Up in Smoke (King #8)

“Is that what the saying is?”

“How the shit would I know,” Preppy says. “Text me the location, Smoke, and I’ll have someone out there tomorrow. I might have to dip into Bear’s bitches, but someone will be there for you, bro. It’ll be someone you can trust. I swear to that on a stack of motherfucking pancakes.”

“Appreciate it, Prep.”

“You know, I owe you more than sending someone out to help babysit even if you may or may not have allegedly abducted this someone. I owe you everything, man. You saved my goddamned life.”

I shake my head. “I was just in the right place at the right time,” I say.

“Yeah, whatever lets you sleep at night,” Preppy says, “Shit, I gotta go.” The phone sounds like it’s tossed down, but the line doesn’t go dead. “Bo, do not run that lawn mower over your…” his voice trails off.

I hang up, tap out the location of the prison and send it over to Preppy. I dig into my pocket and pull out my smokes. I light one and take a long slow drag.

I may not get close to people, not anymore and never fucking again, but you can’t make it in this world of ours, this life we chose, if you don’t trust someone every now and again.

And just now, I’ve chosen to trust someone who named his daughters after fucking pop stars and whose son is the youngest on record to be on the FBI watch list.

There ain’t many people out there who have my respect. Respect needs to be earned. Preppy’s got mine. The man might have a case of verbal diarrhea there ain’t no cure for, but he’s been through hell and back. He’s been tortured and brutalized the likes of which most folks can’t begin to imagine. Most men, the strongest of men, in both body and spirit, would’ve caved after that.

Not Preppy.

Not Samuel Motherfucking Clearwater.

I take another drag of my smoke.

Anytime I’ve ever worked with Preppy, he could get me to laugh about the stupidest shit, but right now, I feel like I haven’t really laughed in fucking years.

I’m tired. Worn the fuck out. Revenge is fucking exhausting.

I feel older than my thirty-five years.

I pause because something about that doesn’t seem right. I double check the year on my phone and roll my eyes.

Probably because I’m thirty fucking six.





Chapter Twenty-Two





I’ve been going about this all wrong. Escape isn’t a long-term solution. Not for me anyway. It’s impossible. I’m trapped inside a prison, after all. Human workers are long gone, but overgrown brush and mangled fences now stand guard watching over a single prisoner.

Me.

All I need is time. A few hours. Just long enough to get to a computer before I’m found out.

Consequences be damned.

Smoke’s on the phone on the front porch. He’s left me uncuffed so I can shower and change. I’ve only got a few minutes. I’m dressed in a pair of short black athletic shorts and a fitted, white, Beatles t-shirt from the storage container. I take an extra thirty seconds to rip the collar off the shirt so it hangs off my one shoulder just like my favorite Veruca Salt shirt.

A shirt I’ll probably never see again.

I look out the bedroom window. All I see are weeds. I climb up on the dresser and stand, craning my neck to see what might lie beyond the tangled green and brown mess. I see something off in the distance just beyond the prison fence, and unless I’m seeing things, I’m pretty sure it’s a roof top.

Now, if I can just find a way out of this damn house.

I shove my feet into my chucks and peek my head out the door down the hallway. I spot Smoke through the open front door. He’s still on the phone, puffing away on a cigarette.

I creep toward the back door. It’s locked and, just as Smoke had warned, it’s also bolted shut.

There’s got to be some other way out.

There’s a potted plant in the corner. A plastic twin palm in a gigantic clay bowl. It’s not the tree that interests me so much, but what I see that’s hiding behind it.

A plastic doggy door.

No bolts.

I use all the power in my legs and ignore the pain shooting down my spine as I dig my toes into the carpet and push the plant from the wall until there’s just enough room for me to shimmy behind it and crawl through.

I have no time to celebrate my short-lived freedom because there’s an entire field of brush and debris to navigate.

I make a run for it.



Smoke

The house is quiet. Too fucking quiet.

I run to the bedroom, but I already know it’s empty. I dart back out and spot the plant and the doggy door, the plastic panel in the center flopping in the breeze.

I’m calm as I grab my gun and walk out the front door. I’m whistling as I round the house and spot her stumbling across the prison yard.

Game on, Hellion.

I’m a product of sin and violence. I was born with rage sizzling through my heated blood. With every crack of my knuckles, it consumes me until it is me.

I can’t be the good guy, and I don’t wanna be. Frankie Helburn is the only thing standing between me and Frank Helburn and I won’t let it all go because of pussy.

I’m the arrow. Frankie’s my target.

I never fucking miss.





Chapter Twenty-Three





Beads of sweat fall into my eyes. I wipe them away with an even sweatier palm. My limbs shake as I lift my knees as high as I can, navigating my way over the tangled vines. I stumble a few times, scraping my hands on short spikey thorns.

I cannot fail.

I will not fail.

I step over the downed sign for Broward County Correctional Facility where the ground is smooth. My breaths are labored. My chest burns.

I make a beeline for the house, running and tripping over a hose. I growl at my own clumsiness and leap up the rickety porch steps.

I hear something inside and I hold in a scream of relief.

Footsteps!

I bang on the door loudly and wildly, checking over my shoulder every few seconds. “Come on. Come on. Open the door,” I chant to myself, shaking out my hands and jumping from foot to foot.

“What’s the trouble, my dear?” A woman comes to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s older, maybe in her late seventies or early eighties. I’m just about to tell her everything when I stop.

If I tell her too much or the wrong thing, I could be putting her life in danger too.

Shit.

“Uhhh…no troubles exactly. I’m just lost and a little winded from walking over all the twisted weeds,” I tell her. “I’m staying with my…boyfriend in a cottage around here, but I went for a walk, and now I can’t find my way back.”