Restitution E-Book

John A. Daly

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Few things are more dangerous than an unpaid debt.

"John Daly has a magical writing style, and his books keep you up late at night turning pages." - Dana Perino, former White House Press Secretary

"Restitution offers hard-hitting action spearheaded by a badass protagonist who talks the talk and walks the walk in a brutal story of surviving an unforgiving territory… Written in the vein of old-school stories of revenge, familial bonds, and relentless action, Restitution is a definite must-read." - Kashif Hussain, Best Thriller Books

"I think what impresses me the most about John Daly as a writer is his range. Restitution brings Sean Coleman fans the series’ traditional strong sense of setting and mood, and clipped, realistic dialogue, and adds a refreshing, subtle sense of heart and hope amidst all the Vegas grit and Western landscapes of the Nevada desert." - Jim Geraghty, senior political correspondent of National Review and author of the Dangerous Clique thriller series

Life's gotten better for hard-edged security guard, Sean Coleman. With personal affairs in order and relationships rekindled, he travels to Las Vegas to help celebrate his buddy's last days as a bachelor. Soon after he arrives, however, a twist of fate spawns a reunion with an old flame.

Curiosity and a desire to make amends unexpectedly lead Sean down a dark path into the Vegas underground, where another face from the past emerges---a federal fugitive whose family, years earlier, altered the course of Sean's life.

A harrowing escape drops Sean in the barren wasteland of a Nevada desert, miles away from the glitz and glamor of Sin City. There, he must fight to stay alive against a well-armed group of men whose bloodlust and greed won't stop them from getting what they're after.

Leseprobe

Restitution: A Sean Coleman Thriller

© 2022 John A. Daly. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing Company

www.bqbpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-952782-50-3 (p)

ISBN 978-1-952782-51-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021951548

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Caleb Guard

Second editor: Andrea Vande Vorde

Praise for Restitution and John A. Daly

“I’d never met Sean Coleman until John Daly’s gripping new thriller. Now that I know him . . . I want him on my side.”

— Tom Nichols, author of Our Own Worst Enemy

“Restitution brings Sean Coleman fans the series’ traditional strong sense of setting and mood, and clipped, realistic dialogue, and adds a refreshing, subtle sense of heart and hope amidst all the Vegas grit and Western landscapes of the Nevada desert.”

— Jim Geraghty, senior political correspondent of National Review and author of the Dangerous Clique thriller series

“John Daly has a magical writing style, and his books keep you up late at night turning pages.”

— Dana Perino, former White House Press Secretary

“You’ll wish you could read faster just to keep up with and stay in the action.”

— Lance Storm, former WWE Superstar

“Restitution offers hard-hitting action spearheaded by a badass protagonist who talks the talk and walks the walk in a brutal story of surviving an unforgiving territory. . . Written in the vein of old-school stories of revenge, familial bonds, and relentless action, Restitution is a definite must-read.”

— Kashif Hussain, Best Thriller Books

“I started reading Restitution on my flight from Phoenix to O’Hare. I read without stopping for three hours and I wouldn’t have minded if the plane circled the airport a few times. . . Riveting, with a great cast of flawed good guys and nasty, but believable bad guys, this was nonstop action from beginning to end. Highly recommended.”

— Len Joy, author of Everyone Dies Famous and Dry Heat

“John A. Daly crafts a suspenseful thriller. . . replete against the developing plot is a moral and ethical interplay of emotions that juxtaposes fast-paced action with serious character development and changing perspectives. Restitution may be the fifth book in the series, but its solid attention to detail and action makes it a powerful read on levels that move beyond suspense alone, providing an especially satisfying story for those who like their thriller multifaceted, operating in arenas of personal assessment as well as physical struggles for survival.”

— D. Donavan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

“Restitution by John A. Daly opens with a scene so intense and heart-wrenching that I could not stop reading. . . Everything I read made me love this story even more.”

— Rabia Tanveer, Readers’ Favorite

“To the loves of my life, Sarah, Chase, and Olivia.”

CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER 42

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

August 12, 1971

Chihuahua, Mexico

Chapter 1

Almost a week of scorching highs in the hundreds brought another day of eye-stinging sweat to a thirteen-year-old boy with a dirty face and black, unkept hair. He dribbled a worn-out basketball along the terribly cracked blacktop that was once part of a public court. The metal poles at either end still stood tall, but they were rusted and missing their hoops. One still had two-thirds of a backboard, graffitied with profanities and male genitalia. Tall, thick grass and loose trash from the wind covered much of the surrounding lot.

In a tank top, knee-high socks with stripes, and torn sneakers, the boy bobbed his head to mariachi music blaring from a rundown three-story apartment building across the street. He lifted his arm high to spike each bounce, trying to match his dribble with the song’s proud guitar riff and trumpets. The under-inflated ball made it difficult. When he lifted his dark face to meet the above sound of a bird, his face tightened from the sun’s glare. His bruised, swollen eye watered.

A shirtless elderly man with a tattoo on his dark shoulder, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, rode down the adjoining street on a bicycle. Its frame was rusted and its brakes screeched when he reached the adjacent intersection. The driver of a pale blue, early ’60s El Camino stopped at a red alto sign, and waved him through. The sparkle of the driver’s gold watch caught the boy’s eye.

The boy stopped dribbling, holding the ball with both hands as he gazed at the gleam of the car’s finish and its whitewall tires. When the driver turned right, the boy ran over to a patch of grass at the edge of the court. He pulled from it a well-used canvas backpack, jamming his hand inside and pulling out a gym whistle with half of a neck-strap. He shoved the whistle in his mouth and blew into it as hard as he could, arching his back and rising to the tips of his toes.

His eyes honed in on an open window on the top floor of the brick apartment building, where drying bedsheets hung on a line attached to the next window over. He squeezed the basketball into his backpack and nearly blew into the whistle again, when a younger boy with wavy dark hair appeared in the window. The boy on the court waved his arms in the air, pointing in the direction of the El Camino. The boy in the window had one arm in a sling, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. He reached down and pulled a phone handset up to the side of his face. It looked huge in his hand, as did the coiled cord that stretched around his chest like a snake. He dialed a number.

The boy on the court threw his backpack over his shoulders and ran across the grass, leaping over a discarded planter and around a leaking fire hydrant on the sidewalk. He crossed the street and ran to the opposite end of the apartment building. On its wall was a large, colorful mural of a dog with big pointy ears and flowers on top of its head.

As he passed over the dirty narrow yard, a hairdryer blew from an open ground floor window. It competed with the sound of the mariachi music. The boy skidded to a halt when he reached the front of the building, carefully peering around its corner.

The man in the El Camino had parked along the street in front and had already stepped out of his vehicle. Sporting sunglasses with gold frames below dark, slicked-back hair, he took a moment to rub a blemish off the car’s hood with the palm of his hand. A toothpick pointed down from his mouth as he scrutinized his work closely.

The man appeared in his late twenties or early thirties, a good-looking guy with a strong jawline, broad shoulders, and a thin waist. He wore a white long-sleeved shirt with a collar; the top three buttons detached. Cowboy boots poked out from under his brown jeans topped with a belt buckle so large it looked like some boxer’s championship prize.

The boy had never seen him before, but he was sure it was the right guy. The car matched the description he’d been given to a T.

The man walked with some swagger up to the front door, holding it open for a middle-aged woman with boxes in her hands as she exited. She thanked him. He nodded in return before entering. The boy heard him start his way up the stairs before the door closed shut behind him.

The boy stayed put for ten minutes until a white pickup truck pulled up behind the El Camino. Three men stepped out, each wearing jackets that didn’t match the weather. One of the men was older, probably in his fifties. He was bald and stout with a strong mustache and rough skin. The other two could have been in their teens, full heads of dark hair, sharing a fierce narrowness in their eyes.

The boy ran up to the men. The bald one glanced up and down the street before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out an envelope. He handed it to the boy and slapped him on the back before he and his partners made their way to the front door. The boy bent the envelope in half and shoved it into his front pocket. He watched the men enter and work their way up the first flight of stairs before the door closed. He took a few steps back, peering up at the flat roof of the building.

He waited nearly a minute but no one appeared. He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Alvar!” he said in a loud whisper.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash from above. Men shouted. A woman screamed. The boy’s heart raced, his body shaking and his eyes wide as he stared intently at the roof. “Alvar!”

Another scream was followed by the loud pop of a gun. Three more pops came soon after.

The mariachi music went dead. An overweight man with his daughter in his arm barreled out through the door. Other tenants followed, panicked and confused—an old man, a teenager, a woman in a towel. Alvar wasn’t among them.

The boy breathed hard. He swung his head to the street, watching his neighbors flee in different directions. He knew none would return to help. They were too scared.

With another pop of a gun, he clenched his teeth and ran inside. His backpack bounced off another tenant as he jogged up the stairs, skipping every other step. When he reached the third floor and entered the hallway, he gasped at the sight of one of the men from the truck lying motionless in a pool of his own blood. His head was pointed right toward the boy, wide eyes glaring through him. Part of his skull had been blown off, a gap in his hair leaving some brain exposed.

A man yelled from the open apartment door next to the body. Another man yelled back. One was threatening. The other was pleading. A woman screamed and whimpered.

In the dead man’s hand was a silver revolver. The boy pulled off his backpack and set it against the wall. He quietly made his way forward, as the shouting and screaming continued inside. Two men. One woman.

The boy knelt beside the dead man, avoiding looking at his face a second time as he pried the gun from his warm fingers. He looked the weapon over before gripping it the way he’d once been taught. He peeked inside the doorway. There he saw the other young man from the truck. He was lying facedown on the orange shag carpet. Blood spattered the short wall beside him, along with a bullet hole that had torn off part of the drywall. Across the room was the open window he’d seen his younger brother standing in from the court. The phone on the stand below the windowsill had been knocked over. Its offhook tone began screeching.

The boy swallowed and entered carefully as another tenant raced down the hallway behind him. He held his breath through a stench of cigarettes as he stepped over the man’s body. The shouting belted back and forth, growing more aggressive. It was coming from the master bedroom to his left.

“Drop it!” repeated a man in Spanish.

“You drop yours or she’s dead!” yelled another man in the same language.

Furniture in the small living room had been knocked over. A lamp and end table had been smashed in a scuffle. A picture had been knocked from its wall.

The boy made his way past a grimy kitchenette with a sink overflowing with pots, pans, and dishes. A half dozen bottles of booze and a large ashtray sat on the counter beside it. Children’s crayon drawings hung from the dented door of an undersized fridge.

On the other side of the narrow hallway was a small room, dark from pillows shoved in the window frame. All that could be seen inside it from the hallway light was part of a bunk bed, though its frame and thin mattresses more resembled military cots.

When the boy reached the master bedroom with its bright pink walls and white dressers, he peeked through the doorway. Inside, his mother’s terrified eyes met his. The slender woman was being held from behind by the bald man, his thick arm around her throat and his pistol pointed at the temple of her head.

“No! Run!” she screamed at her son in Spanish, tears pouring.

Her long bleached-blonde hair covered half of her thin face. She was clad in white lace lingerie that came up past her hips, revealing long bronze legs that shook with fear. Other, more colorful nightwear of various styles hung on hangers in the closet beside her, its lattice door caved in.

When the bald man saw the boy, his eyes shot wide. The boy held his breath and stepped into the room, gun pointed at him.

“No!” came another man’s voice to his right. The boy twisted his head to meet it. There he saw the driver of the El Camino with a gun in his hand, it too pointed at the bald man. He was dressed only in black underwear briefs and had backed himself into the corner of the room, on the other side of the bed, with his body in front of Alvar’s . . . protecting him.

“Kid, I’m a police officer!” he shouted, keeping his eyes on the bald man. “You need to leave right now! Go to another apartment and call the police!”

“Go!” his mother screamed. Her captor yanked back on her throat before she could say more.

The boy hadn’t known the man was a police officer. He’d assumed it had been about drugs—his mom turning tricks for a dealer and the cartel wanting to take out a rival. They said when they’d approached him a week earlier on the court that his brother wouldn’t be harmed when it went down. But things had gone south. The cop had fought back. He’d taken out two of the men, and the third was now leveraging his mother’s life.

Tears ran down his mother’s face, dark makeup streaming with it. Her eyes pleaded with her oldest son to leave. The cop shouted at him again, demanding the same. Alvar glared up at his big brother, his charcoal-colored eyes desperate.

The boy’s face tightened. His nostrils flared as he straightened his arm, training his focus on the man who held his mother. He suddenly swung his arm to the right and fired. The policeman’s head imploded. Blood sprayed through the air.

The mom howled. Her captor, seemingly just as shocked, dropped his arm from her neck. She collapsed to her bare knees while he stared in disbelief.

The policeman, blood flowing from his skull, gradually toppled forward. The gun fell from his hand. His chest and face hit the carpet.

Alvar’s face was covered with the policeman’s blood—everything but his dark eyes that mirrored his brother’s gaze.

The bald man’s mouth remained open. His eyes shifted between the two boys and their mother, who sobbed on the floor with her hair dangling in front of her face. The boy walked up to Alvar and grabbed him by his slung shoulder. He pulled him up and out of the corner. Alvar cringed and whipped his arm free. He leaned forward to grab something from the floor with his good hand.

“Why?” the mom screamed, pulling her wet face up from the carpet. Her eyes washed over her oldest son’s face without a hint of familiarity, as if she were suddenly staring at a complete stranger. “How could . . . how could you . . .”

“How could you?” he said, eyes expressionless. His voice had taken on an eerie depth.

A loud pop echoed off the walls.

“God!” shouted the bald man, stumbling backwards into the wall behind him. His gun fell from his grip. His eyes were as wide as his mouth.

The mother no longer cried. She lay on her side, her halfclothed body curled in nearly a fetal position. Blood oozed from under her bright hair. Alvar stood above her with the policeman’s gun drawn straight. Smoke rose from the weapon’s barrel as he glared down at her from behind his crimson mask.

The bald man’s head shifted back and forth between the two boys, eyes blinking.

Ignoring him, Alvar turned to his older brother, who set his pistol on the bed and jammed his hand into his pocket. He pulled out the envelope. He opened it and flipped through the bills inside, dividing the sum in half. He handed Alvar his cut—restitution for hardships and abuse a ten-year-old shouldn’t know.

The bald man launched forward and retrieved his gun from the floor. He nervously switched his aim between the two boys. His face had gone pale and his shirt was soaked with the mother’s blood.

Distant sirens made their way out of the background.

The older brother lifted his eyes to the man. “You’re taking us with you.”

Friday, October 3rd, 2003

Las Vegas, Nevada

Chapter 2

“Move it or lose it, buddy!” the stocky man with short, dark hair and a round face yelled out his window. He used a deeper, more exaggerated voice than his natural one, as if he were enacting a scene from a movie. His meaty hand laid on the horn. “We’ve got places to go . . . people to meet!”

“Easy, Dusty” a short, thin man advised from the passenger seat. Bald up top with trim hair on the sides, he shook his head in irritation. His eyes averted upward as he rubbed his knuckles along his scalp. “It’s a crosswalk, and you took us right into a school zone.”

Dusty folded his lower lip into a pout. “It was an accident, Chief.”

“I know. And for the twentieth time, we’re not in Winston anymore. We’re in Vegas, so no more of this ‘Chief Lumbergh’ stuff. I’m just Gary.”

A man’s tattooed arm extended from the driver’s side window of the ’70s model black Camaro idling in front of them. His forearm went vertical, as did his middle finger. A reply to Dusty’s horn.

Dusty winced. “Well, that was uncalled for, especially in front of the school kids.” He turned to Lumbergh. “Hey, can you arrest him for that?”

“No.”

“Write him a ticket?”

“No.”

Dusty nodded. A few seconds floated by. He scratched his pencil-thin mustache with his finger. “Maybe the issuing of a stern warning or something?”

“God,” Lumbergh moaned, his shoulders slumping. “You know what, Dusty? It’s hot, and it’s been a very long trip. Do you think we could just hold off on the talking until we get to the hotel? I just want a shower and a nap before—”

“Hey, check out this old guy,” Dusty interrupted, pointing his finger through the dirty, insect-riddled windshield of the ’94 Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser.

An elderly man with glasses, a baseball cap, and a wrinkled red face came into view. He slowly made his way across the street in front of them. Holding a Stop sign in one hand, he smiled as he motioned a sea of elementary aged students over from the sidewalk. Some of the kids wore backpacks. Others carried lunch pails.

Lumbergh sighed. “This is going to take a while.”

“I thought we weren’t talking,” said Dusty.

Lumbergh’s head dropped forward.

Dusty leaned forward with him, turning his body and twisting his head to more closely assess the expression on Lumbergh’s face. His foot slipped off the brake and the car sprung forward.

“Dusty!” shouted Lumbergh, eyes wide as the back of the Camaro grew larger.

Dusty slammed on the brakes. A loud thud from the back seat rattled the entire vehicle.

“Fuck!” came a gravelly voice from behind them. “Hell’s going on?”

Sean’s head rose from the rear of the car, eyes blinking and face stretched in annoyance. He’d begun to stir from all the noise up front, but the sudden stop had jarred him wide awake. His narrow eyes shifted between Dusty and Lumbergh.

“Sorry,” said Dusty.

Lumbergh glared at Sean, his wide eyes and scowl telling a silent story of the aggravation he’d been put through while Sean was napping.

Sean grunted and took a breath, turning to Dusty. “It’s fine,” he said, stretching his broad back to a pop.

The rear of the vehicle wasn’t built for comfort, especially not for a man of Sean’s size. At six-five and close to 250 pounds, the last few hours had been a pretty rough rest. Still, rubbing his eyes with his large fists, he couldn’t help but be amused by his brother-in-law’s undeterred irritation with the driver. When Lumbergh shook his head, a chuckle escaped Sean’s lips.

“Did you get any sleep?” asked Lumbergh.

“Yeah,” said Sean. “No thanks to you two old ladies bickering back and forth. We almost there?”

Dusty erupted into obnoxious laughter, causing Lumbergh to jump in his seat. “Old ladies . . .” he snorted, nostrils flaring above multiple chins.

Lumbergh rolled his eyes and glared at Sean.

“He grows on you,” Sean mouthed to Lumbergh, offering a wink. He glanced in the rearview mirror, meeting his own hazel eyes and short, dark hair matted down from his nap.

“It’s too hot for this shit,” mumbled Lumbergh, glancing back at the air-conditioning dial before returning his attention to Sean.

Unlike Dusty and Sean, who wore T-shirts and shorts, Lumbergh was in a shirt with a collar and khakis, a decision he was regretting.

Dusty loudly cleared his throat. In an artificially deep voice, he began to sing Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle.”

Lumbergh sighed. “You really owe me,” he mouthed to Sean.

Sean’s face straightened. “Like hell I do,” he said aloud, breaking their discretion.

“What?” asked Dusty, bailing out of the song. He edged the car a few inches forward before locking the brakes again.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Sean before returning to Lumbergh. “Hey, I’m paying for your hotel. I don’t owe you anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Lumbergh asked.

“I’m a Winston taxpayer, aren’t I? Isn’t that who’s picking up the tab for your little PD ass-kiss convention?”

Lumbergh let some air escape his mouth, shook his head, and returned his back to Sean. “Again . . . it’s a national law enforcement convention for chiefs of police,” he said matterof-factly. “It’s a learning and instructional opportunity that—”

Sean interrupted him with a blaring kissing noise, delivered through his puckered lips. The gesture drew another loud laugh from Dusty.

“Anyway,” Lumbergh continued once the unpleasant sound fizzled. He took a breath. “You, personally, are probably only paying for about ten cents of it. I saved the people of Winston a heck of a lot of money by catching a ride out here with you two instead of flying.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ would have worked,” Sean said, his lips curled.

A few seconds floated by before a chuckle begrudgingly fell from Lumbergh’s mouth. “Fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sean, grinning. “And don’t tell me you aren’t looking forward to helping us celebrate Dusty’s last days as a single man.” He leaned forward and slapped the driver on the shoulder. “A lot of women are gonna be heartbroken once this guy’s finally off the market.”

All three men grinned, exchanging glances. It was the first real levity they’d shared since a few miles outside of Green River, Utah. Dusty’s performative, overbearing personality had already been wearing thin on Lumbergh by then, but when the car blew a tire and it was discovered that the spare had been removed from under the rear floorboard to make room for party supplies that Dusty used for his job, Lumbergh had about lost it. Luckily, hitchhiking with an armful of balloon animals evoked either enough sympathy or curiosity for a family to pull over, and take the least threatening-looking of the three—Lumbergh—to a mechanic’s shop in Green River.

The tension didn’t ease, however, when Dusty gave Lumbergh grief after not passing on his business card to the family. Sean, to the surprise of both Dusty and Lumbergh, had taken the incident in relative stride. He’d learned a lot in recent months about not sweating the small stuff and turning over his life stresses to a higher power. He’d also learned about making amends with those he’d hurt in the past—a long list of individuals that included the two men he was traveling with. The lessons had come from a multistep program he’d enrolled in, at the urging of his family, to help deal with his alcoholism following a relapse that had begun a year earlier. He had remained committed to the cause, making the time to attend meetings when he wasn’t taking on contract security work.

Sean could tell the program was genuinely helping. He’d managed, after all, to keep his cool in an enclosed space for nearly seven hundred miles. The old Sean Coleman would have tossed Dusty out of the car before they’d ever reached Grand Junction.

But there were times when his patience was still tested, and a second wave of students crossing the street ahead, without a single car being let through first, was starting to feel like one of those tests.

“What’s the holdup here?” asked Sean, lowering his head and peering through the windshield.

“Just . . . school zone chaos,” answered Lumbergh. “We came the wrong way at the wrong time.”

Sean’s eyes narrowed. A sour feeling tugged at his gut. “Wait,” he said, leaning farther forward. “Where are we?”

Dusty turned to Sean, squinting. “Las Vegas,” he said.

“No shit, Magellan,” Sean said, drawing Lumbergh’s attention back. “I’m sorry,” he immediately added, tempering his tone. “I’m asking what road we’re on.”

“Oh, uh,” Dusty began before Lumbergh cut him off.

“Wilmington. What does it matter?”

Sean’s stomach clenched. His eyes shot wide and his pulse ticked up. “Are you shitting me?” His head swiveled between windows. His eyes shifted back to Dusty. “Did you come this way on purpose, asshole?”

Dusty’s face tightened in confusion.

“Sorry,” Sean caught himself again. “You’re not an asshole, but . . .”

Sean let his remark dangle, gazing out the side window at a single-story brick building across the street. A large American flag hung high in front of it. Scores of students walked in every direction in the grassy area below a raised sign that read, “Patricia Bell Elementary.”

“Wait, you are an asshole!” Sean shouted at the back of Dusty’s head. “What, do you think this is some kind of joke?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Dusty.

“What’s going on, Sean?” asked Lumbergh.

Outside, there was lots of smiling and laughter—kids excited about the start of their weekend. Some ran up to parents and shared hugs.

It was a sharp contrast from the tone inside the car.

“We need to get going,” Sean said, out of breath. He turned to the long line of cars idling behind them. “Seriously, Dusty. Why did you come this way?”

“I missed a turn. And I already said I was sorry. Geez.”

“Sean!” Lumbergh said with some volume, as if he were trying to wake his brother-in-law from a hypnotic spell. “What’s happening? What’s the problem?”

Sean felt his arms trembling. “The problem is that we’re supposed to be at a blackjack table, or yanking on some slots, or doing some Vegas-y thing. Not stuck in a damn car in front of a school, in fucking ninety-degree weather.”

Sean’s eyes slid back and forth across the moving crowd. He wanted to look away—to force his eyes to the floorboard, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to. And just as he had about convinced himself that the law of averages wouldn’t allow for a face from the past to present itself at that very place and time, it did. And it was a pretty face at that.

Clad in a sleeveless white dress with a coach’s whistle around her neck, a woman with glimmering blonde hair and an athletic build waved to a couple of students as they passed by. He knew the woman to be in her mid-thirties, though she still didn’t look a day over twenty-five. When she leaned down to talk to a younger child who had approached her, seemingly with a question, the bright smile that formed on her lips stole Sean’s breath and slowed down time.

“Whoa!” said Lumbergh, sitting up in his seat, his head now turned in the same direction as Sean’s. “Is that . . . is that Lisa?”

Just hearing her name had always brought butterflies to Sean’s stomach, but seeing her in the flesh had left him speechless.

“Ooh! Who’s Lisa?” asked Dusty, peering around Lumbergh’s shoulder.

Sean and Lumbergh answered at the same time, Sean saying “No one,” and Lumbergh saying “His ex-girlfriend.”

“Ex-girlfriend?” Dusty shouted, his wide eyes taking up the rearview mirror. “Here? Where?” He leaned to the side, his left hand blindly searching for the automatic window lever.

“Don’t worry about it, and don’t you open that goddamn window,” Sean growled. “Pay attention to the road. As soon as the kids are across, get us to the hotel.”

“Is it the Spanish lady?” Dusty asked as Lumbergh’s window steadily lowered at his command. “Hey!” he yelled, trying to grab the wrong woman’s attention.

In a flash, Sean’s arms lunged forward, one large hand going under Dusty’s chin while the other pressed against the back of his head. With clenched teeth, he squeezed Dusty’s skull as if he were trying to juice it.

Dusty wailed and snorted, his reddening round face shriveled like a prune. His hands left the steering wheel and latched onto Sean’s wrists, unable to loosen his assailant’s grip.

“Dusty, I’ve been kicking ass in recovery for almost five months and just drove seven hundred miles with you . . . without incident,” Sean said. “Don’t fuck it all up now. You wanted your bachelor party in Vegas, and I’m here because you’re my friend. Don’t repay me by being an asshole.” He let a few more seconds tick by before he released Dusty, whipping his hands away.

“God!” Dusty barked, some drool dripping from his lips. He let out a couple of coughs as some color returned to his face.

The crossing guard waited on the last child to cross, waving to her as she passed.

“Sean, it’s okay,” said Lumbergh, his spread fingers facing Sean to urge calm. “She didn’t see you. Everything’s fine. There’s no sense in getting any more worked up. We’re going to go out and have some fun tonight, and forget everything else.”

“Hundreds of thousands of people pass through this city every goddamn day,” said Sean, as if he hadn’t heard a thing Lumbergh had said. “And this dipshit . . . Sorry, you’re not a dipshit, Dusty. But you drove us right up to the one person I wanted to avoid, and shouldn’t have had any trouble avoiding. I mean, what are the odds?”

“I don’t know,” said Lumbergh. “But it’s a small world and things like this happen.”

“Sounds like fate to me,” said Dusty, his eyes wide and his face still regaining its color.

“Jesus Christ, Dusty. Shut up!” snapped Lumbergh.

Sean saw Dusty follow up the remark with a wink through the mirror. He answered with a stiff slap to the back of his head.

“Gah!” Dusty moaned, his arm covering up his head.

“Sean,” said Lumbergh.

The physical exchange caught the attention of the elderly crossing guard, who stopped on his way back to his post, lowered his head, and gazed through the windshield with a crinkled nose.

“Just get out of the road already,” Sean pled, knowing the man couldn’t hear him.

The man continued his way back toward the sidewalk, and Sean’s head spun to Lisa again. She had just been approached by a young man with dark, perfectly combed hair and a chiseled chin. He wore a bright smile and held the hand of a little blonde-haired girl in a bright red dress who couldn’t have been much older than one year.

The man appeared to ask Lisa a question. When she turned to face him, he leaned forward and kissed her directly on the lips.

“Oh God,” muttered Lumbergh, his eyes shifting between the two and Sean.

Sean’s heart stopped. His mouth dangled open, and he felt for a second as though he was going to vomit. His eyes lowered to the little girl. She had a button nose, pursed lips, and she squinted from the sun in her face. Lisa leaned down and hooked her hands under the girl’s arms, lifting her up in the air and planting a kiss on her plump cheek.

“So . . . it’s not the Spanish lady?” asked Dusty.

When a car horn honked behind them, Lisa and the man swung their heads to the street. Sean’s back snapped flat against his seat. His eyes shot forward where there were no longer any pedestrians in front of the car.

“Go!” he demanded.

“Dusty, get going!” Lumbergh shouted.

“Okey dokey,” Dusty said calmly, turning his attention to the road and pressing on the gas.

The car lunged forward and Sean sank deeper into his seat. His face was pale and he was having trouble catching his breath.

“So . . . when did you and her . . .” Dusty began.

“Nope,” said Lumbergh. “Not another word. Just get us to the hotel.”

Chapter 3

Sean hadn’t uttered a word for the last two hours, and barely remembered taking a shower in his room or getting dressed. Now clad in beige Dockers and a short-sleeved aloha shirt his sister had found on clearance somewhere, he sat slumped forward in a worn leather chair in the small hotel lobby. There, he forced deep controlled breaths through his lungs.

His eyes were fixed to the tips of his new casual dress shoes; they’d also been picked out by his sister. Suede, light brown in color, and a bit wimpy looking in Sean’s view . . . but he’d humored his sister.

Dozens of thoughts had traveled through his mind since the moment they’d left the school. They spawned questions and inconsistencies he continued to struggle with as the world moved around him. His gaze slid back and forth from the elevators across from him to a small clock and a short row of payphones along the adjacent wall. Clamor from nearby gamblers and slot machines shared the smoke-filled air, as a mixture of mostly college kids and senior citizens strolled by in opposite directions along the granite floor.

There was a young family at the front desk. A tall dad, a short and pretty mom, and two little kids—a boy and a girl. The children were arguing and wrestling around a bit until the mother got after them. Sean watched them for a while before his gaze drifted to a small, round end table beside him, where half a glass of what looked like whiskey sat. Someone had abandoned it there; most of its ice had melted. He noticed his knee shaking a bit before he drew his focus back to the payphones. Arching his back, he dug his fingers into his pocket and searched for change.

“702 . . . 518,” he muttered, trying to recall a number he used to know by heart. “09 . . . ” He almost had it.

“You got down here fast,” came a man’s voice.

Sean turned and saw Lumbergh standing just a few feet away, arms folded in front of him. His mouth worked a wad of gum.

“Hell’d you come from?” Sean asked.

“I took the stairs. The elevators were taking too long.”

“Yeah, they’re slow as hell.”

Lumbergh had changed polo shirts. His new one was lime green. Beneath it were beige pants and brown wing tip shoes. The pants, more neatly pressed than Sean’s, looked familiar.

“Did Diana get those on clearance?” Sean asked, lowering his gaze.

Lumbergh’s eyes shifted between Sean’s pants and his, the top of his head reflecting some light from the chandelier above. “They’re the same, aren’t they?”

Sean smirked, aware of his sister’s affinity for sales. “Must have been one hell of a discount. Those shoes don’t look cheap though. What are those?”

Lumbergh’s eyes narrowed, seemingly unsure if Sean was making fun of him. “Oxfords,” he said tepidly.

Sean nodded, his eyes sliding up and down his brother-inlaw. “They make you look taller. Is that why you bought them?”

Now Lumbergh knew he was being made fun of. A subtle grin formed on his lips. “That may have had something to do with it,” he said, shaking his head. “But they also have a casualness about them that I like.”

Lumbergh was a short man—around five-six. He’d always been thin, but he’d formed a noticeable gut since his daughter Ashley was born. Diana used to refer to it as “sympathy weight”—a reference to the pounds she’d gained during her pregnancy. It wasn’t the only change in Lumbergh’s appearance in recent months. He’d also recently shaved his head, finally accepting his baldness. For years, his hair up top was so thin that it was virtually transparent under certain light. He’d never seemed to mind, but something had compelled him to take the plunge and succumb to the terms of the genetic hand he’d been dealt. Sean was still getting used to the new look, often finding himself scrutinizing a subtle bump at the top of Lumbergh’s scalp.

“Why did you come down so early?” Lumbergh asked. “We don’t have to head out for a bit yet. I figured you’d catch up on some more sleep.”

Seconds slogged by before Sean answered. “It was too quiet up there. I needed a distraction.”

Lumbergh nodded. “After the . . .”

Sean jumped in. “Yeah, after the shit show back there at the school.”

Lumbergh’s eyes slid to the drink on the table next to Sean. His face tightened.

“Don’t worry, Gary. It’s not mine. That’s not the kind of distraction I meant. Just needed some noise. To do some people-watching and clear my head.”

“All right,” Lumbergh said, accepting the answer.

“So, why are you down here?” asked Sean. “You were more tired than I was.”

“Well, I . . .” he hesitated, searching for the right words.

“You wanted to check on me, didn’t you? Probably pounded on my door for a couple of minutes before figuring out I’d left. Huh?”

Lumbergh said nothing, biting down on his lip.

Sean continued. “Hey, I appreciate the thought, Gary, but there was no need. There’s not even a minibar in the room. I made sure of that when I booked it.”

Lumbergh nodded. “Why don’t we do some walking around?” he said. He nudged his shoulder toward the casino. “Play a few slots, maybe a couple hands of blackjack. I know you think gambling’s for idiots, but—”

“Sure.” Sean shrugged. “Why the hell not?” He leaned forward, placed his hands on his knees, and pulled himself to his feet, grunting from the effort. “Lead the way.”

The two left the lobby and crossed onto the thin, checkered carpet of the Dusty Nickel. It was an older hotel and casino, a couple blocks off Fremont Street in the downtown area some people referred to as “Old Vegas”. Dusty had picked the lodging based on nothing other than the fact that it shared his name.

Slot machines flashed and whistled. Dealers in vests and bow ties stood over half-full tables. Women in cocktail outfits passed by with drinks on small trays. A cigarette haze hung in the air.

Sean dug his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a couple of singles.

“You serious?” asked Lumbergh.

“What?” Sean asked, returning his wallet to his pocket.

“Two dollars?”

“Yeah, those are nickel slots,” he said, pointing his jaw toward a cluster of sparkling machines in the corner. “That’s like . . . what, forty games?”

Lumbergh’s brows angled inward.

“Oh please, Gary,” said Sean. “You really think I need a second addiction?”

“You’re too much of a tightwad for that to ever happen,” quipped Lumbergh.

“That’s true. Not all of us have high-paying government jobs,” joked Sean. “Rent-a-cop security guards like me can’t help but be a bit stingy.”

“Except for when it counts,” added Lumbergh with a wink, bouncing his knuckles off Sean’s shoulder.

Lumbergh glanced around the room until his eyes stopped on a semicircular table in the opposite direction. Behind it, a middle-aged dealer with big, frizzy hair dealt a player a hand. She glanced at the other players as they considered their cards. Lumbergh reached for his own wallet. “I’m going to try my luck over there. When you’re done flushing your change down those machines, why don’t you come on over?”

“High roller,” remarked Sean.

“It’s a five-dollar table, Sean,” said Gary.

“Too rich for my blood. I can’t expense stuff to the city like you.”

Lumbergh sighed. “I’m not going to expense my gambling . . .” He stopped when he noticed the curl in Sean’s lips. He shook his head. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

The men went their separate directions and Sean made his way over to the row of slots. An elderly bald man with a small bandage on his head and droopy eyes was collecting his winnings from a machine in the corner. Once he slowly trucked off, plastic coin cup in hand, Sean took his spot, plopping himself down in the still-warm chair.

Sean glared at the reels for a moment before sliding his first dollar into the bill insert, which swallowed it quickly. He sighed and tapped a button. Fruit and sevens spun loudly until they came to a mismatched halt. He hit the button again and let his eyes wander as the reels spun.

Across the room, Lumbergh sat at the blackjack table, his face comically tense and his eyes wide as he leaned forward clutching his cards. Lumbergh was a confident man when it came to just about everything else, but his gambling face made him look about as relaxed as a suicide bomber. The elderly woman in a loud blouse next to him pinched a cigarette between her shaky fingers. She eyed the dealer’s movements, her smile displaying some missing teeth when the cards were turned over. Lumbergh bit his lip and shook his head in disappointment as the dealer collected his hand.

Sean plugged away at his machine, winning a few spins here and there but mostly losing. It was about what he’d expected, but he didn’t care. His only disappointment was that the activity hadn’t cleared his mind. He found himself thinking about the time he’d taken Lisa up to Lakeland on one of her trips out to Colorado.

The old gambling town in the mountains north of Winston was a far cry from the Vegas spectacle she was used to, but she seemed to appreciate it for that very reason. She found it quaint and with character, from the antique slots to a decadesold taffy shop, to an old bookstore that also sold music. Perhaps it was the same type of simplicity that had attracted her to Sean, at least once upon a time.

He loved watching her smile that day—the liveliness and curiosity in her bright blue eyes, especially when they aligned with his. They held a beauty that lifted his spirit high, but also stoked a sense of unworthiness in his gut. At times, things seemed so right and real that he felt obligated to convince himself that they weren’t. After all, who was someone like Sean Coleman to find himself the beneficiary of such good fortune . . . after spending so many years of his life disappointing and hurting others—including those who loved him.

Sean couldn’t shake the truth that they had only found each other through a traumatic series of events. It was an emotional bond that felt like it came with a looming expiration date, and likely would have even if Sean had been a better person. Still, he seemed to feel obligated at times to speed up the process.

That day in Lakeland was no exception. Lisa had pled with him to dress up like a cowboy for an Old West photo shoot of the two of them. In retrospect, it would have been a mild sacrifice—fifteen minutes of embarrassment for someone he cared about. Instead, he dug in his heels, deeming such a concession to be emasculating and a waste of money. No matter how much pressure she put on him— playful at first, but later more determined—he wouldn’t budge. It was a stupid thing to get into an argument over, but they did, and his stubbornness ended an otherwise special day on a sour note. Other days and nights had ended similarly.

The memories played like a quick slideshow of failures through Sean’s mind as he reached the end of his credit on the slot machine.

So far, Sean’s first trip to Vegas had been a bust. The buildings and glitz on their way in—even in the daytime—had been impressive, but the city’s allure wasn’t what it was cracked up to be . . . at least not in comparison with the old 1970s show, Vegas, starring Robert Urich. Perhaps the nightlife would change his mind, but he was worried his psyche would continue to play the spoiler.

When he lifted his head, he saw Lumbergh on his way over, his pace slow, suggesting that he, too, was reeling from defeat.

“You lasted longer than I did,” he said, raising his gaze up from the carpet.

Sean nodded. “How old did she look to you?”

Lumbergh’s eyes narrowed. “The lady at the table? Hard to say.”

“No, the girl. Back at the school.”

Lumbergh’s face loosened after a couple of seconds. “Sean . . .” he began, shaking his head. “There’s just no way.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself, Gary. And I’m sure it has to be the case, but—”

“But nothing.”

“No, but something. Lisa and I split up at the end of 2001, almost two years ago.”

“Yeah. So?”

“How old do you think that girl is? Because if she’s at least fourteen months, just add on an extra nine and the math works out.”

“She wasn’t that old, Sean.”

“You sure about that? I mean, she was old enough to be standing and walking.”

Lumbergh lifted his hands, his palms facing Sean to keep the peace. “Listen, you’re getting way ahead of yourself. We don’t even know if that girl belonged to Lisa.”

“Do you kiss any little girls besides your daughter, Gary? And then, of course, she made out with the father.”

“There!” said Lumbergh, snapping his finger. “Right there. Rewind that and listen to what you just said. The little girl’s father. He’s the father, Sean, not you.”

Sean’s nostrils flared. He let his eyes fall off Lumbergh as he took in a couple of deep breaths. “Are you saying she was cheating on me with him, then?”

“What?” Lumbergh said, his face recoiling. “No . . . God, no. I’m saying—again—that the girl’s too young to be yours. You understand that, right?”

Sean glared at Lumbergh for a moment before the two realized that a half dozen spectators had stopped within earshot and were listening to their exchange. This included a drink waitress in fishnets and the old man whose machine Sean had taken over. The man’s mouth dangled open as he waited for Sean’s response.

Sean grunted and stood up. “Come on,” he said to Lumbergh, patting his shoulder.

Sean led the way toward a gold-colored revolving door at the side of the casino, whisking his way past a young couple shouting at a roulette wheel. He glanced at a casino guard in a suit and tie who hovered beside the door. He leered over his shoulder to check if any of the eavesdroppers had followed them. When he saw that none had, he stopped short of the door and motioned Lumbergh over to the empty wall beside it.

“Okay,” Sean began. “I’m not trying to be an asshole and ruin this trip, and I get what you’re saying. And like you said, I’m probably dead wrong. But—”

Lumbergh jumped in. “But you unexpectedly saw Lisa for the first time in two years, and a lot of emotions came flooding back at once. It’s perfectly normal to have some trouble processing it.”

Sean glared at him. “Well, thanks, Dr. Ruth. But that’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say that she wasn’t wearing a ring.”

Lumbergh’s face twisted in confusion. “Lisa?”

“No, the old lady at your blackjack table. Of course Lisa.”

Lumbergh rolled his eyes. “So, what are you saying?”

Sean bit his lip. “I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” He gazed across the room emptily before returning his attention to Lumbergh. “I mean, they’re a family of some kind. That’s obvious. But Lisa would be wearing a ring if they were married. Trust me on this. She’s big on commitment. She had a hard enough time just taking off Kyle’s ring.”

“Her ex-husband.”

“Yeah, her dead ex-husband. The same guy who’d filled her head with bullshit the entire time they were married. The same guy who’d been cheating on her with Vincenzo Moretti’s wife, which is why he’s her dead ex-husband.”

Sean noticed the security guard twist his head toward them. The guy was probably in his fifties—stocky with slicked back hair that was dyed black. Old school. He glared at them for a moment through tight eyes before tugging his focus back to the broader room.

“You probably don’t want to be saying that name too loudly around here,” said Lumbergh, lowering his voice.

“Why?” Sean asked. “He’s behind bars.”

“Moretti was a big deal in this town. Owned a lot of businesses. Multiple casinos. Hell, maybe even this one.”

“So?”

“So . . . Former associates of his might not hold a warm view of two of the guys who helped put him behind those bars. Moretti was a crime lord. A lot of people here probably lost a hell of a lot of money when he went down.”

“Whatever,” Sean said, dismissing Lumbergh’s concern. “What I’m saying is that if the guy at the school were the girl’s father, Lisa would be married to him.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of speculation based on two people kissing,” said Lumbergh, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “And think about what you’re saying. If she would have married the father of her child, and you haven’t heard from her in two years, doesn’t that pretty much prove you’re not the father?”

Sean stared at Lumbergh, letting his brother-in-law’s words sink in.

Lumbergh leaned forward and put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Listen. I get it,” he said in a softer tone. “That scene back there was a lot to take. Dusty didn’t help matters. But whatever the situation is between those people, that little girl isn’t yours.”

After a moment, Sean found himself nodding. Lumbergh was making too much sense to prolong the argument.

“So, why don’t you just try your best to forget about it,” Lumbergh added. “Let’s get Dusty and get to the show. We’ll grab a quick bite to eat over there before it starts.”

Sean scoffed and shook his head. “Yeah, the show.”

Lumbergh snickered, shrugging his shoulders.

“Of all of the entertainment choices in this town, he goes with that one,” Sean moaned.

“Well, it was his call. Groom’s privilege.”

“Which is one of life’s great miracles in itself. His fiancée’s not even half bad looking from the pictures I’ve seen. No antlers sticking out of her head or anything.”

Lumbergh chuckled. “Just be glad he didn’t choose something at Circus Circus.”

“Oh God,” said Sean. “He would have handed someone his resume.”

Lumbergh smiled, seemingly relieved that the tone and topic of the conversation had changed in a positive direction. “Let’s go get him and get some food.”

“Fine.”

The two men made their way back through the casino toward the lobby.

“It’s a good thing you’re doing here,” said Lumbergh. “Being a good friend and coming out here with him. It doesn’t sound like he has many.”

“Many what?”

“Friends.”

Sean nodded, thinking back to when he and Dusty had first met in South Carolina a little over a year earlier. Sean had flown out to collect the body of his dead uncle, who he’d thought, prior to his death, had dated Dusty’s mother. It ended up being a case of a mistaken relationship, not realized until after the two had begrudgingly spent a couple of days together—two very long days.

Lumbergh’s Circus Circus joke had been on target, as Dusty was a professional clown—a birthday clown to be exact. Parents hired him for their children’s parties where he’d make balloon animals, tell jokes, and perform tricks. Dusty took the job seriously—often too seriously. He had a habit of shifting into some obscure character in the middle of casual conversations and remaining in that character out of some artistic commitment to the craft. It used to drive Sean nuts and still did at times. Sean sometimes wondered how he made it through those two days in South Carolina without putting his fist through Dusty’s teeth.

But Dusty had become a real friend, staying in frequent contact and checking in on Sean’s progress during his rehab. It meant a lot to Sean, and like Dusty, Sean didn’t have many friends to spare.

He was genuinely happy Dusty had found someone—a waitress from a seafood joint in Pawleys Island. Sean had never met her but felt like he’d come to know her from Dusty’s descriptions. The two had only been an item for three months prior to Dusty popping the question. Sean hoped it would work out. If she’d managed to put up with his bullshit that long, perhaps it was meant to be.

Destiny. The word had been bouncing off the walls of Sean’s head since the moment Dusty had used it back at the school. Dusty was just being obnoxious at the time, but he’d had a point. What were the odds of the three of them missing an exit in a faraway city, coming upon Lisa’s school, and doing so at the precise time she was standing outside it? They couldn’t have been any better than Sean winning a $1M jackpot on slots that weekend and flying back home in a private jet.

But Lumbergh was right too. Sean’s relationship with Lisa was history. Part of his past, not his future. She now had a family, and judging by the smile on her face, she was happy. With Sean, she hadn’t been.

Sean and Lumbergh had barely reached the lobby when a set of elevator doors slid open. From between them came a portly man clad in a loud, large-rimmed red cowboy hat and matching suit and boots. Sean winced and lowered his head, about to make a crack to Lumbergh about the getup. That’s when he realized it was Dusty who was wearing it.