Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
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Copyright
Vice Enforcer
By S.A. Stovall
Vice City: Book Two
Holding on to a life worth living can be hard when the nightmares of the past come knocking.
Eight months ago, Nicholas Pierce, ex-mob enforcer, faked his death and assumed a new identity to escape sadistic mob boss Jeremy Vice. With no contacts outside the underworld, Pierce finds work with a washed-up PI. It’s an easy enough gig—until investigating a human trafficking ring drags him back to his old stomping grounds.
Miles Devonport, Pierce’s partner, is currently top of his class at the police academy while single-handedly holding his family together. But when one lieutenant questions Pierce’s past and his involvement in the investigation, Miles must put his future on the line to keep Pierce’s secrets.
The situation becomes dire when it’s discovered the traffickers have connections to the Vice family. The lives of everyone Pierce cares about are in danger—not least of all his own, if Jeremy Vice learns he’s back from the dead. Pierce and Miles face a conspiracy that reaches the highest levels—one that will gladly destroy them to keep operating. As Pierce uses every dirty trick he learned from organized crime to protect the new life he’s building, he realizes that no matter how hard he tries, he might never escape his past.
But he’s not going down without a fight.
To Ann, for whom the book was written.
To John, for everything.
To Rose, for the wonderful global comments on Vice City.
To Evan, for being an amazing agent.
And finally, to everyone unnamed, thank you for your support.
CHAPTER ONE
A LOT of crime happens around railroad tracks.
I’ve seen it a million times—from drug deals to gangbangers smuggling guns—which is why I get nervous when I step out of the car and spot the North Union Rail Yard off in the distance. There are entirely too many shadows moving between parked boxcars for 2:00 a.m. in the goddamn morning. No one should be here at this time of the day, at least not at this particular ramshackle rail yard.
My gut tells me I’m gonna regret snoopin’ around.
“Stay close, boys,” Shelby says. “And keep your voices down.”
Shelby grunts as he pulls himself out of his tiny four-door Dodge Neon. He’s old, perhaps in his late fifties, but not so old that getting out of a vehicle should be a struggle. The way he takes in ragged breaths betrays a chronic problem. I’m guessing emphysema, given how much the man smokes, but I’ve never asked. I have my own lung problems to worry about.
Davis rubs his hands together and slams the back door shut with a quick tap of his hip. The loud bang of the car door travels out into the empty night sky. A pair of crows flies off toward the moon.
“Goddammit, Davis,” Shelby hisses. “What did I just say? Keep it down!”
“I am, but it’s freakin’ freezing,” Davis replies with a warble and whine to his tone that eliminates all patience. I swear his voice assaults the tranquility of the night with each raspy syllable he chokes out his mouth. If we aren’t caught within the next ten minutes, it’ll be a miracle.
Shelby walks around to the trunk of his car and pops it open. “Pierce,” he says, staring at me with a harsh look of seriousness. “Get over here.”
I walk over, pulling my jacket close. It is rather cold.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Do you know how to handle a gun?”
I stifle a laugh. “Yeah, old man. I know how to handle a gun.”
“Good. I’m gonna need you to cover me.”
Shelby rummages through the contents of the trunk. After a moment he withdraws a pair of handguns—two .50 caliber Desert Eagles. They’ve only got a seven round capacity, but they have a lot of stopping power. No man ignores a bullet from a gun like that.
I take the weapon and check the magazine. The handgun is loaded and ready to go. Not the safest way to store the thing, but I don’t have any room to talk. I keep a fully loaded handgun under my mattress at all times.
“This is in nice condition,” I say, turning the heavy gun over in my hands. “You don’t use it often.”
“As it should be,” Shelby says with a grunt. “But tonight is different. Tonight you earn your wings.”
Davis flounces over and motions to the handguns. “What about me? I don’t get one?”
“I’ve got two guns. That’s it. You’ve got the camera, don’tcha? You’ll be taking the pictures.”
I wouldn’t trust Davis with a can opener, but Shelby is the one in charge. Davis and I are here for the experience—to get our hours marked off on our time cards—and to learn from an active private investigator so that we can qualify for our own licenses. Shelby was the only PI who would take me due to my questionable background, and I assume that’s the same story with Davis, though I’ve never asked. I try to avoid talking to the other man as much as possible.
“Do you think we’re gonna run into trouble?” Davis asks, his gaze flitting around in frantic motions.
“We might,” Shelby replies.
“Then I definitely need a gun.”
“You’ve got no experience. You’d sooner shoot yourself than your attacker.”
The harshness of the statement shuts Davis up. I tuck the Desert Eagle into my pants waistband and cover it with the flap of my jacket. The silence persists as Shelby withdraws a pair of night vision binoculars from the trunk.
He isn’t messing around. He came prepared for something.
Shelby holds the device up to his eyes and squints through. The rail yard is about a thousand feet away, and several detached boxcars are parked along the tracks, waiting to be loaded or unloaded. It’s difficult to see anything from the gravel parking lot, especially with my bum eye and
