Cannibal Gold
Bad Times Book One
Chuck Dixon
This Book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2019 (as revised) Chuck Dixon
Cover Art by Jake @ J Caleb Design
http://jcalebdesign.com / [email protected]
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
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LMBPN Publishing
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Las Vegas, NV 89109
Version 1.10, May 2020
eBook ISBN: 978-1-64202-842-3
Print ISBN: 978-1-64202-843-0
Contents
1. Dwayne Roenbach
2. Chaz Raleigh
3. James “Jimbo” Small
4. Rick Renzi
5. The Rundown
6. The Mission
7. Dr. Morris Tauber
8. Mission Creep
9. Caroline Tauber
10. The Land Of Beer And Pretzels
11. Camp Nowhen
12. Standard Time
13. One Night In Bedrock
14. Running Late
15. World Of Hurt
16. Fight Or Flee
17. Back In The Now
18. The Margins
19. Night Falls
20. What Goes Around
Author Notes
About the Author
Other LMBPN Publishing Books
1
Dwayne Roenbach
Dwayne hated his job but loved the money.
He was making a tax-free five grand a week and all the perks that came with guarding a guy with a gross worth of just under two billion.
Travel. Fine food. Even if he ate in the kitchen, it was the same stuff they were serving in the formal dining room. And a clothing allowance that netted him a closet loaded with only the best threads. Not bad for a guy who never made better than E-8 after ten years in the Rangers.
The only downside was the boss was a royal asshole. He was one of those bastards lucky enough to be born into money and smart enough to increase the pile by a factor of ten with real estate, part ownership in an NFL team, a chain of car dealerships and a dozen hospitals. The guy woke up every day a few million richer without ever lifting a finger. All the dude did was party here and party there in his off-time, and his whole life was off-time. Wheels up for his private jet at a moment’s notice and Dwayne tagged along with the personal chef, personal trainer, and the personal life coach.
Dwayne’s function was personal protection.
The boss referred to him as “my samurai.”
The guy had no real enemies. He was no high-profile high-roller. As much of a prick as he was, he never screwed anyone over and wasn’t particularly political. But he wanted muscle nearby, and Dwayne had the cred and sure looked the part with his Ranger muscle, 6’4” height, 20” neck, desert squint, and fast hands. The guy hired Dwayne away from Sullivan Security Systems where he had been working mostly casino security for Sullivan in Biloxi. It was secure but thankless work.
The work was a breeze. Just look frosty. Be close when the boss wanted and vanish when he didn’t. Maybe the boss thought Dwayne would be handy if any shit ever did hit the fan. Maybe guys with money just want to live longer to enjoy it. Dwayne couldn’t fault him for that. Only why would you want to live a longer life if you had to spend it as an asshole? But then assholes didn’t see themselves that way.
Dwayne could have cruised to forty and retired with all the cash he squirreled away. Maybe buy a gas station or a laundromat back in Pensacola. Would have been sweet.
Until that night at Bellagio when the boss coldcocked the cocktail waitress.
The boss was losing big at an exclusive hold ’em table in a room set aside for money guys. A punk who hosted a hit cable reality show was at the other end of the table and roostering after a series of hot hands. He snickered every time the boss blew a call and made remarks to the pretty boy seated next to him, then they’d both titter. The boss’s chips went from a wall of stacks to a piddly pile. It wasn’t the money he was losing that was torqueing him. Every cent on the table wouldn’t keep him in socks for six months. What did that matter? It was the fey punk in his kiss-my-ass hat and celebutard mouth that was rubbing the boss the wrong way. A weak attempt at macho had the boss going all-in on a pair of tens and losing the pile to the braying punk.
On the way from the room, he took it out on the poor redhead whose only mistake was holding a tray of comp appletinis and offering them to the wrong guy at the wrong time. He drove a fist into her face hard enough to send a false eyelash airborne. The girl, all hundred pounds of her, went down to the carpet in a spray of vodka.
The boss crouched over her with his face red and lips twisted. He cocked his fist back for a second shot, but Dwayne snatched his wrist and easily held the punch in place. Casino security was there but looking everywhere else. You spend enough money and you get a lot of leeway on this floor.
“That’s enough, Jefe,” said Dwayne.
“No one touches me,” said the boss.
“For your own good,” said Dwayne.
“You let me go, or I’ll fire you.”
“You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“You’ll be gone in the morning,” said the boss. “You’ll be gone, and you’ll be ruined. No one will hire you. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll be working at—”
Dwayne never did hear where he’d be employed in the future because the next sound the boss made was a high-pitched animal squeal when his elbow was suddenly turned the wrong way around.
