The Debt Collector (Book 1 of a Jack Winchester Organized Crime Action Thriller) (Jack Winchester Vigilante Justice Thriller Series) (8 page)

A
FTER CLEARING UP
, Dana suggested moving to the yard. When he agreed, she grabbed a bottle of red wine and a couple of glasses. They left the kitchen and the noise of drumming. Dana closed the patio door behind her and they took a seat in a pair of pine Adirondack chairs. She ignited the fire pit, and orange flames licked the warm summer air. A crescent moon peeked behind rolling clouds. The sound of wood popping as it burned and summer nights brought back fond memories from happier days with Matt. It had been a long time since she’d sat out here with a man and enjoyed a glass of wine.

For a few minutes they both gazed into the fire, mesmerized or searching for words. Dana glanced at his hand and noted there was no ring on his finger, nor a tan line to indicate he’d taken one off.

“So, do you have a special someone in your life?”

He took a sip from his glass. “No. My work kept me too busy. It wouldn’t have been fair on them.”

“Kept you busy?”

“I mean for the past ten years or so, it’s been nonstop.”

“So you’re one of those.”

“What?”

“Workaholic?”

The corner of his lip curled up. “I guess. It’s not that I wouldn’t want a slower pace of life. I just haven’t had an opportunity to slow—until recently, that is.”

“Recently?”

He glanced at her briefly, then looked off into the fire without replying.

“What about kids?”

“Nope, I somehow skipped that. I’m not sure I would be the best role model.”

“Oh no?”

“Being on the road and all.” He paused. “But you seem to have done well.”

Dana turned her head to the house, where the low sound of drumming could be heard.

“Yeah, he’s good kid. For his sake, I just wish this whole event with Matt had never occurred.”

“I’m sure Matt’s father must feel the same way,” he added.

“If he does, he’s tight-lipped about it. He never spent much time with him.”

“Strange. Alan at the Thistle Inn made it sound as if they spent a lot of time together.”

“What?”

“You know, with his father being one of the last to see him that night—but I guess you knew that.”

“Yeah.”

She feigned knowing about it, but that wasn’t what she had been told. She also found it odd that he would have had a conversation with the barman about Matt. Then again, he was staying at the motel.
It’s possible Alan brought it up
, she thought.

They spent the next hour exchanging stories from their upbringing. At least she did; he listened more than he talked. She could tell he was uncomfortable sharing anything related to his parents. Several times he would answer a question with a question, spinning it back to her. Why? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t going to pry. It was just nice to have some adult company for once.

* * *

A
dim light
illuminated the bottom of the wooden steps leading down to the basement. Basements in these old Victorian houses were far from the kind seen in modern style magazines. The ancient stone foundations were exposed, and the area was unfinished. It gave off a musty smell, no doubt from rainwater that had leaked in through fine cracks. At the bottom the basement opened up into a large space, divided by support beams. At the far end, behind a makeshift piece of plexi glass designed to shield the sound of the drums, was Jason. There were no other band members, except a lone microphone stand and an old, beaten up amp that looked as if it had been compiled out of wood from the basement steps.

Within spitting distance of Jason, the noise was deafening. No longer could he distinguish what type of drum he was hitting; it just blurred together as one loud noise that rattled the brain. Jack had never taken up any instruments as a kid. His early years growing up hadn’t allowed for the simple pleasures that most kids had. The closest he come to discovering if he had any talent as a musician lasted all of twenty-four hours. At the age of thirteen he had brought home a Fender Strat with three strings and a missing pickup that he’d bought from a guy at school. Back then, a person could get ten cents each time they returned a can or bottle. After school, he’d go routing around down back alleys, searching in the trash thrown outside apartments. It wasn’t long before he’d managed to squirrel away enough money to pay for a guitar that a kid was selling at his school for fifteen dollars. It was a piece of shit, but he’d earned it and was determined to learn.

Fat chance. The moment his stepmother caught sight of it, she made up some elaborate story that he’d stolen the money from her to pay for it. His father believed her. That guitar lasted all of twenty-four hours before it was smashed and thrown out in the trash. He was grounded for two weeks and couldn’t sit down for a week. Jack could still recall the pain as though it had just occurred.

Now seeing Jason beating away on those drums, in some way, gave him satisfaction. While Jason might not have had his father around, Jack would have traded his life for Jason’s in a heartbeat. Fathers were overrated, at least in his life.

Jason stopped playing.

“You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, giving the impression that he didn’t believe Jack’s words.

Jason stepped out from behind the set, clutching the sticks. He spun one of them wildly in his hand with all the ease of a pro. Jack peered around, taking in the small amount of personal possessions they had stored there. Several large brown boxes were stacked against the wall. A few dusty suitcases tucked beneath the steps led up to the first floor. A boiler was in the corner. A heavy-duty, worn, black punching bag hung in the center. Jack walked around it. Like most bags, strips of masking tape covered a patch at the side someone had used extensively. He patted it.

“Yours?”

Jason stopped tapping the sticks against his leg. “My father’s.”

“Was he a boxer?”

He shook his head. “No, he used to work out.”

“Did he brawl a lot?”

“A few times.”

“Where?”

He didn’t reply.

“I’m guessing you don’t use it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe the way those guys laid into you the other day.”

“There were three of them.”

“And? That’s just a number.”

Jason just stared at him. “Anyway, thanks to you, I’ll probably get my ass kicked the next time I see them.”

“Maybe not. Come on, I’ll show a few things.” Jack slapped the bag.

“Why did you cover for me?” Jason asked.

“Do you like getting in trouble?”

“No.”

“Then I saved you some more. Come on, put the sticks down.”

He could see some hesitation in the boy before he came over.

“What are you, some kind of fighter?”

“Hit it.”

Jason took a swing. The bag barely moved. Jason gripped his hand as if he was in pain.

“Really?” Jack said. “Put your body into it.”

Jason tried again, and again. Each time he rubbed his knuckles.

“Forget this shit, man.”

“What’s up?”

“This is what’s up. What is this? You trying to bond with me so you can get in the sack with my mother?”

“Is that what you think?”

They stared at each other for a beat. Jason shook his head and disappeared up stairs.

Jack tapped the bag with his fingertips a few more times before glancing around the room and then following him up.

A
S THE EVENING
came to a close, Jack returned to his room and Jason holed himself up in his bedroom, in a foul mood. All attempts at trying to get a word out of him were hopeless, so Dana retreated to the lounge, poured herself another glass of wine, and curled up on the sofa. She spent the next hour on the phone talking to Sophie, who for one was completely disappointed that dinner hadn’t ended with Jack and her in the sack.

It was while Sophie was talking her ear off that the sound of loud music kicked in. At first she thought it was Jason.

“Hey, listen, I’ll call you back,” Dana said, cutting Sophie off in mid-sentence.

After hanging up, she snuck a peek from behind the curtain. She cringed.

“You want me to come?” Jason said, appearing in the doorway.

“No, just stay here.”

Outside, Dana made her way down the steps. Her stomach felt as if it was rolling inside. She didn’t like confrontations at the best of times, but with five strapping bikers she had considered calling the police. In years gone by, before the whole incident with Matt, she would have phoned him. It wasn’t like they hadn’t encountered their fair share of drunks, drug-crazed lunatics, and irate customers. But Matt had always been the one to handle it.

The men looked amused at the sight of her trudging their way.

“Do you mind turning it down?” she hollered.

One of them cupped a hand to his ear. The others laughed. She walked a bit closer until she was standing beside the radio. Not waiting for permission, she rolled the dial down several notches.

“Sorry, guys, can you keep it down? We have other guests and it’s late.”

“Come here, darling, give us a dance.”

One of them wrapped his arm around her waist, flipped up the volume of the music, and began swaying. His breath smelt like a dirty sewer. Dana pushed back on his drunken advance; he tripped and fell to the ground. One of the other bikers stumbled over and turned it down slightly.

“Excuse my friend; he’s had one too many,” he slurred.

With that said, he cut in and tried to repeat the same behavior. Dana tried forcefully pushing him off, but his grip was much tighter. He groped at her ass and licked her neck.

“Get off!” she yelled even louder, but he wouldn’t let up.

That was when the music turned off.

“Huh?” the guy cast a look over his shoulder to find Jack there.

“I think you should do what she said.”

“Piss off,” the biker said, keeping a firm grip on Dana with one arm. With the other, he turned the radio back on.

Jack leaned in, turning off the radio. “I get it. No, I really do. You’ve had a few beers, smoked a doobie or two, and you’re looking to score some ass. You see her; she’s got a great ass. But here’s the thing.”

He gestured to their house, and they followed his line of sight.

“Do you really want to do this in front of her kid?”

One of the bikers lunged at Jack from behind and took hold of his shoulder. Without missing a beat, Jack elbowed the guy in the face, sending him reeling back. The next one launched his attack, but before he was within reach Jack kicked his knee, causing him to buckle in agony. He followed with a crushing upper cut, and the guy went down hard. Another took a swing, but Jack caught his oil-stained fist with his right hand, twisted his arm, and fired a sharp blow into the guy’s ribcage. Dropping, he managed to return a blow, but Jack barely registered it. The one still holding Dana tossed her to the side as he threw a punch. Jack ducked out of the way, grabbed the radio, and slammed it against his face. It collapsed the man’s nose and sent him down. For a brief moment he had the initial advantage, but then the first biker was back up. He pulled a gun, but before he could raise it Jack moved in one smooth motion, grabbed a knife from his ankle, and flicked it at the biker. It embedded below his shoulder. He stumbled back and the gun went off.

“I’ll call the police.”

Distracted by Dana’s voice, Jack felt two sharp pains in his lower back; dropping to a knee, he grappled and tossed the man over his shoulder. Two more blows to the man’s face and he was out cold. Jack had reacted without thinking. It was almost natural, nothing more than years of instinct and pure survival.

Dana dashed into her office and made the call while Jack continued to fight them. One against five; to any other person looking on, it would have looked like pure madness. But to him it was just another day in the yard with inmates trying to shank him. At least these five were unprepared and drunk; injured and exhausted, they groaned, fumbling around on their hands and knees. One threw a hand up to make it clear that he’d had enough. Not taking any chances, Jack pulled his own gun on them while they waited for the police to show.

* * *

A
fter throwing
the men into the back of the cruisers and listening to Dana’s side of the story, Sheriff Grant took down Jack’s name and details and told him that he would have to give a statement. He made it clear in no uncertain terms that he would be back and not to go anywhere. Five minutes later, blue and red lights blurred into the night, leaving Jack leaning against a rock wall. Jason had made his way down. Dana and Jason looked at him in complete astonishment.

“Holy shit, you think you can teach me how to do that?”

“Jason,” Dana reprimanded him.

“What? It was insane.”

Maybe it was the adrenaline masking his pain, but only then did he realize what the cause was of the shooting pain in his back. Withdrawing his hand from the small of his back, he saw that it was covered in warm blood. He stumbled forward a little.

Dana gasped. “You need to get to a hospital.”

“No. Just patch it up.”

“Patch it up? A bruise or a nick on the hand is one thing. But this?”

“Seriously, I’ve had worse. Just help me up to the house.”

His face began to pale. Shock was beginning to set in. There had been countless times he’d got injured over the years. It came with the territory.

* * *

A
s they stumbled
into the kitchen, Jason cleared the table with one swipe and they carefully laid Jack on his front, peeling off his leather jacket. It looked bad. Blood had soaked through his shirt, covering most of his back.

“Get me a warm towel from the washroom,” Dana ordered.

Jason dashed off upstairs while Dana filled a large bowl with some warm water.

“Shoot.”

In the entire ruckus, Jack had forgotten that Apollo was still inside his room.

“I need to get Apollo,” he said, trying to get up.

“You need to stay put. Jason will handle that.”

As she cut away his shirt with scissors, she could see one open stab wound. She washed the wound to get a better look at it. Fortunately, it didn’t appear to be too deep; maybe an inch at the most. While this was still shocking, it didn’t come close to what else she was observing. All across his back were large scars. The skin almost resembled a dry lakebed with the sheer number of lines. Jason returned with the towels. He ground to a halt. The look on his face at the sight of Jack’s back matched her own. Neither one said anything.

Jason used the towels to clean up the blood, and they wrapped the other around him. She knew it was critical to keep a person warm when they went into shock. This was one of the few things Matt had taught her after several of his men had experienced unusual accidents. Tending to his wounds, she thought back to the many times she’d patched up Matt’s co-workers. Whenever she asked why they couldn’t go to the hospital, he always gave the reason that it was too packed, medical bills cost too much, and, well, he would get this look in his eye. It was the same one she had seen many a time. One that made it clear that anything to do with his line of business or activities outside of work wasn’t up for discussion.

“Do you have a handheld mirror?”

“Yeah, um…Jason, in the drawer over there.”

Jason retrieved it, and she handed it to Jack.

Awkwardly he held the mirror behind him and glanced over, trying to get a better look at the wound before handing it back to her. Dana shot him a curious look.

“Don’t tell me that in addition to being a antiques collector, you’re a medic as well as a fighter?”

He handed it back. “Not exactly. But I know what a serious knife wound looks like and what’s just a flesh wound.”

“A flesh wound?” Jason stifled a laugh. “Look at the amount of blood on your shirt.”

“I have thin blood.”

“Flesh wound or not, we need to stop the bleeding.”

Dana set the bowl on the table and retrieved clean dressings from the cupboard. She applied pressure on the two wounds and taped up three sides.

“There. That should do until we get to the hospital.”

“No hospital. I need you to stich it up.”

Her eyebrows rose at the very suggestion. She paused for a moment, contemplating the question alongside every one she wanted to ask, but instead she turned to Jason.

“There’s a first aid kit in the bottom drawer, and some surgical stitching in a box underneath my bed.”

Jason nodded and dashed off to collect the items. Dana moved to the sink to wash her hands before pulling a bottle of rye whiskey from the refrigerator. When Jason returned, she told him to head off to bed. It was close to eleven at night, and while he didn’t have school the next day, she thought he’d seen enough gore for one evening.

She poured herself a glass to steady her hands, and gave the rest of the bottle to Jack. As she worked the thread through his skin she noted that he barely winced; either the alcohol was doing its job, or he was used to experiencing this kind of pain. By the look of his back, he had endured pain far beyond what anyone else had.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I lived in a rough neighborhood.”

* * *

T
en minutes
later she was done. She tossed the bloody rags into the bowl and cleaned up while he observed her handiwork in a tall mirror.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?” he said before taking a gulp from the bottle.

She never replied. He was right. It wasn’t the first time she had tended to an injury. At first her need was out of necessity, and then out of fear. For reasons she rarely spoke about, having surgical suture on hand prevented people in the town from talking.

“I guess you’re wondering about the scars.”

“No.”

She feigned disinterest. Without a doubt she was curious, but she barely knew him and time had taught her that it was better to ask few questions. When she returned, she handed him a denim shirt.

“You look about Matt’s size.”

She took in the sight of his chest and abs. It was solid muscle. He was no overdone fitness type, but it was clear that he took care of his physique. She forced herself to look away, not wishing to make him feel uncomfortable. He took the shirt and slowly slipped into it.

“Thank you.”

“It should be me thanking you. What you did tonight…” She paused while washing away the stained water. “That could have turned out a lot worse.”