Dead drop a rogue warrio.., p.1
Dead Drop (A Rogue Warrior Thriller Book 3), page 1
DEAD DROP
A ROGUE WARRIOR THRILLER
IAN LOOME
Published by Inkubator Books
www.inkubatorbooks.com
Copyright © 2024 by Ian Loome
Ian Loome has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-298-5
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-299-2
ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-300-5
DEAD DROP is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
CONTENTS
Inkubator Books
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
Epilogue
Inkubator Newsletter
About the Author
Also by Ian Loome
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1
MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE
The gym was ancient, a relic above an old furniture store, from the era before flat-screen TVs and digital experiences. It reeked of labor, sweat and blood, permanently part of the atmosphere.
Bob mounted the last two steps and drank the place in. It seemed dimly lit despite plenty of low-hanging fixtures, the front windows smudged with dirt, uncleaned for years, and the late afternoon sun barely seeping through.
It had been a long time, more than a decade, but little had changed, as if frozen in time. The benches inside the front entrance looked like splinter factories. The walls were lined with old fight posters, “Jersey” Jerry Park v. Larry Tate, ten rounds; Sugar Ray Leonard v. Donny Lalonde, a starburst of text proclaiming “The Ultimate Comeback.”
Some of the posters were newer; most were old, many in black and white, dating back to the Second World War, the era when the fights were the kings of Friday night; when a man with furious fists could captivate a starstruck nation, folks from the oldest senior to the youngest kid gathering around the radio or TV.
He looked to his left, around the corner and front desk. A weedy young man in a string vest sat on a stool, looking bored.
The gym proper occupied most of the upper floor. Heavy bags hung from chains in each corner. Towards the entrance, a row of weight benches and racks sat just ahead of doors to offices and the locker room.
In the ring, nearer the back wall, a kid in black trunks and black gloves moved across the blue canvas in a lithe shuffle, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
The guy he was fighting was bigger, older, probably more experienced.
They closed at the center, where the passing of years had worn the branding logo off the surface.
The older man moved in confidently, guard shifting around as he looked for an opening. But the kid was tagging his opponent as if he stood still. A stinging jab, a bob to one side to slip a punch, two more jabs, sweat flying. Two muscular figures crashing together, one driven back.
Bob crossed the atrium to the locker room. The gym was loud; weight machines clanked; leather gloves slapped leather gloves in the ring. The men ringside laughed at something, gesturing at the sparring partner, whose expression had shifted to genuine concern for his own safety.
Bob retrieved a key from his inside pocket. He’d had it for years, never really expecting to need it. Life on the street had been voluntary; running hadn’t been his choice. But he’d run short of cash in New Orleans. Hiding from the CIA wasn’t going to be cheap, and the go bag he’d stashed at the gym fifteen years earlier was a security blanket.
New Orleans had been a hell of a mess, coming just a few months after fleeing Chicago. Three weeks cooling his heels in Jackson, Mississippi, had preceded Memphis, a chance to let the heat die down after his near miss with the police.
He knew he’d have to call his Louisiana friends, Pastor Don Green and his wife, Wanda, before long. He needed to be sure they were handling the clergyman’s recovery okay.
The locker room was clean, rows along each wall. But it smelled of damp, sweaty gym socks. Bob wrinkled his nose. After parts of a decade living on the streets of Chicago, that was saying something.
There were about two dozen lockers, unchanged with the passing of years. The gym was legendary, more than a half century old, home to several champion fighters. The key was short, with a crimson head, the number 14 engraved into it. Bob walked over to the lockers to his right, following them to the fourteenth. It was nondescript, gunmetal gray like the rest, a short wooden bench ahead of it.
He reached out with the key.
“You mind telling us where you got that?”
He withdrew his hand and put it back into his pocket. The FN 5.7 sat in his other pocket, its weight familiar and comforting. His attempts at avoiding violence since Chicago had been largely futile, thanks to his duplicitous former boss, CIA deputy director Andrew Kennedy, who had hired men to kill him once already. A group of New Orleans criminals had compounded his troubles.
He liked knowing that if violence flared again, he had an appropriately serious response.
“A friend left it to me,” Bob said as he turned. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
The guys from ringside.
The three men were beefy themselves, the broken noses and cauliflower ears suggesting they’d boxed a few rounds. But they were older, middle-aged.
“Yeah? Smart mouth on this guy, Henry.” The lead slab of beef had a wavy permanent hairdo and gold rings, his white dress shirt open two buttons at the neck, sleeves up. He looked like an extra from The Sopranos after a few months of free buffet access.
“See, this is our gym, my friend…”
“Funny, I thought this gym belonged to Norm O’Hearn. Pretty famously so, actually…”
“He owns half. We own half. So that makes it our business. And we’re getting real tired of thieves sneaking in here and ripping off lockers. So answer the fucking question before we give you a reason to remember your manners.”
“You used to be a fighter?” Bob asked.
“My good looks gave it away?” He pointed to Bob and turned to his friend Henry. “This guy must be one dumb motherfucker, because he answered my question with another question, which is a good way in his situation for a fella to get hisself punched in the head.”
Bob looked him up and down with studious attention.
“Southpaw with a losing record. Never got your shot. I’m guessing you threw a few along the way, too,” Bob said. “Let me guess: you started off well, a couple of big wins, got your confidence up. Your manager handled you well, let you fight palookas for a few months until he thought you deserved a shot. Then some actual contender cleaned your clock like he was tossing out old lunch meat.”
That hit a nerve. The beefcake tipped his head to one side, like a dog studying a particularly ballsy cat, then flexed both fists.
“That it? You just… you know… old lunch meat?”
“You’re not doing yourself any favors, fella,” he muttered.
“I think maybe this guy needs a lesson, Chuck,” Henry suggested, crossing his equally beefy arms.
Defuse this. It’s childish.
The inner voice being sensible for a change. Nice.
Bob held up both hands, one dangling the key. “See? Locker key. If I was here to steal… So, no need for anyone to get into a fight.”
“We saw the key,” Chuck said. “The question is what you’re doing with it. Because we ain’t never seen you in here. Never.”
He took a few steps forward.
“You sure you want to do this, Chuck?” Bob said. “I mean, no disrespect, but you’re a hundred pounds or more past fighting weight, and I have no real desire to hurt you.”
See, that was a stupid way to put it, Bobby. True, but stupid. Now you’ve hurt his pride.
His attempt at tact had backfired. Chuck strode towards him. “I’m going to show you what it means to—”
He got within two feet of Bob, the left jab thrown twice, snapping the big man’s head back.
Chuck shook his head to clear it, a hand flying up to his nose, a trickle of blood coming away. He started forw
Bob hit him again, snapping his head back with the jab once, twice, three times, Chuck stumbling into his friend Henry’s arms. “Big guy, we really don’t have to do this,” Bob said.
“Motherfucker!” Chuck steamed towards him, eyes blazing with rage. He threw two surprisingly quick punches, a cross, a roundhouse left, Bob ducking and weaving his way out of harm.
Another cross sailed past him, and he shifted his weight to the ball of his front foot, leaning in to head butt his target in the bridge of the nose.
It cracked, audibly, Chuck stumbling backwards again. This time, Bob followed up, stepping into a hard right cross to the chin that rocked the man. Chuck tried to turn back towards Bob, but the roundhouse left caught him square.
Chuck’s legs gave up like wet pasta; he slumped to the ground, dazed.
His friend Henry began to take a step forward. Bob held up both hands. “Gentlemen… really, do we have to do this again? You get hurt, I get hurt… what does anyone gain?”
Henry wasn’t having it. “You hit my friend, you’ve got to go down,” he said matter-of-factly. He dropped into a fighting stance.
“Cross-arm Archie Moore defense,” Bob said dryly. “Neato.”
Fighting guys of this caliber was tiresome. They were trained to within an inch of their lives, but they weren’t talented, and they were old, and they were slow.
“Forty-seven professional fights, thirty-four wins, thirty-one by knockout,” Henry said as he inched closer. “Chuckie’s a good guy, but he never was much in the ring. Me? I’m the real deal. I fought Boom Boom Mancini in his prime, asshole…”
“Congratulations. I assume he knocked your ass out in fairly rapid fashion.”
“Sonuvabitch!” Henry threw a couple of quick jabs, Bob letting them bounce off his forearms. He saw the roundhouse right coming early and stepped away from it. He left his weight on his back foot, resisting the natural temptation to step back in on his opponent. As he’d expected, an uppercut flew in from Henry’s right hand, Bob still too far away for it to connect.
A few feet away, Chuck groaned pitifully and began to crawl towards the door.
“Five-punch straight-cross combo, if I recall correctly,” Bob said. “Pretty well thrown, too. Slower than a tap drip in December, but… you’re trying, I’ll give you that. I know what you’re going to throw before you throw it, Henry. That means this isn’t going to end well for you.”
“Yeah? How do you fig—” Henry didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence, Bob’s foot coming up with blinding speed, catching him flush in the crotch. The former fighter’s eyes bugged out, his hands going instinctively to his groin. Bob stepped in close and pivoted on his left heel, slamming his elbow into the man’s jaw.
Henry’s eyes swam around as he went over, balance gone, his big body crashing to the tile floor.
Bob turned to the third man. He had a round face, like a pie plate, a look of panic setting in. His hand shot inside his coat.
It came out gripping a pistol.
Missing his wedding ring. Tan lines say his watch, too. Glock 17, twenty-two ounces of fun, good trigger discipline, too slow. Bob’s left hand shot out, grasping the pistol by the barrel. He yanked hard, pulling it from the man’s grasp.
He popped the magazine and tossed it to one side, then threw the Glock over his shoulder. “You want to use that on me, you shouldn’t hesitate. Now you’re going to have to go past me and get it.”
The thug’s eyes widened again; he turned to run out of the locker room. Chuck was already gone, Henry crawling in that direction.
The owner, Norm O’Hearn, passed them as he entered the locker room. He was elderly, short and stocky, with a face like bunched-up dough, his nose obviously broken multiple times. He had a young fighter next to him.
He looked irked.
“Well… that was a disappointing display.”
“Not from where I’m standing. I’ve been out of commission for years, but I handled that pretty good, I think…”
“You about done?” Norm asked. “You could’ve just explained yourself to them…”
“I didn’t really get a chance. And prior to that… it was nobody’s business.”
The kid nodded Bob’s way. “You want me to kick his ass, Norm?”
Norm patted the kid on the back. “Nah. Nah, that’s okay, Kenny. Bob and I go way back. You go finish sparring, okay?”
The kid left the room, looking warily over his shoulder.
Norm held out a hand to shake, and Bob reciprocated. Then Norm shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, in the way older guys sometimes do when they’re a little sheepish and embarrassed. “He’s… he’s a good kid. His mother’s quite the tiger, makes sure he’s home and out of trouble when he’s not training.”
“Uh-huh. Look, about the locker…” Bob began.
“It’s been a long time. Nobody’s heard word one about you in a decade. I figured you’d left me too much money, but after this long, it mostly just covered the rental. Which, with as little as we charge for a monthly locker, is pretty nuts.”
“Your business associates… they went from zero to ten pretty quick,” Bob said. “Are they all former fighters of yours?”
“Eh? Lord no!” Norm said. “No… Henry was here for a few months early in his career. But that was twenty-five years ago. They’re just a little on edge, is all, because of the thefts.”
“Oh. Good. I had a momentary thought the guy might be deluded enough to think he’s still got pro speed in his forties.”
“You seem to be doing okay.”
“Eh… it’s a bit different. My training was lifelong, more rigorous than anything normal. And I spent a decade pretty much hoboing it, so…”
“Living hard. Keeps you lean, if you can protect against the cold and damp…”
“It was tough sometimes. But… old news,” Bob said. “That’s in my past.” He nodded back towards the door. “Those guys own a piece of your young fighter?”
Nick nodded. “I manage him for my piece.”
“They said they own half the gym.”
“They probably like to think so. But they’re all… well, let’s say ‘involved’ in the business. On behalf of their employers. Promotions and security and such. Some investment.”
“They’re mobbed up.”
Norm shrugged. “The fight game hasn’t changed a whole lot in my seventy-four years,” he said. “So… where’ve you been for a decade, Bob? Last I heard, you were just passing through on furlough from the military or something, some secret dealie…”
Or something. “Yeah… I retired. Then things went… badly for a few years.”
“If I recall correct, you had a young lady you were going back to see…”
“Yeah.” Bob sighed, probably louder than he’d intended. “Maggie died, unfortunately, not long after that. Car accident.”
“Ah… Geez. I’m sorry, Bob, really I am…”
“It’s okay. I mean… it’s one of those things that’s never okay…”
“I get that. My best buddy since we was little died in ’Nam. I mean, it’s not the same, I’m sure, but… yeah. That was a half century ago, and I still think about him on the regular.”
“I try to just focus on what was special about it, just remember her that way.”
Norm nodded over his shoulder. “Look… about the locker. You mind sharing what’s so important inside it that you held on to it this long?”
“No time like the present.” Bob walked over and unlocked the metal door, the spring-loaded latch clicking back as he opened it. He handed the padlock to Norm.
Norm looked confused. “It’s…”
“… completely empty. Yeah, that’s the impression it’s supposed to present, just in case things changed and someone opened it prematurely.”
The locker was divided into a main compartment with a hook attached to its back wall, as well as a small top shelf. The shelf and compartment were both bare.
He reached in and under the shelf, feeling the bottom of its cool metal surface.
There.
The key was attached to the bottom of the shelf. He’d used black electrical tape to ensure the glue didn’t give with time. On its head the letters “FMB” were etched on one side, the number 2226 on the other.
