Contents
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Acknowledgments
Quote
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
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Copyright ©2020 by Ty Patterson, Three Aces Publishing Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
They say it takes a village to produce a book. In my case, many continents have been involved. Sure, an author’s job is a solitary one, but writing is just one part of putting out a book.
My beta readers, who are around the world, are my first responders. I owe a debt of gratitude to them for putting into shape all the words I write.
They are:
Manie Kilan, Mike Duncan, Dori Barrett, Maria Stine, Mike Davis, Larry Kahhan, Linda Thomas, Laura Rachwalik, Jobins MJ, Simon Alphonso, Steve Panza, Ann Finn, Don Waterman, Kimber Krahn, Robin Eide Steffensen, Blanca Nichols, Loz Yeung, Charlie Carrick, Martin Pingere, Terrill Carpenter, Kathryn Defranc, Dave Davis, Mike Duncan, Donna Young Hartridge, Shadine Mccallen, Shell Levy, Wanona Koeppler, Marion McNulty Hulse, Gerry Kenny, Rob Fox, Dan Gherasim, Toni Osborne, Theresa Ann Kari, JoAnn Cates Lewis, Cathie M Jones, Debbie McNally, Sylvia Foster, Beth Perry, Mike Davis, Pat Barling, Mary Kauffman, John Spiller, Dave Campbell, Mark Campbell, Cathy Silveira, Franca Parente, Jan Fisher, Nancy Schmit, Claire Forgacs, Pete Bennett, Eric Blackburn, Margaret Harvey, Jim Lambert, Jimmy Smith, Suzanne Mickelson, Brad Werths, Allan Coulton, Paula Artlip, Pat Ellis, Linda Collins, Tricia Cullerton, Alun Humphreys, Wa Reedy, Tania Reed, Matt Bell, Jeane Jackson, Gary Bristol, Gary Rounds and Jennifer Anderson.
Donna Rich, my proofreader, and Doreen Martens, my editor, have been invaluable in polishing the book.
Lastly, a special thanks to Debbie Gallant, Tom Gallant, Michelle Rose Dunn and Cheri Gerhardt, who have supported me since the beginning.
To my wife and son for their sacrifices in supporting me
If you are free, you need to free somebody else. If you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else.
― Toni Morrison
1
Everything could be used as a weapon.
The covers and spine of a hardback novel. A rolled-up newspaper. The points of a folded sheet of paper. Any everyday object could be used to either attack or block.
Cutter Grogan’s eyes took in the surroundings as he walked down Lafayette Street, noting what could be used for offense or defense. That umbrella someone had discarded in a trashcan. The empty cartons on the sidewalk outside a store. That vandalized phone booth on the corner with Grand Street—it could be used as cover.
It was automatic, a habit so deeply ingrained from years of training and experience in far-off dusty and dangerous lands that he wasn’t even conscious of it.
New York in the summer. The insistent and never-fading sounds of traffic and the smell of fumes. He jaywalked the street to get to the sunlit side of Lafayette and closed his eyes momentarily to bask in the warmth.
‘It’s not a park!’ a passerby yelled at him and brushed past in a huff.
He grinned. He had been to the world’s top cities. Paris, London, Berlin, Rio, Jakarta, Tokyo—wherever he went, he felt at home. But New York? It was where he began a
nd where he ended. He donned his shades and carried on. Waited at the intersection with Grand for the lights to turn and, when they did, proceeded to his destination, a bodega.
There were many within walking distance, some even closer, but this particular one was his favorite. It was neatly maintained, tidy, and had the light smell of incense in the air. He knew its owners. But the deal-clincher was the dessert counter. Fluffy pastries and cakes, chocolates that melted in one’s mouth, all of them freshly baked by the owner’s wife. They would set off calorie-counter alarms, if fitness gear had those.
He glanced at his watch and hurried. An oven-fresh batch would be coming, and he wanted to be first in line. Not many knew of the store’s delicacies. However, word of mouth was a thing, and the desserts often ran out as soon as they were displayed.
He removed his shades, folded them and placed them in an inner pocket as he squinted at the scaffolding outside the bodega. Construction on the building’s upper floors cut visibility.
A bell jangled when he entered.
‘Chang,’ he greeted the Chinese man behind the counter.
‘Cutter,’ the owner responded, his face creasing in a smile. He was in his fifties, his hair still thick and black, experience and hardship lining his face with tiny wrinkles. ‘Long time. You been going to some other store?’
‘Only if Lin Shun has run away with someone else. I come only for her pastries. You know that.’
‘I dunno what she sees in him,’ said an elderly man from the next aisle, where he was mopping the floor. ‘I’ve proposed to her several times.’
‘Have you considered that perhaps you’re old?’
‘Me? Old?’
Cutter stood silently, enjoying their humor. Moshe, the arrival, was joint-owner with Li Shun and Chang. An unlikely partnership on the face of it. The elderly man outranked the Chinese-American couple by close to three decades, though he was so fit only his wrinkled face and arms gave his age away.
That night brought us together.
Cutter had been on a late run several years ago, the streets deserted, when the sounds of a scuffle had caught his attention. A narrow alley behind the bodega, where buildings stored their trash bins. It opened into Center Street. Several shadows moving in the dark.
At the sound of his arrival, the figures had burst out and fled, but not before he had taken one man down and crippled him with a blow to the temple.
A mugging gone wrong. Chang and Lin Shun’s young son left bleeding on the ground. Moshe, then, a passerby who had tried to help, injured as well.
Cutter called 911 and stayed with them until the cops and first-responders arrived. He was with them when the paramedics shook their heads almost imperceptibly. Daniel Shun, the son, had died.
He had waited in the hospital’s hallway while Moshe was undergoing surgery that helped him survive the near-fatal knife wound to his kidneys.
Cutter joined the bodega owners in their mourning, and as time healed, got close to them. Moshe became part of them when he stayed in touch and became a business partner as well when he bought in to the store.
Cutter clapped the elder man on his shoulder and looked at him critically. ‘He’s still got all his teeth,’ he told Chang. ‘That ought to count for something, shouldn’t it?’
‘Teeth! That’s all he’s got.’
Moshe was in incredibly good shape for his age. He ran half-marathons and was an active participant in neighborhood walks. Any other person would be content with being a silent partner in the business. Not the elder man. He helped out wherever he could. Stacking shelves, cleaning up, even behind the checkout counter if needed, though he didn’t prefer it.
He feels claustrophobic there. He doesn’t like it.
Cutter stepped around the older partner when he resumed wiping the floor. Moshe’s sleeves slid up his forearms, and there it was: faded numerals tattooed on the inside of his left arm. Many thought it was old ink, badly done. Cutter knew what it was and the horrors behind it.
Moshe was an Auschwitz survivor.
He had been six when he was deported to the camp along with his parents and elder sister, ten when the camp was liberated. The only member of his family to survive.
Cutter went to the dessert counter and inhaled the aromas. A woman came from inside the store and wiped her hands on her white apron. She hugged him hard and checked him out. He could see his reflection in the glass covering the delicacies.
Six feet one. Styled, dark hair. Green eyes. Clean-shaven. Tee tucked into his jeans. Lightweight sports jacket. Rubber-soled sneakers.
Because of his deep tan, he could easily pass for someone from the Mediterranean region. Or the Middle East, South America, North Africa—a vast range of geographies. Only a handful knew what his genealogy was. Lin Shun, Chang and Moshe were among them.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ Lin Shun went behind the display cabinet and waited expectantly.
‘Been away.’
‘Vacation?’
‘Something like that.’ Rescuing a hostage from a Colombian cartel. That was some holiday!
Her eyes sharpened at his tone. They lingered on him. ‘No injuries?’
‘Nothing gets past you, Lin Shun,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘None, this time.’
She looked at him searchingly and then got down to business. ‘Pineapple and banana pastries. New recipe. They have come out well. You should try them out.’
‘I’ll take two of them, and my usual.’
Coconut-sprinkled fruit cupcakes were his go-to dessert. He licked his lips unconsciously as Lin Shun packed them in a brown paper bag.
He was taking it from her when it happened.
2
‘YOU! HANDS IN THE AIR!’ a voice yelled.
Lin Shun gasped. Her eyes widened, her hands trembled as she raised them.
Cutter turned slowly, bag in his left hand, as the blinds on the store window came down, darkening the interior.
The dessert display was the short leg of an L-shaped counter that ran down the side of the store and ended where Chang stood behind the register.
One man faced him, a black bandana over his nose and mouth, baseball hat covering his head, shades over his eyes. A gun in his hand, waving in the air.
Just him? Who rolled down the blinds?
As if in reply, another man came into view. Similarly dressed, with a grey scarf around his face, gun on Moshe, who shuffled from behind the central display stand, mop still in hand.
Two.
‘HANDS. RAISE THEM!’ the first man shouted.
Cutter lifted his slowly. Three, he corrected himself, when a balaclava-wearing hood came around the center stand and covered him and Lin Shun with a weapon.
‘MONEY!’ Bandana screamed. ‘EVERYTHING YOU HAVE. QUICK.’
‘Who else here?’ Balaclava jerked his gun. ‘WHO?’
‘Just us.’ Lin Shun trembled. ‘Inside rooms are empty.’
‘YOU’LL DIE FIRST IF THERE’S SOMEONE ELSE.’
Three gunmen. One to Cutter’s right, six feet away, weapon angled away, in the baker’s direction. Two others about twenty feet away, standing close to each other. Bandana facing Chang, Grey Mask watching the entrance, gun on Moshe, who stood calm, silent, his hands high above his head.
‘YOU! JACKET MAN,’ Balaclava raged. ‘YOU THINK THIS IS A JOKE? OUR GUNS ARE EMPTY? LIFT YOUR HANDS. STAND STILL.’
Time slowed. The world blurred and reduced to the counter, the central display, and three gunmen.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Cutter asked softly. Taking everything in. The mole on Balaclava’s wrist. The bead of sweat coming from beneath the mask, going down his neck, over what looked like a tattoo just visible above the edge of his shirt. Moshe, looking at him, still calm, as if it was a routine event. Chang hustling over the counter, sweeping its contents into a plastic bag with shaking fingers. Lin Shun breathing hard.
Fight or stand down? Three against one. What were the odds there?
‘WHAT DID YOU SAY? SHUT YOUR MOUTH.’ Balaclava lunged forward, his face twisting beneath his mask in anger, the gun rising to barrel-whip Cutter.
Fight it was.
It came over Cutter instantly, a detachment of his mind from his body as it observed dispassionately, got neurons to fire impulses to axons that released chemicals that triggered muscles, all without conscious thought, in nanoseconds.