The Deal (A Ray Hammer Novel Book 2)

  Published by Rogue Kitten Media, LLC

  Copyright © 2020, by Aaron Leyshon. All rights reserved.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN : 978-0-6487753-4-8

  First published in Australia in 2020 by Rogue Kitten Media.

  Rogue Kitten Media LLC, 30 N Gould St, STE 4000, Sheridan, WY 82801

  The Deal

  Aaron Leyshon

  Contents

  The Ray Hammer Thrillers

  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

  If you liked this book, why not try…

  Strike (Ray Hammer Book 3)

  Strike (Ray Hammer Book 3)

  The Ray Hammer Thrillers

  Die A Little: No Such Thing as Half Dead (Free Short)

  The Spill: The Beach Never Looked So Deadly

  The Deal: Would You Kill for an Ace?

  The Strike: Can You Instagram a Nuclear Explosion?

  The Fight: One Shot. One Dead Man. $300 Million.

  The Stain: What is the True Value of Art?

  The Flame: Smoke. Mirrors. Lights Out. (Jan 2021)

  Receive your free copy of Die a Little by visiting: https://ray.aaronleyshon.com/die

  Chapter One

  I should have been anywhere other than here at this airport, LAX, on a Friday morning. I was late and I knew it. My editor would be pissed if I missed the plane—not that I give a shit about whether or not I piss him off. As a matter of fact, if I could, I’d crawl up Al Ronson’s ass and lay eggs just to see him itch, but that’s beside the point.

  The point is, I was on assignment, and assignments mean money - a resource I am frequently short of - so I was getting on that plane if it killed me. I rushed towards the gate, three overpriced airport paper bags under my arm. A coffee teetered in my right hand as I tried to rebalance my load. An upbeat voice, too chirpy for a Friday morning, called my name over the loudspeaker.

  “Paging Ray Hammer: Please head to Gate 49B. Your flight is about to depart.”

  I shuffled the books under my other arm. I’d picked up the new Lee Child novel. He was working with his brother now, and I wanted to check out whether they were still worth reading or whether I should go back and start reading Killing Floor. I don’t know why I’d stopped for the coffee. Maybe it was because I was feeling jittery. I hadn’t had a drink since last night and my head throbbed, that sharp pain of a hangover. I glanced at the book on sobriety under my arm, 12 Steps. I didn’t think I’d be getting past the first one, but it was worth a try: this had been going on for too long.

  I quickened my pace. My feet clicked and clacked on the polished concrete floors. I could see the gate up ahead now - an impatient flight attendant staring directly at me. I tried to lift the coffee to my lips, desperate for a hit of that life-affirming caffeine, but as I did so, it slipped out of my grip.

  A woman rushing past in the opposite direction caught my elbow; the coffee spun in the air. I lunged out at it with my free hand and hit the paper cup. The lid came off, the contents spilling out towards her. She stepped quickly to her left, almost dodged the spray ... and flecks of brown coffee stained her white shirt.

  She kept going, pausing for just one second to turn back and look at me, and there was recognition in her gaze. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. Had I seen her earlier that day? Had she been in the bookshop? Was she someone from my neighborhood? Had she caught the same Uber here with me? The only thing worse for your memory than a hangover is the haze you live in when you’d kill for enough booze to give you a hangover.

  Twelve fucking steps.

  Her expression was wary, as though she wasn’t rushing towards somewhere, but hurrying away from it. She turned away and hurried on through the concourse, blending into the crowd of people. I reached down to retrieve the coffee cup, turned back to look at her one last time, but she was a ghost. She might as well have vanished through the wall onto Platform 9 ¾. I deposited the cup into the nearest trash can.

  My name was called one last time, in the kind of voice that let me know in no uncertain terms that if I wasn’t at the gate in precisely twenty-seven seconds, I might as well kiss my off-peak cut-price coach ticket goodbye.

  I made it to the gate. Even with my hands full (minus the coffee, of course), I managed to find my airline ticket in my back pocket, press it to the scanner, and shuffle aboard the flight.

  I might not be in the Marines anymore, but I still travel light. It was a lesson that I’d learned a long time ago: the less you have, the easier it is to move, and to go wherever you need to go. The easier it is to get away from whatever it is that’s haunting you. So there was no carry-on baggage to stow in the overhead compartment, and no checked luggage. All I had to do was find my seat: Row 27A.

  An older woman with the shadow of a moustache on her upper lip grunted as I tried to squeeze past her and into my seat. I always choose the window seat. It’s crazy, I know, being hemmed in, not being able to get out, but I’d prefer to see the outside world when trapped in a tin can flying through the air. I’ve seen enough of those shows where planes go down and if, God forbid, that ever happened to me, I sure as shit wanted a heads-up.

  I gripped the arm of my chair as the cabin crew performed their final checks. I should have been used to this—flying, traveling, going all over the world—but every time I did, I still felt like this; my stomach dropping out from under me. I would rather be anywhere else. I’d rather be back home in Watts, California, my feet up on the coffee table, reclined in my chair out on the porch, looking out over Central Avenue as I wondered what the day would bring.

  But that’s not the life of an investigative journalist, the life I had chosen to replace my old one, and Ed—the pet name I had for Al Ronson since I loved him so fucking much—had a story he wanted covered.

  “What do you know about Bougainville?” he asked when he called the other morning. I told him it was the last place on earth I’d want to go.

  Maybe I’d go there for a drunken weekend, where alcohol consumption was rampant and I could have secret trysts with female tourists hungry for a dirty adventure. But go there for work?

  “Not much,” I told Ed. “Don’t care to learn any more, either.”

  So here I was, sitting on this plane on my way there. Never let anyone tell you Ed doesn’t have a sense of
humor.

  The woman with the moustache next to me grumbled something and unwrapped some candy. She chewed gratuitously with that gum-smacking sound that you can’t get out of your head. I gave her the stink eye then looked out of the window.

  I thought about the woman I’d bumped into in the terminal, and the way she looked back at me, the way she deftly side-stepped the falling coffee, and I wondered what she’d been doing there.

  “Cabin crew, arm the doors,” instructed the captain. The big jet engines powered on, faltered, surged again with a whoomph.

  My eye was drawn forward and down toward my window as it was covered in a sticky, red spatter. Paint? No, blood. I knew it on sight, having seen it up close and personal too many times. I glanced over to the other side of the aircraft and noticed that their windows too were covered in red.

  Chapter Two

  Piper pushed herself back against the wall, pulled her knees up to her chest, and bit down on her knuckles. Don’t make a sound. Don’t breathe. She didn’t want to attract the attention of the guard. Frankie had made that mistake.

  On either side of her, the other girls whimpered. The guard prowled. Piper wondered whether he was coming back, the man who’d put them here, and whether they’d be fed again—it had been a couple of days. At least that’s what it seemed like. It was dark in here, hard to keep track of time, and the constant whimpering didn’t help. She turned her attention away from the corner. She didn’t look ... couldn’t look.

  How long had she been here now? It seemed like weeks or months ago that she had been preparing for her entry exams into the United States Airforce. Now she sat huddled, naked, skin and bones, freezing on the cold concrete floor in this basement. No windows, no heating, just the stale air of human depravity. It’s scary how quickly you become accustomed to living in your own waste.

  The guard’s eyes roved, constantly moving, watching, checking, observing. She almost wanted the man to come back. But then, last time he’d taken the twins and they hadn’t returned. Piper wasn’t sure she wanted to know what happened when you were taken: where you went, what he would do to you. She shivered and the chains clinked softly against her ankles. cable ties dug into her wrists and she felt faint with hunger. He had to come back soon, surely. But what if something had happened to him? What if he didn’t come back? There’d be no more food. The guard ... oh, the guard would ...

  She’d rather not think about it. But no matter how much she turned away from that corner —Frankie’s corner—no matter how much she tried to avoid the eyes of the other girls, she couldn’t scour it from her memory. The scene replayed over and over in a loop. Maybe she was delusional. Maybe it hadn’t happened. Maybe she wasn’t here. Maybe this wasn’t real.

  But the pit in her stomach ... the memory looping over and over. The guard drooling, padding by at the end of his chain. This nightmare was real, and there was nothing she could do about it. She wanted to scream in anguish or agony or fear or hope.

  But Frankie had made that mistake.

  The last time the man had come, he had opened the door, seen her there, screaming, squealing, carrying on. He’d stepped over to the guard to release the chain. Piper heard the barks now, as the guard—a freakishly large German shepherd— leaped forward, taking long, powerful paces, then pounced, lunging right at Frankie’s throat. Piper played the moment over and over, and her eyes flicked involuntarily towards the corner where Frankie’s body was splayed out at unnatural angles, throat open, eyes lifelessly staring at the ceiling, skin blue—swelling into her manacles, around the cable ties, bursting at points, seeping juices.

  Then she heard the rattle of a key in the lock on the door. He was back.

  The other girls whimpered. Piper turned her face away from the corner, away from the other girls, and away from him.

  Chapter Three

  They cleared the flight.

  As they were trying to get everyone off the plane without seeing the carnage the jet engines had caused, I slipped into the bathroom cubicle and locked the door. There was no way I was going to let a scoop this size pass me by. I waited in the toilet until the sounds of shocked, panicked, and retching passengers left the plane.

  Soon, everything fell silent. I stepped back out, checking carefully to see if anyone was outside the door before I emerged. Once I knew the coast was clear, I made my way down through the aisle of the plane, through the curtains to Business and then First Class. I was over the wing, now, many rows ahead of where I’d been sitting. The blinds had all been closed and the plane was not only silent but dark. I opened the hatch nearest to me, lifted the blind on the window, and peered out and down into the engine.

  I won’t describe the sight because I’d rather hold onto my lunch. Needless to say, it wasn’t pretty. I reached for my pocket, where I usually keep my flask, but it wasn’t there.

  Twelve steps. Goddammit.

  My head pounded and I felt tremors in my fingers. I sat down in one of the seats, placed my head into my shaking hands and wondered how something so horrific could have happened. Then I remembered that it hadn’t just been on my side. I stepped across the aisle and opened another window and looked down. The other engine was just as gory, the jet red raw with blood, skin, dark shredded organs. I felt bile rising up in the back of my throat but I held onto it. I’d seen bad things in my time, been part of them even.

  But I’d never seen anything like this; the shocking lengths that the human body can be subjected to never failed to surprise me, never failed to bring bile up, never failed to make me sick.

  I couldn’t quite fathom what had happened. How could it be that two people had been sucked into two separate jet engines two different sides of the same aircraft at the same time? It defied logic. It defied reason. But it would make a great story. I took a few snaps with my phone: the red glaze on the windows, the front of the engines, the propellers stopped dead, just like whoever had been unlucky enough to be sucked inside.

  A noise from the front of the cabin alerted me to the fact that I wasn’t alone. I slammed the blind down but I wasn’t quick enough. The pilot caught my eye as I slid down behind the seat.

  “What the hell are you—” he shouted and made his way towards where I was standing. There was no point hiding. I stepped out into the aisle and faced him. I was a good head taller than him and my muscles from my time in the forces hadn’t completely deserted me, although the years of chocolate, caffeine and booze hadn’t done much to tone them—not in the way I’d have liked, anyway. That didn’t stop him coming in, all guns blazing.

  “You shouldn’t be here! This is a crime scene. Shit, the FBI are on their way and so are the FAA.” I took a step towards him and growled. He didn’t like that. His face reddened and he puffed his chest up even more.

  “I’ll have you know that this is my aircraft and while you’re on-board, you’re under my command. I’ll have you arrested as soon as the federal agents arrive.”

  I took another step, this time changing my facial expression to show my disdain for the pilot. Sure, he was just doing his job. But I had a job to do as well and Ed wouldn’t forgive me for not getting this story, not once he heard about it, anyway. He was a ruthless son of a bitch and as much as I wanted to hand it to him, I liked that about him as well. But this pilot, he was a wimp—a little man pretending to be big, pretending he was all that. He liked the uniform because it gave him the semblance of importance. But right here, right now, in the dark aisle of a plane, two strips glowing down the center, one window open and just the two of us, he had no power, no control - and it became all the more apparent as he tried to raise his voice and puff himself up.

  I grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt and lifted him up off the ground so he was touching his tippy-toes to the carpet and his face was roughly level with mine.

  “The polite way to do this,” I said, “would be to introduce yourself first. And I’d suggest you avoid using threats on me. They don’t work particularly well and I’ve been known
to kill over a lot less.” I wasn’t looking for a fight but I’d never backed down from one in my life. “So, let’s start with your name.”

  “Put me down,” he demanded. “Put me down now!”

  “That’s a funny name you’ve got,” I interrupted and let his feet touch the ground. I stepped back and ducked under his clumsily telegraphed punch, a lazy roundhouse that floated wide.

  So much for a name.

  Chapter Four

  When the man came in, half the other girls turned their faces away, but the others looked directly at him. Piper settled for somewhere in the middle. She fixed her eyes on a section of the wall opposite her, still avoiding the corner where Frankie lay.

  She had to get out of here.

  It didn’t matter how long she’d been here so far and it didn’t matter how long he intended to keep her here before he took her, like he’d taken the twins. All that mattered was getting herself and the others out of here. But if she couldn’t save the others, then she’d get herself out.

  The man always came wearing a ski mask. He had low-waisted jeans, a T-shirt tucked in at the front, and a big studded belt. His stomach hung out over the belt but there was muscle beneath the fat and he was a big man. Piper knew that if there was any chance of her escaping, she had to be smart. She had to wait for just the right opportunity, just the right time. As much as the guard scared her, pacing around, growling, clinking his chain, this man scared her more. But she couldn’t let fear take over. She had to keep her chin up, remember what she had learned at the Air Force Academy back in Colorado Springs: you keep going no matter how dire the situation; no matter how bad things seem.