“I’m sure you’re wondering why your shoes and socks are off and your pant legs rolled up. We’ll get to that.”

He laid the case on a small table, strategically placed next to the chair. “There’s only one way out,” he said, snapping open the lid. He knew his hostage saw one thing when he looked at him—professionally trained brutality.

He checked his watch. Pierce had been there for four hours. The waiting and anticipation alone were more than most men could handle. They often begged for their lives. It was a very effective method.

He stared at Pierce for a long moment and then turned away, his stomach churning.

Get a grip, Calvin! Hurry up and get it over with before you change your mind.

And lose the reputation he’d spent three years building.

He ripped the duct tape from the man’s mouth and pulled out the old rag. “Time for me to collect.”

Pierce gasped, breathing in air greedily. “Please, Calvin. I beg you. Don’t do this.”

“You’re a degenerate gambler, James. Your expensive hobby and inability to pay has put you here. You knew the rules. They were laid out well in advance.”

“No! Please…”

Calvin tried to block out the man’s cries. A sudden dizziness overwhelmed him and he grabbed the chair to steady himself. Finish the job. “You know how this works.” He stared at Pierce.

“I promise I’ll pay. Just give me one more day. Please.”

“You knew the rules. You’ve already had an extra week, James. You’re lucky Mr. Pitt is a forgiving man, more forgiving than I am. He’s only counting that week as one day late. But if you aren’t in his office tomorrow morning with all the money, you’ll be seeing me again. Every late day will count as two. And I won’t be so nice next time.”

“I’ll pay.” Pierce sobbed.

Calvin heaved a sigh. “Relax. It’ll all be over soon.”

He leaned over the table. For effect, he took his time as he opened the leather case and removed the tools of his trade. “One day, one joint.”

This was when most of them broke down all the way. And Pierce didn’t disappoint him. A scream boiled from the man’s belly and erupted like a relentless siren.

Calvin ignored Pierce as best he could. There were 206 bones in the human skeleton. A pro had trained him to use them all.

“Hammer or pipe cutter?”

“God, no!”

“Hammer or pipe cutter?” He threw a punch at Pierce’s jaw, sending bloody spit into the air.

“Hammer!” Pierce screamed.

“Finger or toe?”

Pierce squeezed his eyes shut. “Toe.”

Calvin stuffed the dirty rag back into the man’s mouth. He turned and pressed play on the radio resting on the table, turning the volume up a few notches, careful not to bring attention to the house. The pounding, vibrating beat from Metallica not only drowned out his prey’s moans of pain, but the sound took him back to his glory days. He removed a ball-peen hammer from the pouch and moved in on his quarry’s bare feet.

“Toe it is then.”

He got down on one knee and lifted the hammer above his head.

After Pierce had passed out from the pain, Calvin checked the man’s breathing and then entered an adjoining room that could be locked from the inside. On one side, the shelves were piled with canned or packaged food and beverage containers. He had stored several months’ worth of supplies in case he ever came under siege and was trapped.

His complete arsenal hung on the other side. He’d been collecting weapons for three years, purchasing them where he could when he had saved some money. Now the arsenal was almost complete and in his mind, quite impressive. The arsenal had been developed for defensive purposes only.

He had never carried a gun as a collector, but now he selected a weapon for his trip. Something small enough to conceal, but at his ready in case he ran into a nosy cop or former client.

He checked on Pierce again as he left the bomb shelter and moved upstairs to his computer. Once the computer booted up, he hacked into a couple of restricted sites, trying to find any mention of his name by a babbling client or angry competitor. Seeing nothing, he switched over to the LVMPD site to make sure Rachel was staying clean. He checked up on her three times a week. He wouldn’t let her slip up.

He logged off and documented his latest collection, noting the methods that worked with Pierce, as well as times and techniques. All of the information was added to a file that spanned three years.

Shutting down the computer, he returned to the basement. He transported Pierce to the gambler’s blood-red sedan, which Calvin had parked by the river. He knew that within the hour James would wake up and drive home. What would he tell his wife? There was no worry about Pierce ever relaying this incident to anyone else. Calvin was sure of that.

As he drove back to his workshop, he let out a soft groan. “I need out.”

Book One: The Set Up

Chapter 1

“Set, three eighty-five, three eighty-five.”

As was the custom, the rowdy hometown crowd grew quiet in anticipation.

Calvin—USC’s All-American running back—stood behind his quarterback, waiting. His number had been called for a play he’d executed hundreds of times. Most teams were prepared for the play, but none could stop him when he had his eye on a target.

The Trojans were up by four points with less than three minutes left. All they had to do was eat the clock— kill time—and they would be Sugar Bowl champs again.

The Nebraska Cornhuskers were ranked #1 in the nation on defense, but on this day they had been unable to stop Calvin. He already had 118 yards rushing, but another 42 would give him the new school record, beating the record he had set last year.

If I can turn the corner and get a block, I can spring it for a touchdown.

As the center was about to snap the ball, Calvin saw the captain of the Nebraska defense call an audible and change the defensive positioning.

He scanned the field. His quarterback had missed the change. None of his teammates had seen the audible call. They were frozen, awaiting the snap of the ball. If they went ahead and ran the play, there was a chance that he would not only be tackled immediately, but the whole design of the play would be blown.

The smart move would be to receive the ball, fall to the ground and keep the clock running, giving his team an opportunity to run out the clock. Or he could try to run the play on his own and carry the team on his shoulders.

“Hike!” The quarterback grabbed the ball, turned and held it out.

Calvin received the handoff, securing the ball with both hands. But his fullback missed the critical first block.

Everything after that happened in slow motion.

The Husker defense roared full throttle toward him. He was able to dodge the first defender on natural instinct, but as he was avoiding that player, two Cornhuskers struck him at the same time. One caught him high while the other dove low, cutting him at the knees. The sudden impact twisted his legs into a position the human body was not meant to be in. The excruciating pain, combined with the force of the hit, jarred the ball loose from his numb fingers.

Fueled only by adrenaline, he twisted on the ground and reached for the ball against the football-hungry attackers. When the dust cleared, a Nebraska linebacker held the ball up in victory.

Calvin grabbed his knee and screamed, but that was lost in the clamor of the crowd.

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