Jack had never maintained a regular bank account. Until fourteen months ago all expenses were paid for in cash to avoid leaving a paper trail. He recalled the purchase of his home being a fiasco. It certainly raised a few eyebrows when he offered to pay for it in full with cash. The previous owner thought Jack was some rich benefactor. But he didn’t care, as long as he wanted it. The house had been on the market for a long time due to its price and it was costing them plenty to leave it empty.
Jack sighed and dropped down to a crouch, rubbing ash between his fingers. For a brief second the thought that Dana might have taken the money and torched the house entered his mind. It only lasted a second before he dismissed it. He knew her better than that. Rising to his feet he glanced at the gun rack. The mangled remains of his collection now looked like some abstract artwork found in a museum. A couple could have been cleaned and possibly restored but that was the furthest thing from his mind.
Not wasting another second he double-timed it back up the steps. Bright daylight briefly blinded him as he traipsed into the rear yard and towards the shed, the only structure that hadn’t been touched by the blaze. His garage was gone. His vehicles a write-off. After retrieving a shovel he walked a hundred yards into the surrounding woodland and searched for two Gambel oak trees he’d marked with paint. He centered himself between the trees, gave the ground a few jabs and then thrust the steel shovel into the soft dirt and began tossing it into a mound off to his right. It took close to twenty minutes before the shovel struck metal. He dug around, and then Jack wiped sweat from his brow and got on his knees to wipe away a thin layer of soil. He raked his fingers along the edge until he found a handle. A few hard pulls and he extracted a large military-style container. Unlocking the latch, he flipped it open to reveal a dark foam insert holding two Heckler & Koch P30L handguns, a shoulder holster, magazines, several boxes of ammo and a fixed blade knife with ankle sheath. He reached down and hauled up the next box that was loaded with a duffel bag that contained an extra set of clothes, and fifty grand in cash.
After filling in the hole and zipping up the bag with all his belongings, he placed a call for a ride to take him to the Greyhound station in Telluride. He couldn’t fly to Santa Fe as that would have required getting his guns through security and since 9/11 security was tight. Besides it was easier to remain undetected using the bus system, as there were minimal CCTV cameras in the depot, less security and fewer people.
While waiting for his ride, Jack sat on the retaining wall outside his home and gazed back at it. It would be the last time he returned and the last time he would attempt to settle. Eddie had been right.
Trouble seemed to follow him like a plague.
He clenched his jaw. He should have listened.
An hour later, Jack climbed aboard the crowded Greyhound bus. The door hissed closed as he took a seat at the back against the window and looked out solemnly as it rolled out heading south for Santa Fe.
Chapter 5
One Day Earlier
The jeering of the crowd drowned the agonizing groan of a beaten man. It was midnight on a warm Saturday night when Tyson Miles took the last tickets from a group of three at the Railyard, an underground parking garage in Santa Fe. It was on lockdown for a few hours. Night security had been paid off, and multiple escape routes had been highlighted in case the police caught wind of the illegal event. A stream of exuberant people crammed into a wide space with concrete pillars. The air smelled of sweat and whimpers of pain could be heard. Next to Tyson, his girlfriend Carla Valencia snapped gum and casually thumbed through her phone. The glare lit up her almond-shaped face, and dyed red hair that was pulled up into a severe ponytail.
“That’s the last one, let’s go. Nicky is up next,” Tyson said, eager to speak to his friend before the next fight. He gave a nod to a security guard who brought down the gate to prevent anyone else from entering. As they squeezed their way through a knot of people, a look of glee lit up Carla’s face at the sight of the previous fighter being removed on a stretcher. Unlike most women, she got off on the gruesome nature of the fight game. The unknown man’s face was beaten to a pulp, and blood covered the front of his bare chest. He’d got off lightly.
“Tyson, when are you fighting?” she asked.
“Soon. I’m in negotiations with Jeremiah.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last year.”
“Carla, he’s trying to find me the right fight.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Would you stop nagging at me!”
She rolled her eyes as he guided her through the sweaty mob of men and women whose lust for blood was only matched by their thirst for the alcohol that was being handed out at a ridiculously low price. It was just one more way Jeremiah boosted the event’s earnings. The cage was made from crowd control barricades, and the garage’s concrete pillars. Surrounding that were close to two hundred people. Some had purchased tickets at various prices in order to claim a spot near the front with an unobstructed view. It was the eighteenth underground fight night that Tyson had attended and he hoped it would be the last one he was a spectator at. Every brawl was held at a secret location only made known online a few hours before the fight.
