that would come out of that tempting mouth of hers. A mouth I have progressively imagined more and more creative ways to put to use.

  “What’s the matter, your reservation hasn’t come up at the morgue yet?”

  “Cat got your tongue, or are you as dumb as you look?”

  “A little buckshot would do wonders for your white t-shirt.”

  I smile to myself. I’ve been in her bar every single night, and I’ve caught myself watching her. Every day, I’m becoming a little more obsessed with her. I want to know who she spends her time with, I’m curious about what she does when she’s not in the bar. So far, I’ve come up empty. From what I’ve seen, she never leaves the place. Not one time. I know I’m different, but that shit is not normal.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy about it.

  She’s mean as hell, but there’s a reason for it. There hasn’t been any more overtly aggressive actions toward her, Thank fuck!, however, it’s obvious she’s in the middle of something very tense. And her reaction to the boss spoke volumes. No one, other than the DJ, speaks to her about anything, only if it’s bar related. Frankly, by the hateful looks she gives everyone, I’ve no doubt she’d cut them or shoot them all if she had half a chance. Why the hell else would she keep a shotgun right by her side?

  Thankfully, Cornelius’ information gave me something to start with besides the bar, and Joe, or Jo. I’ve been looking for information, something to tell me who bought up this town. My bet is, if it’s not Southern Shore Developers, it’s somehow affiliated with them. Knowing that they own most of the boats that are anchored here, I made a trip through the docks. It seemed virtually deserted even with the boats and ships that were docked. There’d been a big fat No Trespassing sign at the commercial entrance, and the entire area was manned by a guard. From the distance, he appeared to be wearing the same get-up as the security at Jo’s bar.

  That answers some questions. Looks like boss man has his fingers in more than booze.

  As I make my way through a neighborhood that is a hell of a lot nicer than the dump by the bar, my satellite phone rings.

  “Yeah,” I answer as I turn onto a street named Hummingbird Lane.

  “Son,” Cornelius’ ever upbeat voice greets me. The man is perpetually in a good mood. It used to piss me off, now I know it’s part of his front. “You keeping yourself busy?” There’s a hint of sarcasm in his joviality.

  “Yep. Going to meet with the local chapter of the NRA right now, then we might go and get us some ‘coon dogs before the church social tonight.”

  The scenery had turned some time back from rundown and mostly abandoned buildings to private homes valued from five hundred thousand dollars to over a million. In the driveways are Porsches, Hummers, BMW’s, Mercedes, Jaguars, and every other kind of car worth more than a lot of people’s homes.

  Jackpot!

  Here is the lair of the filthy rich. This is where all those people live that were at Joe’s Bar, those law abiding citizens that frequent a dive honky-tonk biker bar that, according to the government, don’t make shit for an income.

  “I knew you’d fit right in there,” he laughs. “Let me know if you make friends with a man named Frank Castillo.”

  “Castillo…” I know him.

  “Yes. Seems the powers that be didn’t give you all the information before you left for your little hiatus. Frank Castillo, Mexican drug lord, and real bad business. There was an investigation you were on several years ago where it was suspected he was a part of.”

  As I move slowly past a multi-million dollar ten thousand square foot Tuscan style mansion looming behind locked wrought iron gates and a brick wall, it all comes back to me. “I remember. I was after the scum who’d burned a senator alive. They’d found him locked in the trunk of his car in an empty lot in Texas. The car was torched with him still inside. Presumably because he refused to budge on his vote.”

  I could practically see Cornelius nodding on the other end of the line.

  “He was advocating to secure The Line, (the most well-known and hard beaten route for drug runners, human traffickers, and illegal arms dealers from Mexico to the East coast), with additional military to shut it down,” he replies.

  “Castillo was the guy believed who apprehended the senator and delivered him to the number one cartel back then, run by Esteban Munoz.”

  “That’s right. Apparently Munoz was killed a short time ago, and guess who they think did it?” Cornelius asks smugly.

  “Fucking Frank Castillo, and he’s here.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “Who said you weren’t a bright boy?” he chuckles.

  Frank Castillo, psychopath Mexican heavy hitter, apparently now number one cartel leader. He’s infamous for his preferred methods of dealings, torture being foremost.

  The mansion I just passed must belong to him.

  I glance up at the street posts as I go through another quaint intersection, this one Magnolia Drive and Oak Lane. There are street cams on every single one of them, and I’d bet my ass they’re all private and belong to Castillo.

  “So how does Joe’s Bar fit in with this whole thing?” I signal to go around the block.

  Please don’t say that I’m going to have kill Jo!

  “Not sure yet, but you’re still not officially in Gulfport according to The Program. I think it’s safe to say that Joe was a personal friend of someone. He died five years ago. From what I gather, he wasn’t a part of the illegal operations.”

  Thank fuck!

  “How’d he die?” I ask as my grip tightens around the steering wheel, anger slowly rising inside me. For what, I’m not quite sure of yet.

  “The coroner’s report says it was a heart attack,” Cornelius replies.

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re too convinced.”

  “Believe none of what you hear, my boy.”

  You got that right. Especially with Castillo.

  “Have you met anyone?” Cornelius questions.

  “Yeah, might’ve been Joe’s daughter,” I mumble as I spy a Gulfport city police cruiser coming out of a side street, then turn their blue lights on me.

  “Ah, yes, Joe’s daughter, JoEllen McAfferty. Only child. The mother disappeared when she was a young girl.”

  A jolt comes out of nowhere and hits me right in the middle of my chest, a potent combination of remorse and anger. After seeing how Bo treated Jo, and now this information, her father is dead and no mother, knowing what I know, it seems Jo is somehow tied up with the most dangerous cartel leader I have ever seen.

  “Looks like I’m getting ready to make friends with the local cops.” I watch the police car get closer.

  “Don’t get thrown in jail, son, Primrose would not be very happy with either of us if I have to come down and bail you out.”

  “You already mentioned that, and how many times have you ha
d to do that?” I bark as I move slowly over to the curb, making sure I signal and double checking to see I have my seat belt fastened.

  “Too many. Hide the phone,” Cornelius hangs up.

  One fucking mistake, and he’s not going to let me live that down.

  Now parked at the curb, I slide the phone into the compartment under my seat just as the uniformed police officer approaches my window. I keep my hands where he can see them, I’m not taking any chances. Even though I didn’t do anything wrong, I know what the penalty is for killing a cop. Honestly, I like cops, I think they get a bad rap. Who wants to deal with scumbags all day, every day spitting and pissing on you? No one, and they have to put up with that shit all the time while trying not to get shot.

  “Evening officer,” I say through the window glass with my hands gripping the top of the steering wheel.

  “Open it,” he deadpans.

  I raise my hands slowly, then move one to crank the handle while I keep the other right where it is.

  “Problem?” I ask when the glass is lowered all the way.

  “Just a routine stop. We don’t usually get strangers passing through, especially in this neighborhood. License and registration,” his voice is monotone.

  It’s still broad fucking daylight, do you honestly think I’m out casing the place in a one-of-a-kind truck in the middle of the day?

  “Got to get it out of the glove box,” I hold my hands where he can see them.

  “Sure,” he rests his hand on his hip over his gun.

  I want to laugh. I could have him lying face down on the pavement faster than he could pull that gun, but I’m not here for that.

  Slowly, I lean to the right while still keeping my eyes on him. I don’t know why, but something is getting my internal alarms going crazy. Without looking, because I’m still watching him, I pop open the compartment on the dashboard and fish out the registration. “Pocket,” I point down to motion I have to reach there.

  “No problem,” the guy hasn’t even moved a muscle.

  Shifting slightly in my seat, I reach for my wallet with the other hand, the one holding the registration card held high in the air. When I straighten, I put them both in one hand and hold the cards out for him. He reaches for it and that’s when I see the tattoo peeking out from the short sleeve of his uniform shirt. Enforcer.

  Dirty cop. He’s on the fucking boss’ payroll. Just like the security at the bar.

  My internal alarms are flashing neon signs and blaring caution noises.

  “So you’re Hawk,” the guy muses with a slow smirk.

  I don’t bother to answer because I know what this was. And the prick knew exactly who I was before he pulled me over. The question is, why did he? A warning, to prove a point, or is he just a dick?

  “Here you go. Have a nice day,” he hands me the cards and takes a step back from my truck, but continues to glare at me.

  “Thanks,” I slide both cards into my wallet. I don’t take my eyes from him as I roll up the window and put the truck in drive. He doesn’t move until I start to pull away from the curb. Then he gets into his car and follows me to the point where the town turns into a shit hole again.

  Heading to my camper, things are making a lot more sense.

  Frank Castillo is in charge down here. By eliminating Esteban Munoz, Castillo became the top dog of the Mexican cartels. And from the looks of things, he’s set up operations right here in Gulfport, Mississippi, bought the whole fucking place, even the cops. Whatever he’s doing must have something to do with whatever comes in and off of those boats owned by Southern Shore Developers, and I doubt it’s tourist related. It’s making a whole lot of people stinking rich.

  What better way to control someone?

  Buy them, give them what they want, and money is usually it. If that doesn’t work, threaten them. If that fails, kill them.

  And Jo is somehow caught up in this mess.

  CHAPTER 8

  Jo

  For a gay black man, DJ Ambrosia knows how to play some kick ass southern rock and good old country western. How he pulls it off never ceases to amaze me, and tonight is no different. Everyone always comes out when he’s up there in the DJ booth, and karaoke night is their favorite. DJ Ambrosia makes everyone feel like a star.

  Except tonight is different. Like there’s something in the air, a vibe, a certain energy. It’s contagious, I can see it on the faces in the crowd, feel it humming like a livewire ready to zap. Something is very different.

  Somehow it’s affecting even me.

  I’ve been numb the past few years, I’d even go as far as to say I’ve been dead inside since Frank Castillo taught me that lesson. Maybe it was a coping mechanism, maybe I’d overdosed on grief after my dad had died and Frank took his time imprinting himself on every cell of my body and mind. The human mind has an incredible ability to do what it must to survive.

  Niles had been right. I haven’t been living the past five years. I’ve been existing and surviving. Tonight, however, is the first time I’ve felt alive, glad to be alive even, in a very long time.

  The only thing that’s different in my pathetic existence is the appearance of the mysterious man named Hawk.

  It’s ridiculous, really. I don’t even know him; we’ve hardly spoken at all. I’ve said maybe a handful of words to him in the past three weeks. Every night he comes in here and doesn’t speak to a soul. He takes his usual place at the other end of the bar and nurses a couple of Jack Daniels. No one speaks to him, no one approaches him, except for Frank’s goons to pour his liquor. Except that night, and Frank decided to make a grand appearance, and was damn sure to make me aware of it. My guard had started to lower, I was allowing myself something more than hatred and my desire for revenge. It was almost nice to talk with Hawk as if we were two normal people in a normal environment. Then Frank came out and ripped the façade away, slamming me right back into the reality of the hell that is my life.

  There are two things I can’t get out of my head about Hawk, though. The first is he said he knew me, or Joe. When, where, and how? The second is how he’d intervened when Bo had his hands on me. The stranger thing is, Bo and the other security have behaved themselves since Hawk’s been here. Granted, any normal person would step in when someone else was in trouble. To anyone on the outside of this town, the way Bo was handling me would have appeared to be threatening. It was. To me, it was normal, that’s why I keep the shotgun nearby. But everything about Hawk screams he is not a normal man. Possibly more importantly, he is not, at least not yet, one of Castillo’s henchmen.

  I’ve racked my brain trying to figure him out, trying to remember something about him. I’ve come up empty. I’ve studied him, watched him, tried to recall something familiar about him. There isn’t anything, there’s no way I could have forgotten a man like Hawk. I would never have forgotten his face; it haunts me constantly. He’s like a ghost that has slipped into my mind that I can’t escape from. He’s gorgeous, he has the kind of looks that make you stop and stare. But it’s not his looks that take you hostage. Hawk is darkness and danger, leashed power ready to strike. He’s a silent promise he’ll either take you or kill you.

  He’s completely intrigued me. I know it’ll never happen, but I want to get closer. If it did, it’d be the last thing Hawk and I ever did, Frank would make certain of it.

  That scares me. I haven’t been with anyone since my lesson with Castillo. The only thoughts I’ve had about men were to stay far away from them. I never thought I’d feel anything different again. Before dad passed away, I was a reckless, wild, and free woman. I did what I wanted, I slept around, I came and went as I pleased, I was limitless. When he died, my wings had closed, but they weren’t broken. I was hurting, but I knew I would heal.

  Castillo had ripped the wings from my body in a bloody and gruesome way, leaving me with scars I knew would never disappear.

  One short encounter with a man I know nothing about, three weeks of silent sparring from across the roo
m, aside from one short encounter, a tiny glimmer of something had awoken inside me. Honestly, I don’t think it was Hawk’s interactions with me, but how everyone else responds to him. I swear they’re intimidated by him. I’m a fool, but somehow that gives me hope. For what, I’m not quite sure. Maybe it gives a crack to the devil-kings control, that somehow, some way, you can fight him, and that there is a possibility, no matter how small, you can win.

  Hawk came into my bar. Nobody comes in here if they have no reason. Everyone’s reason is Frank Castillo.

  Hawk had said Joe, or Jo, was his.

  Hope is a dangerous thing, but sometimes that’s all there is.

  “Are you humming?” Niles asks standing at the bar.

  My head jerks up and our eyes lock as the heat of embarrassment washes over my features. “What?! No, NO. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He pulls his head back with a sly lipglossed grin. “Yes, you were, and your little booty was swaying. I think my girl is back!” he’s got that gleeful lilt to his voice.

  “Shut up, Niles,” I fight a smile. “The music is good, that’s all.” I try to pawn it off. Honestly, I couldn’t say what song was playing, my mind has been stuck on the same thing all night and day for weeks. Hawk. And that is not a good thing. Trying to distract Niles, I motion to the stage. “It looks like the natives are getting restless for their three minutes of fame. You’d better get to work.”

  Niles cranes his neck to look behind him. Then he sighs as he faces me again. “Being fabulous is so much work.” He snatches up the bottle of water I set on the bar for him. “I’ll have your song ready when you are.” He gives me a wink.

  That makes my stomach do a little happy dance, the thought of getting up there and singing my heart out. It’s been too long.

  “Get out of here or I’ll fire you.” I’m joking, and he knows it. Besides, he doesn’t work for me, he works for Frank. Everyone works for Frank.