The Harry Starke Series: Books 7-9 (The Harry Starke Series Boxed Set Book 3) Read online

  Harry Starke

  Box Set 3

  Books 7, 8 & 9

  By

  Blair Howard

  Table of Contents:

  Table of Contents

  Book 7

  Book 8

  Book 9

  Book 7

  Retribution

  Chapter 1

  Saturday Evening

  He came to slowly, as if waking from a dream. Pain began to course through his body, slowly at first and then with greater intensity, until he was trembling from head to toe. His eyes wouldn’t focus, his lips felt glued together, and then he realized that this was no dream—it wasn’t even a nightmare. It was for real.

  He looked around, but saw nothing. The darkness was total, not a glimmer of light anywhere, and it was quiet, cold, and damp. Cold and damp? But he was sweating. He tried to move and couldn’t. He could move his head, and he could breathe, but that was about all. When he did try to move, spears of agony surged upward from his ankles and wrists, and he realized he was tied to a chair—and tied tightly.

  He sat still, head back, eyes closed, and breathed deeply. It helped a little, but the pain…. His feet were numb. He tried to wriggle his toes and almost passed out again, the pain was so intense. He stilled his efforts, and waited; the pain subsided into numbness again. He breathed slowly. Where the hell am I? What happened? Who the f….

  His head throbbed. His mind was a whiteout. Nothing. And then the memories came flooding back.

  He remembered going to make the buy. It had been late. Saturday. But what the hell day is it now?

  He’d been alone, in his car on McCallie. Midnight was just a few ticks of the clock away. The street had been quiet when he pulled around the back of the small, Italianesque strip mall, an incongruous building as out of place on that section of McCallie as a Christian monastery in Raqqa, Iraq. Except for a single black Chevy Tahoe parked close to the steel door at the rear of the building, the parking lot was deserted.

  He wasn’t concerned. He’d called earlier, talked to Shady, and placed an order. The SUV was exactly where he’d been told it would be. He pulled alongside it, driver’s side to driver’s side, and rolled down his window. The windows of the other vehicle were heavily tinted, and he couldn’t see who was inside, but he still wasn’t worried. He waited. Most of the parking lot was in shadows. Not much was visible. After a minute or so he leaned out the window and tapped gently on the window of the other car. The window rolled slowly down, revealing a large, grinning black face surrounded by a nest of thick dreadlocks that reminded him of a bunch of hand-rolled cigars.

  “Wha’ fo’ you wan’, mon?” The accent was unmistakably Jamaican.

  “You’ve got something for me, right?”

  “What do I got?”

  He didn’t know what to say to that, and there was a brief, awkward silence. “Okay, that’s fine. Never mind. Sorry I bothered you.”

  He reached for the gearshift, but before he could engage it the grinning face said, “Now wha’ fo’ you wan’ go runnin’ off?”

  He put the car in gear. “It’s no biggy. I made a mistake is all.”

  “You sure did, Hank.” The accent was gone.

  He jerked his head around to stare at the man—How the hell does he know my name?—and found himself looking down the barrel of the biggest revolver he’d ever seen. It was funny what went through a man’s mind in a crisis. All he could think was: Colt Python.

  “Put your hands on the wheel and sit still. Just do as you’re told, and everything will be fine.”

  So he did as he was told. What the hell is going on? He’s definitely not police. And the man wasn’t who he was supposed to be meeting, either.

  Two men got out of the other side of the Chevy, walked around the back, and then up between the two cars to his driver’s door. The leading man shoved a gun in through his window, and the Chevy reversed ten feet or so to allow him room to open his door.

  “Get yo’ ass outa du vee-hi-cul,” the taller of the two men growled, jabbing the gun in his face. “An’ take it nice an’ easy. You heah?”

  Again he did as he was told. He pushed the door open gently, keeping his hands in sight, and then stepped down with them held high.

  The smaller of the two men stepped forward and slammed the door shut.

  “Turn around, asshole.” The man’s voice was so high-pitched it almost sounded like a woman’s.

  Reluctantly, he turned.

  There was a blinding flash of white light, and then only blackness until he came to, God only knew where.

  He was cold, very cold.

  “Hey!” He yelled it at the top of his lungs and immediately wished he hadn’t. The effort pulled his wrists and ankles against the restraints, and the pain…. He’d never known such agony before.

  Once the pain had receded a little he sat quietly, assessing his situation. It wasn’t good. Not good? It’s—it’s… really, really bad. It’s I’m-gonna-friggin’-die bad, is what it is.

  The enormity of it closed in around him like a soggy blanket, and he shivered violently.

  As afraid as he was, he eventually dozed off. He was jerked back to reality by the squeal of metal scraping against metal—rusty, worn-out hinges. A door opened somewhere above him, and a stream of white light shone down, searing his eyes. He screwed his them shut and lowered his chin to his chest. And then the lights came on. He could see now, but barely. The room was huge—at least eighty feet by a couple of hundred—and he was dead in the center of it.

  Damn, I hope that ain’t prophetic.

  The light, if it could be called that—shone dimly down from a half dozen incandescent bulbs almost fifty feet above his head. In every direction, the room eventually disappeared into shadows. Three men came through the door and stood on a catwalk that fronted a string of small, prefabricated offices, that hung like nesting boxes the entire width of the room.

  “Hey, Hank,” the man with dreads shouted down, “you awake yet?”

  Hank squinted up, his head to one side in an attempt to avoid the light. Weak as it was, it hurt his eyes.

  “I see that you are,” the man said lightly, his voice echoing, and after a moment he started down the steps, his two henchmen following. The voice and accent were Southern, but there was no hint of Ebonics, no street slang. It was almost refined, but not quite. The man was black, solidly built, and smartly dressed: well-cut designer jeans, blue and white–checkered shirt, shoes…. He couldn’t see them, and he sure as hell didn’t care.

  Dreads stopped a few feet in front of him, his feet wide apart, hands on his hips. He smiled.

  “You know who I am, boy?”

  “Er… no, sir.”

  “I’m Lester Tree. Your worst nightmare. And I want my money.”

  “Shady? Shady Tree? Money? What money? I always pay for the score.”

  “Not the pookie, you moron. You owe me almost fourteen large and I want—”

  Before he could finish, the smaller of Tree’s two honchoes stepped forward and slapped Hank’s face so hard he thought his teeth had come loose.

  “It’s Mr. Tree to you, butt wipe.”

  “Now, now Henry…. Hah, you two have the same name. How cool is that? Now, Henry, we don’t need none of that violence. Do we Hank? Now where was I? Oh yeah—I want it now!”

  Hank, his cheek still stinging, looked wildly around. “Oh jeez, you mean Nestor. Look, I didn’t know. I don’t—I don’t have that kind of money. I don’t, but I—I… I can get it.”

  Tree heaved a sig
h; the two cronies grinned at one another.

  Tree was, like his namesake, a tall man, a black Hulk Hogan. Looking up at him, Hank had a hard time believing the wild tales he’d heard about him. He looked more banker than drug lord; even the dreads were neat and clean.

  “Somehow I had an idea you’d say that,” Tree said, staring up at the faraway ceiling—it was almost like he was talking to himself.

  “Son,” he continued, “we have a problem, and it’s not just the money, it’s a matter of trust and respect, too. See, when you play Texas Hold’em, you’re supposed to play with money. Your own money. When you run out of your own money, you’re supposed to get up, leave, and come back another day with more of your own money. But that wasn’t what you did now was it, Hank? They do call you Hank, right, Henry? Whatever. No, you didn’t do that. You wrote notes to Nestor totaling $13,750, which he was good enough to accept. He trusted you, Hank. The money? You lost it, which was to be expected; you played like a total dickhead. And then what did you do, Hank?”

  He waited for an answer. He didn’t get one.

  “I’ll tell you what you did. You upped and left like a damn cock-a-roach is what you did, and nobody’s seen your ass since. You stiffed Nestor of his fourteen large—which, by default, means you stiffed me. Not a smart thing to do, was it boys?”

  Both cronies grinned and shook their heads enthusiastically, in unison.

  “I’ll get it. I’ll get it. I’ll get it for you tomorrow. I promise, Shady… Mr. Tree.” He corrected himself just in time; the small man had taken a step forward, but Tree raised an arm and stopped him.

  “Easy, Henry. Take it easy. You’ll get your turn in a minute.”

  Hank’s blood ran cold; he shivered violently; it was that awful feeling that someone had just driven a truck over his grave.

  “Oh don’t worry, Hank. I’m not gonna to let them hurt you… well, not much. See, I do have to teach you a lesson. If I don’t, well, you understand, right? I let you off, they’ll all think I’m soft. Can’t have that now can I? Cause I ain’t!”

  Again he waited for an answer, but Hank said nothing.

  “So where will you get my money from, and when?” Tree asked.

  “Tomorrow. I promise. From my brother. He’ll give it to me. He will. He will.”

  “Yeah, knowing your brother, I do think he will. Well, he’d better.” Tree stared down at him for a few long seconds, then gestured at the two men. “Duvon, Henry, teach this young fella a little lesson. Not too rough… oh hell, I don’t have to tell you boys how to handle your business. Just get on with it. I’ll be back directly.”

  Duvon James and Henry Gold were a rare couple. Duvon, dressed in jeans, a black tee, and what could only be called a coat of many colors, was a big man. Not tall big, maybe five eleven, but with a solid build and a shock of jet black hair cut short, almost to the scalp. He cut an imposing and scary figure. And Hank was indeed scared.

  Duvon’s partner, Henry, was an equally rare bird. For some reason he was affecting a sort of 1940s gangster look, and wore a zoot suit in a weird, dark gold color. It had to have been tailored to fit, for Henry Gold was maybe five foot six and 140 pounds sopping wet.

  “How you doin’, sunshine?” Gold asked pleasantly. He received no answer, and for that Hank was rewarded with a vicious slap across the face.

  “I said,” he repeated, “how you doin’?

  “I’m… okay,” Hank said breathlessly, anxious to avoid another teeth-rattling slap.

  “That’s better. Now den, when we talks to you, you answer. Got it?”

  Hank nodded, and received another face-numbing slap.

  “That’s no answer, bro.”

  “Yes, yes, yes! Please don’t hit me again.”

  “Oney if you don’ do as yous told. Now den, Duvon. You got anythin’ to ask our frien’?”

  Duvon growled something that even Gold couldn’t have understood. Needless to say, Henry couldn’t answer, and so Duvon proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. He lost count of how many times he was punched in the face before Gold was able to drag Duvon off. Duvon stepped reluctantly back, half turned, then turned back once more to face Hank.

  Hank peered blearily up at him, but the fact that he saw what was coming didn’t make it any better.

  Duvon pushed Gold aside and landed a haymaker right cross on Hank’s jaw. He must have put all of his considerable weight behind it, because Hank heard the loud snap, like a tree branch breaking, and then nothing, not even darkness.

  “Whada hell you do dat fo’? Gold shrieked at Duvon. “You done killed his ass.”

  Duvon just stood, still as a pole, his hands still curled into fists but now hanging loosely at his sides, and he looked down at his victim, a twisted smile on his face. He didn’t say a word.

  “Hey,” Shady Tree said loudly as he descended the stairs. “You teach that boy a lesson yet?”

  “Oh he done that all right,” Gold said quietly. “He done taught him one he’ll never forget.”

  “Well, wake him up. We need to get him outa here. Wait, what the hell? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Er… Duvon killed his ass.”

  Tree was obviously horrified. He stared down at the corpse and sucked his lower lip so far into his mouth he almost swallowed it.

  “Holy shit…. Do you have any idea what you did? Do you have any idea who he was?”

  Gold stared at him, not comprehending.

  “I think you just opened the gates of Hades and released the damn Kraken.”

  Chapter 2

  Monday morning

  I woke up that Monday morning feeling better than I had in a long time. I’d had a good week previously, an even better weekend, and thanks to Amanda the renovations to the house were finally finished. She’d put in almost six months of hard work, not just physically but dealing with contractors, designers, and everything else that needed to be done to drag the old pile into the twenty-first century, and she’d done a fantastic job. The house looked brand new, as did the beautifully landscaped gardens that sloped down the east side of Lookout Mountain; the place was fit to be profiled in any one of the fancy magazines she’d spread over every flat space in the house.

  The pool? It was a thing of beauty. She’d turned the dilapidated concrete hole in the ground and the thick layer of green slime at the bottom into one of those infinity deals, a sparkling, crystalline body of water that appeared to drop off the edge of the mountain. The view beyond it was spectacular. The entire city was spread out like a jeweled tapestry more than two thousand feet below, and at night it was a constellation of colored lights. That view was one of God’s finest gifts, and I was truly thankful.

  I said the weekend had been perfect, and I meant it. We’d spent all day Saturday relaxing at home, making good use of the pool and just… well, just taking it easy, which is a rare thing for me.

  Most of Sunday we’d spent at the club. In the morning I played eighteen holes with my father and his buddies Judge Strange and ADA Laurence “Larry” Spruce. It was a weekly thing. A good time was had by all, and the round finished with me owing my father, August, the princely sum of twenty-five dollars, which pleased him more than if he’d won the lottery. He always wins with the utmost grace. If you know him, you know that, because he makes no secret of it. Sarcasm? Of course.

  “That’s twenty-five you owe me, son. You can buy lunch.”

  Lunch? I thought he was kidding. Hell, I’d only lost $25. Lunch for four, along with drinks, would set me back maybe a couple of hundred bucks… but I agreed. I’d had fun, and I love my old man dearly.

  We sat down to eat at around twelve thirty. We’d gotten in off the course about an hour earlier, but the old man insisted on several rounds of drinks—he does love that Bombay Sapphire—and some schmoozing among the movers and shakers that inhabited the lounge at any given hour on any given day, and no wonder; he was one of them himself.

  I’m sure you’ve heard of him. August Starke? You only ha
ve to watch the local news to know my father is one of nation’s foremost tort lawyers. No, he’s not a billionaire, but he’s close. His winnings for his clients over the last several years were more than $1.5 billion. He loves those deep pockets. But enough about that.

  He was sailing a little close to the wind when we finally joined the ladies at our favorite table, the one in the big bay window overlooking the ninth green.

  We ordered food and more drinks—and I thanked God Amanda was driving. She’s the love of my life and a treasure, and one of these days I’ll make an honest woman of her, sooner rather than later, if she has her way. Nah, it’s getting to be that time anyway. I’d already proposed to her, on a crazy trip to Maine from which she returned a millionaire many times over…. Oh no, no. Don’t even think that. It’s not about the money. As much as she’s worth, I’m worth a whole lot more. No, it was the right place and the right time, and I was in the right mood, so I asked her, and she accepted. I turned forty-five this year; she’s ten years younger than me, but the clock is ticking.

  She turned in her notice at Chanel 7 as soon we got back from Maine. I’d wondered at the time if she was doing the right thing, and I asked her as much. She insisted that she was. That thing with Bob Ryan, my senior investigator, getting shot and almost dying had hit her hard. She was wealthy now, she said, and didn’t need to work. So she quit.

  She also terminated the lease on her apartment and moved in with me.

  “So I can work on the house,” was the reason she gave, and she did.

  Life was good for me for sure. For her? Well, I hoped so. She certainly wasn’t complaining.

  And so I’d been working on it for the past several weeks—the future, not the house—without her knowing, and right then, as I sat with my family eating lunch on a perfect Sunday afternoon, I was wondering if I was going to regret not having discussed things with her. Well, whatever would be would be. I really wanted to do something special for her, and, well….

  Lunch came, and was eaten with some relish—they do a fine rack of lamb—and then desert and finally coffee. It was then that Rose, my stepmother, turned the conversation inevitably to… you guessed it, Amanda and me, and when we were tying the knot.