Keep Your Enemies Closer (A Makaveli’s Prince Novella)

Keep Your Enemies Closer

A Makaveli’s Prince Novella

Sam Hunter

Keep Your Enemies Closer

Sam Hunter

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Keep Your Enemies Closer is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Sam Hunter

Smashwords Edition

www.samhunter.org

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First Edition, 2016

ONE

The rain was coming down hard when Martin Hernandez stepped under the cover of the downtown Miami parking structure.  He’d turned the collar of his jacket up but, upon reflection, he didn’t know why; it was catching the rain and funneling it down the back of his neck and soaking his shirt.

He shook the residual raindrops off his jacket and checked that the manila envelope under it was still dry.

Hernandez was an attorney for Hendley Simmons & Associates, based here in Miami.  His usual work fell within the law, even though the clients were sometimes questionable.  But at other times, like this, there was less than legal work that really needed taking care of.  He did it because it paid well, he’d also been promised it would fast track him to partner.  The partners encouraged his activities so long as it served their clients’ interests, primarily financial, which in turn served their own.

There were very few cars in the three storey parking lot because it was so damned early in the morning.  What was it with these military types that had them up at such early hours?  He much preferred to have such meetings in the late hours and dive bars.

The job had come through the previous evening and he’d sent word to his contact to arrange a meeting.  He’d expected the meet would be set for daylight hours but here he was before dawn getting soaked in the rain.

The sound of his footsteps echoed around as he walked swiftly to the twin cab pickup, reverse parked against the wall, just past the stairwell.

It wasn’t the first time he’d used these guys but they still made him nervous.  They came with a fierce reputation.

The passenger side front door opened.  He knew to get in.  He stepped up into the cab, sat in the seat and pulled the door closed.  The central locking clunked.

Eyes front, came a voice from the back.  He recognized the voice from his past dealings, although he’d never seen the face of the mercenary, or private security contractor as they now liked to be called.  It made no difference to him as long as they still got the job done for his client.

I remember the drill, said Hernandez, holding up the envelope, which was swiftly taken.  It’s all in here.  My client says to focus on recovering what’s specified in here.

He could hear the contents of the envelope being thumbed through but knew another pair of eyes was still on him.  These guys never worked alone.  He thought he could hear more than one person breathing behind him, in which case he fully expected there to be a pistol pointed at his back.

These were ruthless but professional men, much more cutthroat than was really needed for this fairly straightforward asset recovery.  But you never could be too sure.

Usual amount upfront, said the voice from the back, and five million upon completion.

I’m authorized to go as high as four but you are permitted to recover and keep any cash you find with the target as long as it doesn’t compromise its acquisition.

Understood.

The locks popped up and Hernandez knew that meant the deal was done.  It was the signal to leave.  He exited the vehicle and walked out to the street, resisting the urge to look back.  He had a mutual interest in not seeing their faces.

He heard the roar of an engine and knew they had pulled off.  He began walking through the rain in the direction of his office.  It was several blocks away and, after changing his shirt that now clung to his back under his jacket, he was going to make an early start on the legitimate work he did for clients.

Laila pulled her hoodie over her head.  She hadn’t done her hair or makeup in days.  The hood felt like a good place to hide.  She entered the room with a dozen other people and found a place at one of the plastic chairs arranged in a horseshoe shape in the center of the room.  She adjusted its position slightly, the heavy-duty carpet resisting its movement.

Rain pounded the floor to ceiling windows that ran the length of one side of the room.  It was the tail end of a storm that had been passing all night.

Laila sat forward, her elbows on her knees, and she hung her head.  She let her hood cover her face as other people sat down.  They were there for group counseling but Laila just wanted to go back to her room to sleep.  She was tired but knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.  She hadn’t really slept since it had happened.  As soon as she closed her eyes she was right back there.

At twenty-three she was one of the younger residents but not the youngest.  They weren’t called patients.  Something about avoiding perpetuating the idea that they were helpless victims.

There were two other residents in this group younger than her.  She knew from previous sessions one had served in Afghanistan and Iraq.  The other had been involved in a multiple car pileup on the interstate, the sole survivor from a wedding party traveling in a minibus.

They were all here because they were suffering from varying severities of post-traumatic stress disorder.  Partly because of the number of war on terror veterans, the treatment for PTSD was much improved on what it had been a decade or so before.  But some of the basics remained the same, like having to talk about it.

Laila hated taking.  She hated sharing.  It made her feel weak.  She wanted to just handle what had happened to her and move on.

She looked around the room as the others sat.  She was still the only black person in the group.  It wasn’t surprising.  There weren’t many people from the hood who were going to pay this sort of money to get their head straight.

Her bill was being paid by her man, Cameron Hicks.  And, although she didn’t like spending his money, he could afford it.  He wasn’t loaded but could afford it.  He also wanted her to get well and had said the cost didn’t matter.  But damn, what she’d give to rewind a week and be sitting on the porch of the cabin by the lake, smoking a blunt with him.

The thought lingered as the session began and it was nice to think of Cam.  She’d only met him the week before last but they’d fallen hard for one another.  Now she couldn’t imagine a world without him.

Most women would have run a mile after what had happened but they had sworn themselves to each other.  And at any rate, Laila felt it was her own fault.  She felt guilty because she should have known better.

Laila, are you with us?  The session leader was