A fist hit the door and he jumped.
“Five minutes!” One of the guards yelled.
“I’ll be right there.” The monthly meeting held a special kind of hell. It was where he sat at the right side of Terrance Manning, the man who ran this compound. The man who was grooming him to become his second-in-command.
Fingers squeezing the edges of the sink, he took several quick breaths before turning toward the door. He schooled his features. All he needed to do was avoid that fucker Stevenson and he’d be in the clear.
Ricky Stevenson was becoming a big problem. Two weeks ago, the man had changed the orders behind Manning’s back and had dragged him into the fucking mess. His stepfather had plans for the drugs Manning knew nothing about. Their boss would be enraged if he ever found out what Stevenson had planned. Even though it had never worked before, Noah tried reasoning with the guy.
“Does Manning know about this?” he asked, looking doubtfully at Stevenson.
“What the fuck did you just say? You’re my fucking kid, not his. You’re only breathing because I say, not him!” His beefy stepfather advanced on him.
Ricky Stevenson, was in his mid-thirties. For a drug dealer, the guy was fit and muscled from years of working construction. His weathered face was deeply sunburned from the many hours spent outside. Sharply cut sideburns that almost reached his chin gave him a menacing look, which matched an equally volatile disposition. Sliced deep into the skin of his forehead ran a thin scar that trailed through one black eyebrow; the result of a knife fight.
No match for the guy’s size and rage, Noah lifted his hands to protect his face. He tried to fight back, but was pummeled. He couldn’t remember much of the beating after a punch to the head, but later, he’d woken up dizzy, in pain, and nauseated. He had kept his mouth shut from then on.
Mac
Half-asleep, Mac reached out and patted the bed, searching for the ringing phone.
“Hello?” Groggy from only a few hours’ sleep, the word came out in a low rumble.
“Mac Mackenzie?”
“Yes,” Mac rasped. Putting the cell phone on speaker, he rolled to his side.
“I’m Harlo Miller, the owner of Miller’s Bar in San Diego,” the man said.
Well, that was random. “What can I do for you, Mr. Miller?”
“Sir, we have a situation. There’s a Ben Heins here. I found your contact information in his phone. He’s drunk and has hurt himself. Also tore up my bar somethin’ fierce.”
Mac pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“I don’t want to call the cops, but he’s caused some damage to my place. Can you come pick him up?”
“How bad is he hurt?” Mac sat up.
“Bruised ribs, and he has a cut over one eye that I taped.”
Okay, not badly then. “I’m not in San Diego at the moment.”
Too far away to go down there and drag Ben’s ass out of the place, Mac clenched his jaw. He was tired of letting himself get dragged into Ben’s messes. The man had destroyed Mac’s trust, yet never failed to reach out when he wanted something. And the fucked up part was Mac always helped. Next time, he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t leave Ben in a bar when he was injured.
“I see. Well, then I guess I can call the cops, but there’s damages to be paid.”
“Tell me how much and I can PayPal you the money and call a taxi to come get him. Will that work?”
“Yes, thank you. That should do it.” Miller rattled off the amount of two thousand dollars and some change. Mac rubbed his chest. He should just tell the guy to have his ex thrown in jail.
Beautiful fucking Ben. He was not only his ex-lover, but they had served one tour together. Watching each other’s backs on and off the battlefield, they had been close. But that was a long time ago, and Mac wondered how much longer he could keep bailing Ben out.
Mac sent the money and ordered the car, and then tossed the phone on the mattress. Dropping back on the bed, he pulled a pillow into the curve of his body and hooked one leg over it. Of course, his mind wouldn’t shut up, and after a few minutes, he gave up trying to get more sleep. The pillow lacked the hardness he craved, and its softness became a taunting reminder of how alone he felt. Shoving it aside, Mac flopped onto his back.
The soft hum of the fan filled the room, sending a cool breeze over his sprawled body. It seemed like he couldn’t go a month without Ben causing some kind of scene and dragging him into it.
Suddenly irritated and before he could slide further into a funk, he flung off the sheet and sat up on the edge of the bed. The red glow of the bedside clock displayed three a.m. No sense in trying to get more sleep; he had to be up in a few more hours anyway.
The shower was hot, and the pressure helped ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. Shutting the water off, he towel dried his hair and brushed his teeth. Deciding against a shave, he avoided his reflection in the mirror.
Dressed in black tactical pants and a black tee, he stood on the balcony sipping the one-serving-sized cup of coffee the hotel provided. Bracing a hip against the railing, Mac looked out over the lights of San Jose. He’d spent his teenage years growing up in the California city. Back then, he had pictured his life turning out very different than it was today.
The loud knock on the door made him frown. Checking the peep hole, the hallway appeared empty. Easing to the side of the door, Mac pulled his gun.
“Who is it?” he called out.
“It’s me!” US Marshal
