Deadly Gamble

A M Jenner

Copyright 2015, The Electric Scroll

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by The Electric Scroll. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher. For information contact The Electric Scroll, 745 N. Gilbert Rd. Ste. 124 PMB 197, Gilbert, Arizona, 85234.

The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and entirely in the imagination of the reader.

Table of Contents

Title

Chapter One

Thanks

About the Author

Books by A M Jenner

Connect with me online

Tuesday, March 3rd

Home of Shenda Brown

Mesa, Arizona

Absolutely not, Kelley; I have a date with a murderer! I have to check out the alley tonight, and I can't send the manuscript in to you until I have the details right. If Janson can't see the murderer well enough to identify him in the thin light of tonight's moon, I'll have to do a ton of rewriting. The weather's perfect, too. The whole thing should be ready by week's end; I can practically guarantee it.

Shenda Brown heard her editor snort and let a small impatient sound escape her own throat.

I don't know what your rush is, she said as she picked up a lunar chart from her desk and checked her calculations once more. I still have more than three weeks to get the finals to you, even by your deadline, which is eight weeks before it's actually due, so I have the time I need to nail down these stubborn details. See how well I know you?

She let her editor argue on, the sound in her ear an irritating buzz of noise. Her mind was more on her moon calculations than on his words.

I'll call you tomorrow, she said, checking her watch as she dropped the chart back onto the pile on her desk. It was 9:25 pm. If I don't leave right now, the timing and the light will be wrong, and I'll have to wait until next month to check. It would be just like some of my readers to catch me in a mistake. Goodnight, Kelley.

Shenda stabbed at the screen to hang up and slid her cell phone back into its case at her waist, pulling her black tee shirt down to cover it. She slid her arms into a black windbreaker, picked up her fanny pack, and headed for the side door, her mind on the details of the night's excursion.

The attached garage to her home was well-lit and Shenda had no fear as she quickly walked the few steps to her car. She squeezed the button on her key fob and heard the beep of the alarm deactivating and saw the double flash of the headlights. To her, it was her car greeting her with a cheery hello.

Hi, yourself, Babycakes, how's my favorite car? she asked, as she got in and dropped her fanny pack onto the seat beside her. Shenda snapped on her seatbelt and started the car. She punched the garage door button on her visor and waited while it opened, watching the rear-view mirror constantly. Some parts of her past refused to be lulled into any sense of security. 'Relax your vigil and you open yourself up to trouble' was her watchword. It had worked so far.

Shenda backed out of the garage onto her driveway, then waited for the garage door to fully close before she drove away. Once on the main street headed for the freeway, she began her normal conversation with her car.

"Well, Babycakes, we have to go to the alley down near the fairgrounds tonight. I've got to know if Janson actually has enough light to see the murder happening or not. Kelley kept me talking so long I hope we aren't going to be late.

Of course, I could make the time of the crime 30 minutes later, but that wouldn't work very well. All the alibis are set for 10:08 pm. With any kind of luck traffic will be light and we can get there on time.

Shenda maneuvered her snappy little sports car onto the on-ramp. She automatically watched car lights behind her in the rear-view mirror, noticing the two cars which had followed her onto the freeway. The light-colored car had come round her by now; the dark one stayed where it was, but moved over one lane, almost hiding in her blind spot.

Oh, Babycakes, I wonder what game this guy's playing? She bit her bottom lip nervously. Let's pull a little ahead and see what he does.

Shenda sped up to five over the speed limit and watched him match her speed.

Okay, let's see if he'll pass us. She eased up on the throttle a little, slowing to about two miles per hour below the surrounding traffic.

For a few moments, the dark car also slowed. As she continued to slow further, it picked up speed and slid past her, honking noisily before cutting back in front of her, allowing little room to spare.

She saw him wave a rude hand gesture out the window as he jammed on the brakes, causing her to stomp on her own brakes; then he gunned his vehicle, moving quickly out of her way.

Shenda took in a large amount of air, held it a second, and expelled it noisily. She hadn't heard from her ex-boyfriend-slash-stalker since she'd moved to Arizona, but she still found herself being extra watchful.

Well, Babycakes, she said, I guess he wasn't following us. Okay, back to our own little project. Let's get to that alleyway, pronto. We have a date with a murderer. Shenda smiled slightly as she drove.

Tuesday, March 3rd

Alley near 19th Ave & Grand Ave

Phoenix, Arizona

Thirty minutes later, Shenda had exited the freeway, driven several blocks and pulled next to the corner curb of a side street near her destination. Fanny pack in hand, she slid out of the car and locked it with the keys to avoid making noise.

She tucked her keys in the fanny pack and slung the slender pouch around her waist, clipping it securely in place. Shenda shivered slightly as she zipped her windbreaker shut against the soft breeze of the evening.

As she looked up and down both streets from this corner vantage point, she automatically memorized what she saw.

This section of the street was short; barely big enough for two houses with their yards. The alley and the streets running parallel to it, on the other hand, were at least 20 houses long; far enough, anyway, that the far end was lost in the dark.

She looked both ways once more, and pulled the hem of the windbreaker over her hips, effectively hiding her fanny pack. She knew the dark jacket would blend with her black jeans and sneakers, hiding her in the darkness. She quickly strode across the street and into the shadows of the alley. Her sneakers made little sound as she walked quietly down the center of the narrow lane.

She knew she was taking the long way to the crime scene, but in her book, the man hadn't known just where the evidence had been hidden. Being a stickler for perfect detail, she wanted to duplicate his actions.

On the left side of the alley, walls completely blocked her view into most of the yards she was passing. This was also the side where the large city trash-collection cans stood. Trash cans. She was showing her age again. Could a plastic bin properly be called a trash can? She shook her head and concentrated on the alley again.

Each container was precisely positioned. A white banner with black writing on each can warned against moving or even turning the trashcans or fines would be levied.

The amount of debris on both sides of the alley told Shenda next week would be uncontained trash pickup week. All sorts of useless flotsam and jetsam littered the area. The right side of the alley was lined with bushes and fences. Whole yards had full, thick hedges of oleander. A few trees were here and there, the longer branches hanging over into the alleyway, reaching down as if to catch her and hold her hostage.

Many of the fences were decorated with beware-of-dog signs. From behind the signs, dogs objected to her passing their yards. Shenda shivered slightly, moving from one side of the alley to the other in order to keep the largest distance between herself and the yards with the noisy and potentially dangerous dogs.

One back fence was bedecked with about ten signs warning people to beware the presence of dogs in this yard. A large sign in the center of that fence caught her eye and Shenda nearly laughed aloud. It stated, Forget the dog. Beware of owner. Between the two lines of print was a hand holding a large revolver with a thin curl of smoke rising from the recently used barrel.

She shook her head at the odd sense of humor this yard owner had, and with a grin on her face, she continued moving. With growing unease, she realized no dog had barked at her but a quiet growl now came from the corner of that lot. She mutely moved onward, the grin no longer on her face.

Shenda paused and looked back the way she had come from time to time, not expecting to see anything, but reassuring herself she was alone in the dark.

Reaching the place she desired, she paused, looking around. An overturned wheelbarrow topped a pile of pruned tree branches a few feet further along. She stooped low and crept forward, careful not to poke herself with the cut limbs jutting from beneath its metal rim.

Eyes closed, Shenda mentally followed the scene as she had written it; the drama unfolding in her mind's eye. Two men dragging the third into the alley from their car, the victim's mouth covered with wide silver tape, with more tape at his wrists and ankles.

The sounds of scuffles and moans intruded rudely into her conscious brain, and Shenda opened her eyes. Before her was the very scene she'd written, playing live with sound and what passed for color in this meager light. She pressed against the wheelbarrow, terror killing the ability to use her voice even had she wanted to, although her mouth was open. She shut it and swallowed.

Two men were dragging something between them, staying deep in the shadows to avoid being seen from the street by passing cars. The shorter one kicked the lumpy mass between them from time to time as they wrestled the thing along. With each vicious kick, a muttered oath voiced by the kicker accompanied the action, and a muffled groan drifted to her ears. The thing between seemed to be human, and male.

Forty feet from her, they dropped the bundle on the ground with a plop and stood over it, panting. The taller man reached into a jacket pocket and removed something. He raised his right arm slightly, and with a flick of a wrist she saw, even in the moon's weak light, the flash of metal, then heard the snick as a blade whizzed into view.

He held the pose a moment before reaching down and easily cutting the tape from the man's wrists and feet. He yanked off the tape he'd just cut, wadded it up and flung it to the ground. The man on the ground had done nothing more than groan once.

The smaller man once again kicked out, and this time his words were audible. If you don't like the game we're playing, just pay us off and we'll let bygones be bygones.

Shenda heard the taller man say something, but she couldn't hear the words. Shorty reached down and roughly ripped the tape from the victim's face. She winced, imagining how it would feel to have duct tape ripped from your face without care. Involuntarily, her hand went protectively to her mouth. She swallowed hard, and, in doing so, missed the first words of the next sentence, but she thought the tall man had called the other a name before continuing.

When are you going to pay us?

Next week. The moaning voice of the man on the ground was barely audible.

Next week ain't good enough, Shorty said, his voice menacing.

Don't owe you, the pile of humanity moaned, race was fixed; you cheated.

The race wasn't fixed. You owe the money. So pay it, the tall one answered.

The man on the ground suddenly kicked out, catching his taller antagonist with a good solid kick in the crotch. With one terrible yell, he fell to the ground, unmoving and silent.

The shorter thug roared, cursing, then took out a gun and shot the victim twice in quick succession. Shenda gasped and jerked. Her foot made contact with a soda can. The clattering sound was loud in the silent alley.

Shorty froze for a long moment, then aimed his weapon in her direction. Shenda scrambled upright, but stayed as far back in the shadows as she could.

Who's there? the short man called out. The moonlight glinted on the gun.

A shot rang out, the bullet slamming into the fence near Shenda's shoulder.

She bolted, running flat out down the alley. Another shot whizzed over her head, and Shenda ducked lower, still running.

The next bullet hit her. A tearing pain slammed into her back. The force of it spun her around before she hit the ground. Stars swirled in front of her eyes, and she mentally apologized to Kelley for missing her deadline before the surrounding black night smothered her.

Tuesday, March 3rd

Alley near 19th Ave & Grand Ave

Phoenix, Arizona

Trenton Stone couldn't move. It was all he could do to breathe. He desperately tried to fight waves of nausea. He'd never felt such pain in his life and if Stanley hadn't just shot Terry Withers, he'd be tempted to rip Terry limb from limb.

Stanley took three steps toward the fallen body down the alley, but Trenton called him back, wheezing before he barfed on the ground beside the body. Some of the vomit splashed on his own pants. He retched several more times before he could breathe again, although he was still only able to gulp air in small, painful amounts.

Help me up and let's get outta here, he gasped out. You brought 'em down. It was…probably just a…drunk who won't live…long enough to say…anything. Anyway, it's…too dark for him to see our faces and I…can't run. Just grab Terry. Get him to the car. We… he stopped trying to speak and swallowed as Stanley helped him to stand.

Trenton's pain was so severe he couldn't straighten up; his vision had a greenish haze around the edges. He wondered if his manhood would ever function again or if the crushing damage had burst everything.

His eyes were streaming, the pain between his legs more acute than he'd ever known it could be. He sucked in more air and saw the look on Stanley's face.

We'll worry about the drunk…later. Is the kid…still alive?

Stanley looked down and nudged Terry with his foot.

Not any more. I thought he'd killed you, Trenton. I can guarantee he won't kick anybody again, the stinking, gutless wonder! He spat at Terry, lying dead on the ground.

He stuffed the gun back into the holster he wore under his jacket and grabbed Terry's corpse under the armpits, dragging it toward the car. While Stanley stopped to catch his breath, Trenton strained his ears, listening for sirens. They'd fired several shots, and it couldn't be long until the cops showed up.

Go get the car, stupid. We need to get out of here.

Stanley ran to the end of the alley, and was shortly backing toward them. He had a difficult time lifting Terry into the trunk. Trenton kept clearing his throat, trying to swallow enough to keep anything else from coming up. If he could've, he'd have let Stanley's ribs feel the brunt of his pain. Stanley probably figured as much, because even though he glanced at him from time to time, he didn't ask Trenton for help with Terry.

Stanley had screwed up by using the gun. He'd hear about it, too, as soon as Trenton got his breath back. Why he'd done it, Trenton could only guess, but the consequences would be far-reaching, more so for himself than Stanley; Trenton knew that, too. As the elder brother, the Family would hold him responsible; he'd been in charge of the operation.

Finally, Stanley got Terry's body in the car. Trenton struggled to reach the passenger's side where he leaned on the car, gathering the strength to open the door. The window of the car showed Trenton's pasty white reflection in the moonlight. He wiped streaks of sweat off his forehead.

What about the drunk?

Quit worrying…about the drunk. He…hasn't moved or…made a sound since you shot him. He's dead. Just get in…and drive us out of here…before the cops show up.

Both men got into the car. Stanley started the engine and they drove away. At last, Trenton was able to string a few words together into whole sentences. Terry may not be able to kick anyone else again, but he also won't be able to pay up. Father's not going to be happy, either; body count of two and not a dime to show for it. Bad move, Stan.

Stanley didn't say a thing. Trenton looked at him and saw sweat beading his brother's face. Stanley realized trouble was coming; Trenton could see it on his face. He shook his head. A wave of dizziness engulfed him and he nearly vomited again. He took in a couple of deep breaths to steady himself and settle his innards.

Trenton told Stan to head for a spot he knew on the nearby Indian reservation where they could dump the body and not be blamed for it. They'd just have to be careful there were no Indians nearby when they did it.

He still couldn't breathe properly, but he had more pressing things on his mind. Things like keeping the remainder of his dinner inside his body; like skinning his stupid little brother for using the gun when it wasn't needed. Like wondering how he was going to placate his father when they told him they wouldn't be able to collect the $70,000 from Terry. The Old Man would hold him responsible for the whole mess; he always did.

Trenton swore viciously. Beside him, Stanley flinched and sat closer to the car's door as he drove, keeping as silent as Terry was.

Trenton could almost feel the noose being tightened around his neck by his father's fist.

Wednesday, March 4th

Home of Baxter Stone

Scottsdale, Arizona

Trenton straightened his tie and made sure his shoe-tips gleamed in the soft light of the hall's lamp just outside his father's library.

Stanley looked at his reflection in the mirror above the shelf just to the left of the closed double doors of the same room and straightened the white handkerchief peeking out of the pocket of his suit coat.

How is that? he whispered to Trenton. Is it straight?

Trenton glared at his younger brother. "You never pay attention to what I say, ever, so why ask me? he hissed. You do what you want to and then I have to take the heat. That's why we've been summoned tonight; for your stupidity in killing Terry. You can see the mirror as well as I can. See for yourself if your damn handkerchief is straight."

The double library doors opened and Reynaldo stepped through, his gaze searching for them. The ancient servant formally greeted them in total silence, as only he could do. Disdain marked his face. With the slightest nod of his head, he motioned for them to enter.

It's been nice knowing you, Stanley whispered from the side of his mouth as they passed Reynaldo, who closed the door behind them from the outside; always a bad sign.

The two men stopped in front of the desk at the top of the room, standing almost at a military attention; not daring to sit. Seated, Baxter Stone continued to write in a notebook, the scratching noise of his fountain pen sounding loud in the silence of the quiet room. Trenton stood absolutely still, knowing this was an exercise of intimidation.

Several minutes later, Stanley fidgeted minutely. Their father continued his silence and the writing went on. Trenton bit his inner lip to keep himself still. The formal stance irritated the injury Terry had given him, but he dared not move.

Trenton watched his brother with his peripheral vision. Stanley was shaking so badly now, it was noticeable. He was breathing in shallow gulps. He'd be lucky not to pass out before their father deigned to notice them.

Nearly ten minutes passed before the sound of the pen ceased, leaving the room more silent and threatening than before. Trenton saw Stanley stiffen as their father laid his pen to the side of the notebook.

Baxter looked up and surveyed them both for an extended moment, his gaze temporarily lingering on Stanley's shaking body. He finally took a long breath and expelled it slowly, shaking his head to show his disappointment.

Where's the money? The words were evenly spoken.

Trenton's mind scrambled for an explanation. Money? What money? He thought he'd been summoned for Terry's death. Then he realized what his father meant; Terry's money.

We couldn't collect it, Sir; Terry didn't have it, Trenton offered. If he was lucky and Stanley kept his fat mouth shut, today's interview didn't have to be about murder; Terry's, the drunk's, or his own at his father's hand.

The Old Man paused a long time before replying. Trenton stood perfectly still while Stanley fidgeted with his anxiety.

You two can't even handle one simple, little shake-down, can you? Baxter eyed Trenton maliciously as the words crossed the distance between them. What did you do to him, and when will we be receiving payment?

He said he could get thirty grand out of his mother later this week but we'd have to wait until Johnson gets home for the rest of it. We worked him over, but it didn't change his story. He kept claiming the race was fixed and he didn't owe the money.

Whether or not the race was fixed has nothing to do with Mr. Withers' debt, Baxter growled.

I told him that, but he can't get it until Johnson gets home.

And where is the young Mr. Withers now? Baxter demanded. Surely you didn't just let him go after reprimanding him? You are, I hope, bright enough to keep an eye on him?

Trenton's hopes sank. Terry's death was going to be a part of this interview. He swallowed and took in a shallow breath. Dead, Trenton said. He fought back and Stanley shot him.

Baxter's face reddened instantly with fury, and he rounded on his younger son.

You did what! he roared.

Stanley flinched, but managed to reply.

He kicked Trenton in the nuts, Father! I thought he'd killed him!

Silence! Baxter bellowed.

Stanley gulped and closed his mouth.

Trenton bit down hard on his inner lip. A warm and slightly salty taste told him he'd bitten through the soft flesh. He swallowed the blood lest his father see it; it would only encourage his father's aggravated retaliation.

Trenton was surprised and oddly pleased Stanley had tried to stand up for him. He'd never done that before.

Baxter paused, letting the silence smother more of the air in the room before his voice broke the strained stillness.

Terry was scum, but he was profitable scum. His father always came through for him in the end. The debt won't be paid now, but that is no longer the point of this meeting.

Stanley made a small noise and looked at Trenton. Trenton could see that much through his peripheral vision, but he didn't