Stranded (Boys Behaving Badly Book 4)
Stranded
A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology #4
Delilah Devlin
Elle James
Sam Heathers
Ara Geller
Lucrecia Christina
Kenzie Mathews
Michal Scott
A.C. Dawn
Kimberly Lithe
Melanie Jayne
A.J. Harris
N.J. Walters
Kimberly Dean
Sukie Chapin
Twisted Page Inc
Stranded
A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology
Edited by Delilah Devlin
Too Deep Copyright © 2019 Sam Heathers
Rescuing Alaska Copyright © 2019 Elle James
Reviving Artemis Copyright © 2019 Ara Geller
Switching Call Copyright © 2019 Lucrecia Christina
Hourglass Copyright © 2019 Kenzie Mathews
Quincy Down Under Copyright © 2019 Delilah Devlin
Put It in a Book Copyright © 2019 Michal Scott
A Stranger’s Kiss Copyright © 2019 A.C. Dawn
Burning Stars Copyright © 2019 Kimberly Lithe
A Change of Predicament Copyright © 2019 Melanie Jayne
Shelter from the Storm Copyright © 2019 A.J. Harris
Undercover Lover Copyright © 2019 N.J. Walters
Out of This World Copyright © 2019 Kimberly Dean
Going Down Copyright © 2019 Sukie Chapin
The stories in this book are works of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are of the authors' imaginations and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. 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 an information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the authors—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the web.
This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-62695-245-4
PRINT ISBN: 978-1-62695-246-1
Contents
Too Deep
Rescuing Alaska
Reviving Artemis
Switching Call
Hourglass
Quincy Down Under
Put It in a Book
A Stranger’s Kiss
Burning Stars
A Change of Predicament
Shelter from the Storm
Undercover Lover
Out of This World
Going Down
About the Authors
About the Editor
Stories Included
Too Deep – Sam Heathers
Rescuing Alaska – Elle James
Reviving Artemis – Ara Geller
Switching Call – Lucrecia Christina
Hourglass – Kenzie Mathews
Quincy Down Under – Delilah Devlin
Put It in a Book – Michal Scott
A Stranger’s Kiss – A.C. Dawn
Burning Stars – Kimberly Lithe
A Change of Predicament – Melanie Jayne
Shelter from the Storm – A.J. Harris
Undercover Lover – N.J. Walters
Out of This World – Kimberly Dean
Going Down – Sukie Chapin
Too Deep
By Sam Heathers
“Pick up, pick up, pick up.” I paced the park walkway with a burner to my ear, trying to will Frank to answer. Five rings. Ten. After the twentieth, the phone system cancelled the call. This had already happened twice in the last ten minutes.
Frank hadn’t shown up to a meet for three weeks. For the last two, his voicemail had picked up after four rings. This week, no voicemail.
I glanced around the park as I sat down. Normally, I opted for the cheaper flip-phone burners. But with Frank’s disappearance, I bought the more expensive smartphone and a data card.
After opening an Internet browser, I typed FRANK HASNA and hit search. Random results, nothing helpful.
I drew a deep breath and added…OBITUARY.
The first link delivered a nightmare. The article was from three days ago. Frank was dead.
Shit.
I dialed the number for the local Bureau office. “Agent Drew Bowers,” I said before the operator finished answering.
After some clicks and annoying hold music, another voice answered, “Vice Unit.”
“Agent Bowers.”
“Agent Bowers isn’t with the Bureau anymore.”
Frank hadn’t told me that. Why the hell hadn’t Frank said anything? “Where did he go?”
“Can I help you?”
“You can tell me where the fuck Agent Bowers went.”
“I’m not at liberty to—”
I hung up.
Shit. I was stranded.
Stranded. That’s what we call it when an undercover cop is left without contacts. When I went undercover, I gave up everything. What I got in return was a new identity. New social security card. New driver’s license. New rap sheet. The point was to make the old me disappear.
Two people knew who I really was: Frank Hasna and Drew Bowers. Frank was my primary contact—my old Captain. Drew, my Bureau contact. If anything happened to one, I could reach the other. They were the only two people who could get me back to my real life.
But once in a while, agents’ contacts died, leaving the agents to fend for themselves. Sometimes, they made it back alive. Other times, the script stops being an act—the undercover embraces the life and is lost. And sometimes, the jig is up. That’s when we get killed.
My other phone buzzed and brought me back to reality. I looked at the burner, hoping. No such luck.
Meet at the warehouse in an hour.
I put my phone back in my pocket, took the battery out of the burner, and threw it in the last trash can on the way out of the park. I carried the burner another block and tossed it in a dumpster.
Shit.
“You ready?”
I turned and saw Kalem. “For what? Tonight’s not supposed to be exciting.”
He smirked. “We could make it exciting.” Kalem was six-one and in his early thirties. He’d done a stint in prison after he and a friend knocked over a convenience store when he was eighteen. His friend turned state’s evidence and got a slap on the wrist. Kalem got five years, but his sentence had never really ended.
“We going to play charades?” I muttered.
“We can play something.” He was still built like he was in prison. Lean but strong. Broad shoulders. Arms like bundled steel cables. His legs held tension like a large cat, always ready to jump, run, and capture its prey.
I frowned. “I don’t know many games.”
“It’s okay. I’m a good teacher.” Despite the innuendo, that wasn’t a lie. While in prison, he’d gotten a college degree. By the end of his sentence, he’d been teaching inmates how to read. He’d even helped teach a few people in the organization.
“I’m not very good at learn
ing,” I said, the bitterness real.
“Don’t say that.” All innuendo was gone. “We’re all good at learning. We just have to have the right attitude.” Kalem believed in education. Thought it was going to be his way to the straight and narrow. He even got a law degree after he was released. Not one of the fake online ones; a real degree that practicing lawyers have. Yes, Kalem believed in education.
“How’s that working for you?” I regretted the words immediately.
Kalem nodded and looked away. The problem was never Kalem. He’d done everything society demanded. He’d graduated college. Found a way to get a law degree. Even passed the bar exam. Problem was, when he’d applied to become a lawyer, he couldn’t get past the character and fitness evaluation. You can’t practice without a license.
A truck horn pierced the dark, quiet sky, and men ran toward the sound. Kalem and I walked in the same direction.
When we reached the loading bay, the semi was backing in and men were bustling around. Kalem grabbed his phone and dialed. “It’s here, sir. Looks quiet. Yes, sir.” He hung up, and we watched.
“Hey.” I leaned my left shoulder into his right arm. The steel cables yielded just slightly. “I’m sorry about what I said.”
“You’re fine. And you’re not wrong.”
I looked at him, but his gaze stayed on the truck. I reached my right hand up to his jaw and turned his head. His deep brown eyes met mine, and I could tell it wasn’t fine. I’d dredged up a painful past. “I should be wrong. And I’m sorry.”
Brown whiskers scratched my hand as he looked down to the ground between us. He took a breath in and I held mine, waiting for his response.
He reached his left hand up and laid it on my right, pressing it harder onto his cheek. His gaze locked with mine. “I made my decisions. Nobody forced me to be here. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t.” He stared at me as if he expected me to answer, but I didn’t know what to say. “Like you, right?” He squeezed my hand, let go, and turned back.
I thought about it. My situation wasn’t the same as Kalem’s. I was the one who’d decided to be here. I was the one who’d decided to go undercover. Nobody had forced me. Still, I nodded my head. “Yeah.”
Twenty minutes later, the truck was almost unloaded, and Kalem and I looked at the inventory. A decent amount of electronics: TVs, stereos, computers, tablets.
The second category was what the organization ran most—guns.
The organization didn’t have a name. It wasn’t a gang with colors and territory. It ran more like an anonymous business. Blind Freight was the name on the incorporation papers, but the papers were bullshit. The business address was just a PO box in a random mailroom. And the officers listed on the paperwork were all made up. Except for the one person at the top—Jax Christensen.
Jax provided transportation. Too many outfits tried to run transportation on their own. Problem was, their people were garbage—tweakers who wanted to get high on the goods in the back.
Jax had seen an opportunity to consolidate the transportation of guns, drugs, stolen items, whatever, with somewhat legitimate shipping. With valid manifests, a couple small items could go unnoticed. Most outfits expected a certain amount of lost product from traffic stops. Jax could generally cut losses in half.
Two years ago, Jax had decided providing transport wasn’t enough. He’d moved into wholesale. He arranged for guns, stolen items, and sometimes drugs, to be distributed to smaller scale sellers.
Kalem had tried to talk Jax out of it. He’d run the numbers and said it wasn’t worth the risk. But the only line on the balance sheet that mattered to Jax was profit.
That’s when the PD had found out about the organization. Jax ran a tight ship, but loose lips sink ships. And lips loosen when a person’s facing prison time. A small-time driver snitched on the organization, so the PD partnered up with the Bureau. They ran surveillance and had one of their shrinks work up a profile. They came up with a theory.
Jax saw himself like the gangsters in the movies. He wanted to have a massive operation and ladies in skimpy bikinis at his pool. An attractive woman who could sell him Hollywood dreams of becoming Scarface wouldn’t just get into his operation, she’d soar to the top. That was me.
I shook the reminiscence out of my head and looked back at the stolen merch. “Kalem, how’s everything looking?”
“My count’s matching up. Yours?”
“I’m not done counting yet, but it looks good.”
“You having trouble? You can use my fingers for help.” His smirk was back. And the innuendo.
“You bring a finger close to me and—”
Shots reverberated throughout the warehouse.
The tension in Kalem’s legs released as he tackled me to the ground. On the floor, he wrapped his arms around me, the steel cables taut and restricting. His left arm weaved under my head, his right hooked around my hips and pulled me close. I felt his flexed muscles shifting like plates of armor against my back.
He leaned up then sat. His head darted from side to side while he pulled a Sig Sauer from the small of his back. He pointed the gun toward the entrance and held me down with his left hand.
More shots rang out, and Kalem glanced to his right.
“Move to the back.” There was gravel in his voice. It was a fight or flight response. Primal. “Now,” he growled.
I got my feet beneath me, unholstered my Glock, and rushed toward the rear exit. I looked back and saw Kalem alternating between forward and backward. Looking to the fight and looking toward me. Fight or flee? Attack or defend? He shook his head and sprinted after me.
We reached the door at the same time. Kalem put a finger to his mouth to remind me to stay quiet. He reached with his left hand and turned the knob. As he inched the door open, Kalem traced the field of vision with his gun.
Like lightning, he ducked back in. I heard gunfire outside and tightened the grip on my Glock. Kalem peered outside again, gun at the ready. One second. Two.
Kalem pulled the trigger four times then pushed open the door and swept, left to right, with his gun.
I walked out behind him and covered from the left again, letting Kalem focus on the right.
“Go!” Kalem boomed, and we sprinted.
A quarter mile away, we slowed. My chest heaved, sucking in air as I holstered my Glock.
Kalem still held his Sig, his gaze still tracking left right to left.
I reached up and hugged him. “Thank you.”
He returned the hug with his left arm, and I felt his strength.
After a brief moment, he let go, put his Sig away, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me at a fast walk. “We have to keep moving.”
He lifted his phone and hit one button. “We were hit, sir. No clue. Lots of gunfire, sir. Not sure. No, Katie’s fine. She’s with me. On our way, sir.”
Jax’s house was locked down for war. Spotlights lit up the massive front yard. I expected the back looked the same. One spotlight focused on Kalem and me. Rifle and shotgun barrels pointed through slivers of boarded windows and followed our progress.
Bridges, one of Jax’s body-men, opened the door. He was a massive six-four and had an AR-15 strapped across his chest. “Boss wants to see you.”
Inside, the house looked like a tacky palace. The Bureau shrinks had been right—Jax idolized movie kingpins. His mansion reflected that. Unnecessary columns. Furniture and decorations that were black, gold, or—ideally for Jax—both. Framed movie posters of Scarface, Casino, and The Godfather served as the closest approximation to art. The decor looked like the kid who sold weed out of a college dorm-room got a mansion.
Kalem and I walked to the third floor and knocked on the double-doors.
Jax opened both at the same time. “What the fuck happened out there?” he screamed even though we were two feet away. He wore a black robe with a gold-stitched dragon on it, doing everything he could to look the part.
“No clue, sir,” Kalem answered. “Everythi
ng was going according to plan. The men had unloaded the truck; Katie and I were counting the merchandise. Everything was there. Then we heard gunshots. I had to get Katie out of there, so we went to the back exit.”
I looked up at Kalem, eyebrows raised. What did he mean had to get me out of there?
“I shot one in the back of the warehouse,” he continued. “After that, we ran on foot and called you.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what happened,” Jax yelled again. He turned and walked away from us, his robe floating behind him. “The fucking cops raided the place.”
Kalem paused. “Cops, sir?”
“Yes, cops!” Jax picked up a huge remote and pulled up the warehouse surveillance footage.
The screen split into two rows of four video feeds. In the two feeds from the front, cops closed in on the warehouse. At the same time, more officers closed in on the side. One of the organization’s men saw them and pulled a gun. When the cops shot him, I turned to a screen showing the interior. Kalem dove on me. The cops closed in on the outside as we moved to the back exit.
When Kalem looked out the rear exit, one cop came around the back. I squinted to get a closer look. He wasn’t wearing anything that identified him as police. That didn’t make sense. In a raid like this, cops always wore vests with POLICE emblazoned on them. Kalem pulled the trigger four times, and three shots hit their mark. The two of us ran out the back just as the cops entered and arrested the others.
“See?” Jax yelled again. “Cops raided my warehouse.”
Kalem and I were still watching the videos. Kalem’s jaw clenched. His gaze was glued to one screen—the screen with a cop on the ground.