Cold Vengeance: Cold Vengeance, #1

Chapter One

Except for hiding in the closet while men with guns looked for him in the dark, this was exactly how Stan thought it was going to be.

Moonlight coming through a window past the kitchen gave the loft an underwater feel. Two men moving past the bed walked like the weight of the ocean was over their heads—pirates strolling along the bottom for treasure.

Stan hadn’t seen them. Didn’t think they’d still be watching an abandoned barn in Wildwood in case Frank’s idiot cousin came back looking for clues.

Was the county paying for overtime, or did these men really like their jobs? It looked like they were coming his way. Maybe he’d get a chance to ask them.

He eased away from the edge of the door, back into the closet. Lowered himself into a crouch that made his prosthetic ankle hit the limit of its flexion and carefully breathed through his mouth.

He reached behind him for his second pistol. A little .380 he had tucked into a thin holster at the small of his back. Just past where he had stuffed Frank’s notebook.

Frank had been a bury your money in mayonnaise jars in the backyard kind of guy. Like his dependence on the old-fashioned pen and paper. Old-fashioned. Stan knew if the cops never found any of Frank’s research, it was because he had squirreled it away.

Probably not in actual Hellmann’s jars, though.

Frank’s van had been sold at a sheriff’s auction — technically Stan’s van — and as far as he knew, they never tried to contact the fake original owner, John Johnson. He had to buy it again. The name he used this time was Bob Roberts.

He’d gone over every inch of the thing, and though he admired the work Frank had put into it, he never found anything more than an errant Zagnut wrapper.

The floor outside the closet squeaked. Old barn siding as flooring. It was beautiful but not very quiet.

He aimed his 9mm high at where a guy was likely to lean to look in the corners. The .380 he kept low. Mid-shin. Where a guy might step inside before committing.

Another squeak. The soft brush of a sliding shoe sole. Stan made himself as small as he could. Pretended to be a pile of laundry.

He had found Frank’s journal in the second place he looked. Not under any of the cabinet drawers, even though that had been likely. He knew Frank wouldn’t have hidden it in a piece of furniture, something that could be removed.

No, Frank would have put it in something permanent. Something built-in.

Every kitchen cabinet had a recess at the top. About a half inch. More if there was some decorative molding over the doors. Some of them went right to the ceiling, though, so you never saw it. But some left a gap—a couple of inches to a few feet depending on how tall the rooms were.

How many wills and life insurance policies still hide on the top of the upper row of kitchen cabinets? Undiscovered for decades?

He was just tall enough to reach up and run his fingers along the dust up there. Of course, it had been on the cabinet above the refrigerator.

He had no time to examine it, though. He slid it behind his waistband when he heard the whisper of sound from below, like a man stifling a cough that caught him by surprise.

The stairway behind him was the only way down. The railing had been torn loose several months ago when Frank threw a couple of guys through it. Mo told him about coming in to see the dudes in a heap on the floor. Frank standing in typical bemusement.

Mo had shaken his head in disbelief. Clapped his hands together. That motherfucker looked at me like I was interrupting a call with his grandma.

Stan could’ve hustled to the small balcony off the kitchen and jumped to the grass about twelve feet down. But he was too old for that shit, and one of his feet was only held on by suction.

The black rectangle of the empty closet cut the far wall in half. A place to hide and hope they didn’t bother checking every door.

He only hoped they would underestimate him the same way they did Frank. He heard the place had been a bloodbath, and Stan had barely been able to believe it even after seeing the pictures.

That desperate old man had made one hell of a mess.

Stan shook his head in disgust at another scraping footstep, wondering how these guys could call themselves professionals.

Though they knew their job well enough to check the whole floor.

Just not well enough to do it right.

A foot stepped through the doorway. Planted well inside the closet. Then the barrel of a shotgun. Like the guy was just going to come on in.

Stan aimed at the shin. Had a moment of sympathy. Squeezed his eyelids down to slits and fired.

The crack of the shot hammered into his ears, followed by a scream, "Fuck!" The guy fell into the jamb, and right when Stan jumped up to push the shotgun toward the ceiling, he returned fire.

The shotgun blasted the night apart. The flash illuminated bared teeth and wide eyes. A vision that stayed with Stan even after he clenched his eyelids together. He wrapped the shotgun up in a hug, aimed his pistol where he remembered the face to be, and fired twice before dropping his weight onto the other weapon, pulling it from the guy’s loosening grip.

Stan could taste blood on his lips. He didn’t think it was his own.

They hit the floor at the same time. A shotgun across the room let loose. Another flash singed his sight as the air where his head had been a split-second ago boiled with the passage of lead shot.

Splinters of wood exploded by his face. Dug into his scalp.

He brought both pistols up. Pointed them at where he hoped the other guy was—alternated fire between them as he spread them apart. Then he threw himself flat as they both clicked empty.

The floor shook from the impact of the other guy falling. Stan knew he was gone when he heard the shotgun hit and slide away.

He rolled over and pushed up to all fours. He got his smart foot under him so the dumb one could learn by example as he sat in a comfortable squat.

All that yoga Ronnie kept making him do was paying off. It helped that she did it with him. Often naked.

He holstered the .380. Reloaded the 9mm. Picked up the shotgun as he stood.

A hissing voice from below made him freeze. Garcia! Reynolds! You get ’im?

Definitely not professionals. He moved as quietly as he could to the edge of the kitchen.

Hey! A different voice. Deeper and harsher than the first. What’s the status?

Stan leaned around the corner. In a loud whisper, he said, Give us a couple of seconds to make sure it’s clear.

Check, the first voice said.

Stan rushed back into the kitchen. Eased the balcony door open like Indiana Jones stealing the fertility idol. As he stepped outside, he jammed his other pistol into its holster. Set the shotgun on the crooked metal table rusting away in the Florida humidity.

He heard voices from inside. Maybe he should have jumped in the first place. He threw one leg over the railing. Pulled the other one up high enough to keep his prosthesis from catching on the wood.

He lowered himself to hang by two of the creaking balusters. He blinked the last of the muzzle flash from his eyes to look at the ground beneath him. Five feet? Maybe six?

He let go before he could convince himself it was higher than it was. He landed on both feet with his knees ready to absorb the impact and the plastic shroud that connected what was left of his lower leg to the prosthetic foot cracked.

It twisted out from under him, and he fell to the side, biting back every curse word he had ever learned. He got moving with a frantic crawl to the side of the barn, where he walked his hands up the side to help him stand. He put his weight back on the foot, and it seemed to hold, so he struck off in a limping jog around the side of the barn. When he got a few steps from his car, he heard the rear door of the barn fly open to hit the wall. He threw himself into an instinctive roll right before another shotgun went off.

Pellets peppered the front fender. He saw sparks from the corner of his eye. He made it around the bumper with a frantic low crawl, digging in the gravel for traction. The second shot caught his prosthetic foot trailing behind him, sending him into a spin.

Stan pressed himself flat on his face. He drew and sighted through the gap between the ground and the car’s undercarriage. Being an old Subaru GL wagon, there wasn’t much room to work with.

When he began firing, he heard the barn door slam shut. There was no return fire, so they must have taken cover inside.

When he tried to get up to open the driver’s door, the prosthetic ankle buckled with a comical sproing, and he fell against the car, slamming his cheek into the front door trim.

He draped his arm over the roof. Fired twice more for cover. Tore the door open and struggled into the driver’s seat. Juggled the keys. Fired through the open window. He had cursed the shitty AC on his way to Wildwood, but now he was flush with relief.

The Subaru started on the first try, but he couldn’t stomp on the pedal like he wanted. His fake foot — the right one — was a flopping mess, filling the floor with a confusion of plastic, metal, and carbon fiber.

The rear glass blew out in a fresh barrage of shotgun fire as if the air had filled with diamonds.

Stan kicked his fake foot under the seat with the heel of the real one. He worked through a twisting and frantic dance to get in position with his left foot crossed over his right shin and finally gave the car all the gas. Four wheels kicked up rocks.

He was on the road with Frank’s notebook down the back of his pants. Blood poured from the top of his head. Right cheek throbbed. Tens of thousands of dollars in prosthetic foot tangled in his pant leg.

Just like he planned.

Chapter Two

When Haggis saw the box on his workbench, he was glad he had convinced himself to come in. Something to do that might break up the routine. The old ennui Frank Sinatra sang about.

Ossi-Pro had been his baby ever since he’d had the idea after watching one of his buddies wait for almost eighteen months before getting fitted for a prosthetic leg that took another twelve months to arrive. He figured he could build limbs in his shop and donate them.

Some people had laughed. What did a Marine sniper know about building artificial limbs? Nothing at first, but after three years of barely treading water under a trickle of donations, he had a major success with the Real-Flex ankle. A passive rolling joint with multi-axial force return.

He put it into a limb and called it the Everyday Carry, and instead of seeking a patent, he published it online.

Then he met Stanley Franklin.

Working out of the donated space in an abandoned industrial complex south of Miami with nothing but a nurse and a lab technician had been so exciting. Like hanging out with good friends, especially when veterans came in for fittings. Cookouts in the parking lot. Making LiveLyfe videos. Music blasting louder than the traffic from the overpass.

But there was no money in giving everything away, so eventually, it was just him. An order here or there. And the prospect of moving on to something different — that old desire that had dragged him through life without ever sinking roots — brought back that welcome excitement.

It was nothing like the adrenaline of battle. Like being back in Ramadi before the missiles launched, but it would do for now. He still felt that pull, though. The suppressed need for action.

He set his coffee down — a white chocolate latte from Hill of Beans. Pulled his headphones down, so Sinatra’s voice was buried in the curly red hair that got him his nickname.

When they first met, his new boss told him to call him Stan. Haggis had nodded after shaking hands. Call me Haggis.

Stan grinned as he pointed to the shaggy red hair and beard. "That cuz you look like an extra from Braveheart?"

Haggis threw his head back and laughed. Stan had been the first person ever to make the connection so quickly. That was exactly how he got the nickname.

The box on his workbench must have been from Stan. He had parked his ’73 Chevy truck next to Stan’s black BMW parked at a slant in the handicap space.

Haggis leaned back to look into Stan’s open office door, but all he saw was a pair of crutches leaning against the desk. Heard his low voice. Maybe on a call or something.

Haggis lifted the flap on the box and almost choked on sweet coffee. Inside was a mangled prosthetic leg. Cracked socket. Bent pylon. Shattered ankle.

He lifted it from the box, and the foot fell off. He caught it before it hit the floor. Pulled it close for an inspection. The flesh-colored rubber that covered the metal framework was torn, punctured by several blackened holes.

He carried the pieces to Stan’s office and stepped through the door without announcing himself. He stood there until he was noticed.

The left side of Stan’s face was red and swollen and peppered with tiny scabs. His bruised left hand spread out in front of him on the desk. He held a cell phone to his right ear, speaking into it with a grin.

His gaze moved over to Haggis, dropped to take in the broken prosthetic held out like an offering, then back up to Haggis’ face.

Can I call you back? he said.

He hung up without waiting for an answer and set his phone aside. When he laced his fingers together, he suppressed a wince. What’s up?

Haggis lifted the leg higher. What, did you get shot out of a cannon or something?

Stan laughed and shook his head. No, I was looking at some property out in the sticks. Got attacked by a dog.

Haggis let the socket drop to his side and moved the foot in front of him. This looks like you got shot while getting thrown from a car after crashing into a telephone pole.

Stan shrugged. It was a big dog.

Haggis didn’t care how much Stan had paid to be CEO of Ossi-Pro. Or if he was paying the rent on the building. Or paying cash for tools and materials. Buying him lunch every time he came. Giving him a raise.

Haggis just didn’t like being lied to.

He remembered when he asked how Stan had been injured in the first place. The way he had told his ridiculous story with a straight face.

A dog, Haggis said, tipping his head back to look down his nose. Like how you lost your leg?

Stan grinned. "That’s right. Only that was an alligator."

Haggis turned and slung the leg to the floor outside the office. It shattered with the sound of a gunshot. The socket exploded into glittering shards.

Haggis turned back around, but Stan’s face had barely changed. He shrugged and spread his hands apart. It was a big alligator.

Haggis turned and threw the foot next. It bounced like a football taking a bad hop and careened out of sight to knock something off his workbench. Whatever it was crashed to the floor. He hoped it was expensive.

He shook with anger when he turned back around. He didn’t like losing control, but once it started, it was so hard to