THE CHARM OF REVENGE

  Copyright © 2018 Tom Secret

  The right of Tom Secret to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Enquires should be sent to:

  Tom.Secret.LLC@gmail.com

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, organizations and events is purely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With special thanks to:

  Michael Carr, editing services

  &

  Jeff Goudeau, JG Forensic Consulting

  FOR

  LUDMILA

  PROLOGUE

  1. THE DEPARTED

  2. DEMONS

  3. OMENS

  4. THE GAUNTLET

  5. BOURBON

  6. ALWAYS A LEADER

  7. RANDALL’S PRIZE

  8. ALL LIES

  9. ONE OF EACH

  10. A MURDER OF CROWS

  11. ALL CROOKS

  12. HOODIE

  13. INSTINCTS

  14. DIALYSIS

  15. KARMA

  16. TICKET TO RIDE

  17. RONNIE’S JUSTICE

  18. THE BOGEYMAN

  19. PLAYING HOOKY

  20. CLICKETY CLICK

  21. POWDER KEG

  22. ONE-WAY STREET

  23. DON’T CANCEL!

  24. ANTWAN’S DOUBT

  25. THE DEVILS REJECTS

  26. HELLO, BRADLEY

  27. TOLD YOU SO!

  28. TO WAR OR NOT TO WAR

  29. BLOODY ANTWAN

  30. IS DADDY COMING?

  31. ANGELIC VIGIL

  32. FUMES

  33. EYE FOR AN EYE

  34. PROOF

  35. THE CLEANUP CREW

  36. RANDALL’S DAY

  37. THE HUNT IS ON

  38. BUFFALO

  39. THE AFFAIR

  40. ONE MORE WORD

  41. UNTOUCHABLE

  42. TARGET PRACTICE

  43. SCHOOL

  44. HELLO COWBOY

  45. NO SWEET GOOD-BYE

  46. LIVER MORTIS

  47. WHERE’S WALTON?

  48. THE LEDGER

  49. UNDERWORLD

  50. SHOW US THE MONEY

  51. DAMIAN BLACK

  52. NO COPYCATS

  53. LIGHTNING STRIKES

  54. X MARKS THE SPOT

  55. WHERE’S MARCUS

  56. DRAGON STREET

  57. BLACK’S

  58. DRAGON SLAYER

  59. WHERE’S MICHAELS

  60. FAMILY TIES

  61. DRAGON’S LAIR

  62. LAST RIDE

  63. WESTSIDE GANG

  64. HASTA LA VISTA

  65. AN EYE FOR AN EYE

  66. THE NOOSE

  67. THE KROK

  68. Q AND NO A

  69. TELL ME AGAIN

  70. DARK NIGHT

  71. BREAKING NEWS

  72. THE HORSE’S MOUTH

  73. THE HOT SEAT

  74. HUMPTY DUMPTY

  75. KROK AROUND THE CLOCK

  76. THE COCK CROWS

  77. GOODBYE, RANDALL

  78. THE GIFT

  79. CUPID’S ARROW

  80. DAISY’S GRAVE

  Ease would recant

  Vows made in pain, as violent and void.

  For never can true reconcilement grow,

  Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.

  So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,

  Farewell remorse; all good to me is lost.

  Evil, be thou my good.

  That practis'd falsehood under saintly shew,

  Deep malice to conceal, couch'd with revenge.

  John Milton-Paradise Lost (1667, 1674)

  PROLOGUE

  Six Years Ago—November 22nd, 10:30 p.m.

  The stone arches of the Pennypack Creek bridge had endured over three centuries of savage storms, but for the young family huddled beneath, surviving the night would take a miracle.

  Bradley Fairweather braced his back against the wind to shield his wife and baby daughter from the icy spray as it pierced his shock of sandy blond hair and ran like icy fingers down his neck. His five-year-old son Jack clung to his leg for shelter; his chattering teeth no match for the roaring river beside them.

  Lola gripped her coat around the bundle held against her chest. Eleven and a half months old, wrapped in a half drenched pink blanket, Daisy was slipping from consciousness as her rasping breaths faltered,

  "We need to get her back to the hospital," Lola said

  Brad's stomach twisted; not from hunger though they hadn't eaten all day, from the image of a medical future he'd run from, to arrive here, homeless and penniless. He knew the secrets hospitals kept, and how they buried them. "We'll be soaked to the bone before we've gone ten feet."

  "But we're losing her Brad! She's barely breathing!"

  Brad touched Daisy's clammy forehead, as she shivered beneath the sodden blankets. "Jack, I'm sorry, Son, but do you think you can make it to the hospital again?"

  "We only just left there, Daddy."

  "I know, they shouldn't have sent us away."

  "Will there be food this time?"

  "I'll find us something, Son." Even if I have to steal it, Brad thought, hauling the rucksack onto his back, and grabbing the wet plastic handles of the two red suitcases that contained what remained of their worldly belongings. "Keep behind me, Lola so that I can block the worst of the gale. Jack, stay close to your mother, okay?" They turned toward the street lights and trudged into the freezing rain.

  One and a half hours later, Brad pushed his shoulder into the double doors of the hospital arrivals area and held it open. Lola passed him, her long dark hair matted, the raindrops trickling past her red-rimmed eyes and pale cheeks. The bump beneath the front of her coat the only clue she carried a precious cargo. Jack's teeth still chattered as he shuffled in his khaki jacket, dark from the soaking.

  The clock on the wall struck midnight as they approached the glass screen and waited with puddles forming around their feet while the two hundred pounds Jamaican woman pretended to read her phone. Stay calm, keep it polite, Brad thought as he leaned toward the microphone poking from his side of the counter. "Excuse me, madam, my baby needs to see a doctor now, please."

  "Name?"

  "Bradley Fairweather."

  The woman tapped it into her computer along with some other words and returned to her phone.

  Brad read her name tag. "Excuse me, Ms. Johnson, this is an emergency! My baby's sick and is having trouble breathing. She needs a doctor!"

  Ms. Johnson dragged her eyes from the screen and seemed to be considering the three soaking specimens and the dripping bundle in the pink blanket. She heaved forward, clutched her pen like a scalpel, hoisted her gold laden fingers from the counter and aimed the pen at the sign on the wall. "See that sign there? What's that say, boy?"

  Brad followed the line and looked at the sign, his jaw tightening. "It says to take a ticket from the machine and wait until your number gets called."

  "Right! So that's what you're gonna do!"

  "But they sent us away earlier, and she's sick!"

  The fat, pen hand pointed straight at his face. "Now you listen, boy! The sign says take a ticket and wait. But you ain't got no ticket, an
d you ain't done no waiting! So I get one more peep outta you before your turn's up, I'll call security and have y'all thrown out. You understand me now boy!"

  "But…"

  "I'm warning you! One more word!"

  Brad stumbled sideways as Lola shoved him aside.

  "Excuse me, this is a hospital, and we have an emergency! So, stop reading your profile page and call a doctor, now!"

  The woman pushed back from the counter, planted her hands on her knees and grunting, rose to her feet and shoved her face up close to the glass. "What you need to do bitch, is get your skank ass in line! I'm fetching security!"

  Ms. Johnson slammed the closed sign on the counter and lumbered out of sight.

  "What's going on Mommy?" Jack said as tears streaked his mother's face.

  Lola adjusted Daisy's blanket and exposed her baby's pallid skin and blue lips. She held her index finger beneath the tiny nose to feel for breath. "We're losing her Brad!"

  "Come on," Brad heaved the suitcases off the floor. "We've got to get her seen before it's too late."

  They hurried from the reception area, turned into the main corridor and headed deeper into the bowels of the hospital. Brad saw a woman wearing a white uniform emerge from a door at the far end of the hallway. He dropped the cases and sprinted to catch up. "Please help us; we need a doctor for our little girl."

  The woman looked him up and down without expression. "Then go to the reception."

  "We did. The receptionist said we needed to take a ticket and wait, but our baby's dying!"

  The woman glanced at the approaching pink blanket and Daisy's exposed face, turned her vacant eyes to Brad and shrugged. "Not my problem. You got to follow procedure." She walked away.

  "Does your procedure include letting a baby die!" Brad shouted, as his eyes welled up and the woman disappeared through another set of doors.

  Jack tugged Lola's coat. "Mommy, Daisy's face is turning blue!"

  "Do something!" Lola screamed.

  Brad sprinted along the stark corridor. "Doctor! Doctor! We need a doctor!" He flung open the doors at the end and slammed into two police officers.

  "That's him!" Ms. Johnson shrieked from behind them.

  The cops grabbed an arm each, hoisted Brad into the air and propelled him backward, driving his head into the doors like a battering ram, slamming them open as they forced him to the ground. He fought to refocus, kicking and screaming as one officer drew a Taser.

  "Daisy!!!" Brad's scream echoed as fifty thousand volts shot through his chest.

  1. THE DEPARTED

  Present-day—Friday, November 26, 8:33 a.m.

  Detective Lieutenant Alfonse Donatello often sat beside the grave of his beloved wife Allegra, contemplating the eternal march of seasons while birds chirped overhead and cotton clouds rolled across the sky, but this was not one of those days.

  Today, Donatello wore black, surrounded by black-clad mourners, clinging to matching umbrellas as they sheltered from the downpour. He watched as they lowered his mother’s coffin to her final resting place. The trickles of water running along the stems of the white lilies in his hand, merged to become a stream, then arced from the tips of the flowers and cascaded to the ground. A mourner’s voice drifted across the open grave.

  “What cancer was it?”

  “Colon,” the other replied.

  Insensitive jerks, Donatello thought, could have kept quiet until after the funeral.

  The priest gave his soliloquy for those who were listening, and the few mourners with flowers stepped forward and laid them on the ground, murmuring condolences. He recognized no one except the lawyer who'd caught his eye when he arrived.

  Donatello laid the lilies to rest along with his dear mother. They were her favorite flowers even though the stamens shed pollen onto the doily. She was forever moaning about the stains but refused to remove the stamens before putting them in the vase. Said it was the orange against the white she liked best. Funny how these thoughts come to you when your loved ones have left. He should have spent more time with her, bought her more flowers. Too late now though.

  A crash of thunder shook the air and brought him back. With the wind howling, the grievers sought refuge in their sedans. Except for Ivor Cohen, mother’s lawyer, who was walking toward him through the rain with his hand outstretched. Donatello hesitated before taking the wet appendage; when he did, Ivor clutched his elbow with his free hand and pumped with his right. “I'm sorry for your loss, Alphonse, it's such a tragedy.”

  Whether it was the noise of the storm or Donatello’s innate dislike for the man, the effect was the same. He couldn’t wait for him to shut up and stop pumping, and since neither appeared imminent, he pulled his hand away and stuffed it into his trench coat pocket. "Thank you, Ivor. I appreciate your coming."

  “Twenty years she was my client and my friend. We’re sorry to say goodbye.”

  “I know. I’m sure mother is glad you came.”

  “Listen, Alphonse, the clock’s ticking and I have to run, but there are papers to sign, so make sure you swing by my office this week. Oh, and apply the old gray matter to how you will pay the estate tax.”

  “What estate tax?”

  “You didn’t know she left you the properties?”

  “No. Well, I hadn’t given it any thought.”

  “Better start, then. As the only surviving relative, you’re getting them, along with a hefty tax bill, so be ready to pony up—those IRS are rabid dogs.”

  “That’s charming, Ivor. My mother’s just gone in the ground, and you’re talking like this. Can’t you at least wait until she’s settled in and we’re out of the cemetery?”

  “Sorry, Alphonse, I got carried away. Come by the office though. Don’t forget.” Ivor hurried off through the growing downpour.

  “Bloody grave robber,” Donatello muttered.

  Waiting until everyone had driven away, he said his final farewell to mother, then trudged across the cemetery to Allegra’s grave. He crouched, picked the wet leaves off the urn, and removed the weeds that had appeared through the gravel in the past few days. After saying a few words, he walked alone to his car, checked the clock as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door on the storm.

  2. DEMONS

  Friday, 8:45 a.m.

  Randall P. Cilcifus parked enough of his car inside his designated bay to create plausible deniability, leaving just enough in the adjoining space to keep out the assigned user, his former boss.

  He smiled to himself as he strode across the parking lot of 1666 Triad Boulevard, the regional special-investigations stealth hub for the Internal Revenue Service. The 1970s Brutalist eyesore, with its pitted aluminum window frames and drab slatted blinds, was a shit pile, and the perfect cover.

  He walked through the revolving door, past the comatose security guard near the end of his night shift, and stepped into the elevator.

  A minute later, settling into the high-backed chair in his second-floor corner office, he checked his reflection in the dark computer monitor and adjusted his comb-over.

  Today was his forty-fourth birthday, though he had long ago accepted that no one except his mother would remember, and she always preferred to forget. Still, the day had started well, and the life force was prickling his fingertips as he ran them over the spotless glass desktop and switched his computer on.

  Around his office, Randall had adorned the walls with chrome-framed photos of more than a decade of hunting safaris. Each depicted him, five feet five inches proud, Mauser rifle in hand, standing over the lifeless form of a once-majestic creature.

  Big-game hunting was Randall’s passion. Just the thought of being out there, dressed head to toe in camouflage, with the animal in the crosshairs of his Leupold scope, gave him goosebumps. The only experiences that came close were getting paid for a shipment and fleecing taxpayers.

  Antwan Livingston’s grinning mug peered around the edge of his door. “Better never than late, Antwan.”

  “Morning, bo
ss,” he said, flopping down in one of the four empty chairs facing the desk. “Guess I’m first in, huh?”

  “No, I was, as usual. Where are the others?”

  “Just coming now, boss. Did you know there’s blood on the front of your car?”

  Randall grinned. “Little present to myself.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Neighbor’s cat. Been ripping my garbage bags for months.”

  “Yuk! Shouldn’t you get the mess cleaned off?”

  “I prefer to savor it.” Randall smiled as Antwan grimaced. An alert flashed onto his monitor, and in a reflex action, he clicked the icon, opening a black-market hunting site where a new auction had just kicked off. As he moved to close the browser, a word caught his eye. He scanned again, sure he had imagined it, but there it was, and now eagles soared in his chest. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, a license to kill perhaps the only white tiger in the wild anywhere on earth. Oh boy, what a beauty, and it had appeared on his birthday, it had to be a sign. His Mother may wish she could forget her son, but the Gods hadn’t, and this was their gift, his prize.

  He checked the clock on the wall, leaned forward, and hit the intercom. “Clarissa, get me a coffee, and tell Snyderman, Castro, and Stark to get in here.”

  The intercom crackled back. “Certainly, sir. Should I get coffee for everyone?”

  Randall pressed the button without looking at Antwan. “No.”

  Another ping from his computer announced the end of month Report of Tax Receipts. He opened the file and scanned the numbers, breathing louder as he read down the screen. “So, the thieving cheats think they can hide their money from me.”

  Charles Snyderman marched in with a pompous look that said his crap didn’t stink and crossed to the window.

  Randall glared at him. “Sit down Snyderman; you’re blocking the light.”

  The man returned the dirty look but did as instructed without saying a word, which suited Randall.

  Oswald Castro sauntered in wearing his crumpled tweed, Friday suit, like a hippie dressed for a court date, with frail, jaundiced Rohn Stark trailing behind like an afterthought.

  “Morning, Mr. Cilcifus,” Stark said, smiling as he eased himself into his seat. “Are we still leading the competition, ‘cause I could use the extra money.”