Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Page 2

  “You want some space. Here’s your space,” Bastian yelled, taking a step back. “You know where to find me whenever you’re done having a hissy fit.”

  “And stay away from the nicotine,” Mercer called after him, “because it makes you even more insufferable than usual.” Bastian made a rude gesture and then stormed down the street, heading for Chicago’s rail system, the L. “Good riddance,” Mercer huffed. He finally had the reprieve and privacy he wanted, but now he had to figure out what to do with it.

  He moved throughout the city on foot with no destination in mind. It was unfamiliar territory but easy enough to navigate. The sun set almost an hour ago, and the air had a slight chill to it. His stomach growled, and he stepped into an Irish pub for a pint and some sustenance.

  To his surprise, the place was crowded with young adults. This part of town didn’t seem that trendy, but maybe he was mistaken. He took a seat at the corner of the bar and waited patiently as the world continued spinning around him. After he ate and could no longer tolerate the infernal racket of the pub, he stepped outside. Glancing around, he spotted a sign for the L.

  Waiting on the platform was a collection of various people. Subconsciously, he assessed the group, determining who might pose a threat. The three adolescent men, probably in their late teens, appeared particularly interested in the bags an elderly couple was holding. Mercer took a breath, debating if he would intercede if circumstances presented themselves. It wasn’t his problem or his business, but the thought of getting to knock some punks around did hold a certain appeal. Continuing to watch out of the corner of his eye, the men lost interest in their prize and moved away from the platform. Probably for the best, Mercer thought, leaning against a support pole and waiting for the train.

  Fifteen minutes later, the train came, and he boarded, taking a seat in the back corner. As he neared his stop, the brakes squeaked, but there was another unmistakable squeal. It sounded like a woman screaming. Peering through the glass of the subway car, he was positive the sound didn’t originate from the train. As the brakes fully engaged and the doors opened, he cautiously stepped outside. No one else reacted as if they heard anything amiss. Maybe Bas was right, and he was losing it. Walking a block toward the hotel, his eyes darted back and forth, searching for danger, as he strained to hear any other cries for help.

  By the time he reached the hotel, he was certain he must have hallucinated the entire event. Had he been thinking of Michelle and not realized it? Entering through the revolving door, the lobby was empty. He went up to his room, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He was alone.

  Settling into bed, he shut his eyes and forced his mind to go blank. His breathing slowed, only to be kick-started by another blood-curdling scream. It was muffled and must have come from somewhere outside.

  Getting up, he peered out the window. But it was too dark, and the alleys were too dimly lit to see from this height. Reacting, he grabbed his gun and opened the door. He exited the hotel and turned down the street. Half a block later, he heard it again and took off at a fast clip, heading straight for the sound. Rounding a corner, he found a woman on the ground, covered in blood and holding a man in her arms. No one else was in sight.

  “Miss,” Mercer spoke softly, his gun still poised in front of him, “are you okay? Who did this?”

  Spotting the gun, she screamed. This time it was nonstop and deafening. Before he could quiet her hysterics or evaluate the condition of the prone man, flashing lights and sirens pulled up behind him. The police ordered him to drop the weapon and surrender. Despite what Bastian might think, he didn’t have a death wish and complied. Before he knew it, he was booked and thrown into a jail cell.

  “Bollocks,” he muttered, knowing his team would never let him live this one down.

  * * *

  It was early morning before the police officer opened the cell door. The woman Mercer attempted to rescue finally managed to give her statement to the officers. And although they were still suspicious of a British citizen running through the streets with a Sig Sauer, Julian had the proper paperwork and documentation, so they couldn’t hold him on anything.

  After collecting his belongings and being given numerous stern looks by everyone in the squad room, Mercer was free to go. As soon as he stepped outside, he spotted the woman from last night. In the morning sunlight, he realized she couldn’t be older than twenty-five.

  She gave him a grim smile. “I’m sorry you were arrested,” she muttered. “After everything that happened, I saw the gun and thought they came back to finish the job.”

  Something about the woman piqued his interest. This was new. Different. And obviously dangerous. It could be fun.

  “Who?” he asked. She hesitated, watching him pensively, not trusting the man who had so conveniently shown up to help. Mercer dug through his wallet and pulled out his business card, handing it to her. “Maybe I can offer some assistance.”

  She read the card and then looked up at him. “Personal security specialist?” Considering her options, she walked away without another word.

  Three

  “It’s about bloody time,” Bastian said. “Where’ve you been all night?”

  “Out,” Mercer replied. He entered the hotel only to be confronted by Bastian perched in the lobby, waiting to pounce.

  “No shit, really? Did you find some unsuspecting American and woo her with your charm and accent? You’re not James Bond. He dresses better and has a hell of a lot better attitude than you, mate.”

  “He’s also fictional.”

  “Details,” Bastian muttered, noticing the receipt stuffed in Mercer’s shirt pocket. He narrowed his eyes at it. “Was she a whore? Because I’m not entirely certain how else you would have ended up spending the night in jail.” He scrutinized his friend’s expression. “Is everyone still breathing? Or did someone look at you the wrong way?”

  “Frankly, I’m not certain. A man was bleeding, but no one informed me of his condition.” Mercer was enjoying pushing Bastian’s buttons. “Then again, that happened before I arrived. It was the impetus for the screaming that led to the alley and the woman. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to clean up.”

  After Mercer showered and dressed, he heard a beep, notifying him of a new voicemail message. He listened as a man introduced himself as Carlton Rhoade and requested a call back in regards to a potential job opportunity. The area code indicated Chicago, and having nothing better to do on this wasted trip, he went to Bastian’s room and knocked. When Bastian answered, he put the phone on speaker and pushed play.

  Without needing further instructions, Bastian opened his laptop and performed a reverse lookup on the number, followed by a people search and background check on Carlton Rhoade. “Looks like he’s a newspaper mogul.” Bastian frowned at the screen. “My guy at Interpol can check criminal records, but if you want to hear him out, give the gentleman a call. As far as I can tell, he’s not a Mafioso kingpin or on any terrorist watchlist, so he’s clean enough for our taste.”

  “Might as well see what he has to say. Someone ought to pay us, just so you have enough revenue to cover your mini-bar expenses.” Mercer nodded toward the emptied snack section near the fridge. “Those cashews were twenty dollars a jar.”

  Dialing, Mercer waited. After three rings, the call was answered by the same voice that left the message. Not wasting time on questions or basic pleasantries, Carlton Rhoade provided an address and time to meet. He did not offer any hint as to what he wanted or how he came about Mercer’s number.

  “Another kidnapping?” Bastian asked.

  “He didn’t say. But it might be more interesting than mucking about around here, watching you consume a fortune’s worth of chips and nuts.”

  Preparing for a second meeting in two days, Mercer and Bastian dressed in their professional best and went to the high-class apartment building. The doorman requested their names and called up to Mr. Rhoade’s apartment for verification before letting them inside the buil
ding. In the lobby, another man waited in the elevator car, which could only be operated by a key, and escorted them to the penthouse.

  “Chintzy,” Bastian whispered, catching Julian’s eye.

  As the elevator opened, the two former military men glanced around, uncertain if this was an elaborate hoax. Typically, they weren’t invited to spend time in places like this. Sure, their clients tended to be the rich and powerful, but almost all meetings occurred at a place of business.

  “Mr. Mercer?” a man asked, entering the foyer. “I’m Carlton Rhoade. I believe you met my daughter, Katia, last night.” Rhoade produced the business card, and Mercer nodded slightly. “Come inside. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Bastian Clarke,” Bastian introduced himself, extending his hand, “please forgive Julian, he forgets his manners.” He threw a pointed glance at his friend. “Why did you contact us?”

  “Personal security specialists,” Rhoade continued, leading the three of them into the living room. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure what that meant, but Katia said you rushed into that alley with a gun, prepared to defend her. Is that accurate, Mr. Mercer?”

  “There were screams. Someone had to do something. The man that was wounded, is he still alive?”

  “For now.” Rhoade went to the wet bar, having temporarily forgotten the time, but reconsidered and filled a glass with soda water instead. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”

  “No,” Mercer interjected, fearing Bastian might ask for the container of mixed nuts sitting atop the bar. “Sir, would you please elaborate on why you asked us here?”

  “Forward. I like that.” Rhoade took a seat, making a tired sound as he sunk into the plush suede. “My daughter needs a protector. The bodyguards I’ve hired in the past have been inadequate. They are more concerned with a paycheck and following the rules established by the private security agencies that employ them. From the information I’ve gathered on you, you do this freelance. Rules and orders shouldn’t apply to a man like you.”

  Mercer shrugged. “I have my own set of rules.”

  “Which do not limit you to a great extent,” Rhoade said, scrutinizing Julian. He cracked a knowing smile. “I’ve done my research.”

  “What are you asking?” Bastian interrupted, uneasy with the current exchange. Why didn’t Julian mention last night’s encounter in more specific detail this morning?

  “I need someone who will keep an eye on Katia, chauffeur her around, and make sure nothing happens to her. Is that something you’re capable of doing?” Rhoade asked.

  Mercer met Bastian’s eyes. They didn’t need words to communicate. This was a job Mercer wanted, so it was up to Bastian to determine if it was something they could handle. While Bastian launched into an elaborate explanation of their backgrounds and work details, Mercer stalked the small space of the room, studying the various knickknacks. The words were drowned out because, as usual, he couldn’t be bothered with such insignificant details. On the table, he spotted a cluster of photographs of Katia Rhoade from the time she was born until her college graduation. One of the more recent photos showed her with the man from the alley.

  “Who is he?” Mercer inquired, cutting into the conversation.

  “That’s Benjamin Styler, Katia’s fiancé.”

  “Julian,” Bastian tossed him a warning look, “we’ll get the background work out of the way after our meeting.”

  “So that’s a yes?” Rhoade asked, smiling. “You’re willing to guard my daughter?”

  “Absolutely. Our team is comprised of four men, each with his own unique set of skills. We’ll maintain your daughter’s safety until the man responsible for shooting her fiancé has been identified and apprehended,” Bastian assured. “Do the police have any leads yet?”

  “They’re working on it. I’ve been told their best detectives are taking the case,” Rhoade replied. “However,” he shifted his gaze between the two security specialists, “from what you’ve said, you might be able to discover his identity faster. Perhaps you could remedy the situation without involving the authorities.”

  “We don’t do that kind of work,” Bastian replied, his voice icy. “But identifying potential assailants and subduing imminent threats is necessary to ensure adequate protection.”

  “Very well.” Rhoade stood and shook hands with each man. “Can you start tomorrow?”

  Mercer nodded, leading the way out of the apartment. His mind was picking through the parts of the conversation he actually paid attention to. Did Bas just agree to assist on identifying the assailant? Everything up until this point had been asset recovery, protection, or retrieval. They weren’t coppers or inspectors. For all intents and purposes, they were hired guns. The American equivalent of cowboys from the Wild West, or at least that’s how Mercer liked to fancy himself, having watched one too many spaghetti westerns in his day. Still shocked by Bastian’s promises, he followed his friend back to the hotel in a daze. Even though Julian liked to believe he was calling the shots, when it came to the business angle of their ventures, he was in the dark.

  * * *

  As Bastian worked his magic with the computers, creating full profiles for Katia Rhoade, Benjamin Styler, and Carlton Rhoade, Mercer elected to nap. The time difference and spending the night in lockup had taken their toll. Opening one eye, he watched as the hotel door opened, and Donovan and Hans entered. It appeared they spent the entire night out partying, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that was the case. As Bastian briefed the rest of the team, Mercer listened from his spot on the mattress.

  Carlton Rhoade owned and operated one of Chicago’s top newspapers, courtesy of a vast inheritance left to him by a great uncle. Having spent years in the journalism industry, Rhoade bought the paper after being fired for allegedly running stories without performing the proper fact-checking requirements. By taking over, Rhoade enacted his own form of revenge against his previous boss and anyone that opposed him. Obviously, screwing with Carlton Rhoade wasn’t advisable. The paper was revamped, and those he believed to have wronged him were now jobless.

  “Superb way to make enemies,” Mercer retorted, sitting up. All eyes turned to him, surprised that he was awake or even paying attention. “But what does this have to do with the girl and her escort?”

  Bastian smirked, pleased that Julian was finally showing an interest in something besides target practice. “Perhaps the assailant has an axe to grind with the Rhoade family, especially since Katia is the only remaining relative Carlton has. His wife left him a decade ago, changed her name, and disappeared. From what I’ve found, she’s living in Canada under a different name and with another woman.”

  “Kinky,” Hans grinned, “although, a tad extreme.”

  “Regardless,” Bastian continued, “it would be reasonable to assume if someone wanted to hurt Carlton, Katia would be the way to go.” He cautioned a glance at Mercer, not wanting to draw any type of parallel between this situation and Michelle, but Mercer was unfazed.

  “What about the other bloke?” Donovan asked, taking a seat at the desk while he studied some aerial maps of the city and focused on Rhoade’s apartment building.

  “Benjamin Styler has been in trouble before. He was arrested for public intoxication, possession, drunk driving, indecent exposure, and disturbing the peace,” Bastian read.

  “Sounds like Hans,” Donovan replied. “Or me.”

  “The point is he might have his own set of enemies. Most of the charges were dropped, and from what I gather, he probably ratted on his dealer in order to get away without any felony charges. Based on the Rhoades’ wealth, I would have assumed Styler could afford to buy himself out of trouble, but his family isn’t nearly as well-off as the nouveau riche Mr. Rhoade. The Stylers keep up appearances with memberships to the country club and Ivy League educations, but they’re lacking a few zeroes at the end of their bank accounts.”

  “When did these legal infringements occur?” Hans asked.

  “The most rec
ent was over a year ago, but that doesn’t mean Styler’s turned over a new leaf. Maybe he’s just been more careful.”

  “What about the woman? Who has she pissed off?” Mercer asked, skimming through the printouts on Carlton and Benjamin.

  “No one. She has no record. Nothing disturbing. She’s a photographer for a women’s magazine. I’d wager her father used his connections to procure the job for her, but aside from that, there’s nothing damning in her history.” Bastian shifted his gaze around the room. “Any objections to providing this young lady with protection?”

  “Drug dealers and distraught employees are nothing we can’t handle,” Donovan surmised.

  “Sounds easier than kidnappers and trained mercenaries,” Hans added.

  “Let’s not forget,” Mercer glanced at the copy of Katia’s driver’s license that Bastian had printed, “she’s just an innocent bystander with questionable ties. She can’t help it if the man she fell in love with has made some bad decisions in the past.” The room remained silent as his words mirrored more than the current matter. “Bas, come up with a strategy so we can finish this quickly.”

  Four

  “Miss Rhoade,” Mercer greeted. He was leaning against a black sedan with dark tinted windows. As usual, his team pooled their resources and gained access to something bullet resistant. “Care for a ride home?”

  “I’m not going home,” she looked at him skeptically, “and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Apparently.” Mercer judged her appearance, knowing she would eventually give in and get inside the car after making some type of point about having freedom, independence, and being a modern woman. “That doesn’t mean you don’t want a ride.”