Blow
Copyright © 2015 by Kim Karr
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978–0-9889419–2-2
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Editor:
Mary-Theresa Hussey,
Good Stories Told Well
Interior Design and Formatting:
Christine Borgford,
Perfectly Publishable
Cover designer:
Hang Le,
By Hang Le
Cover model:
Cyril Mourali
Photographer:
Brice Hardelin,
Brice Hardelin Photography
Table of Contents
FOUR MONTHS BEFORE
LOGAN
M
ile after mile, I
ran. Faster, feet pounding against the broken asphalt, breath crystalizing in the air. I’d been fleeing along the edge of the road for what seemed like eternity. Trucks zoomed past me, taillights fading in the distance, and still there were no sirens.
The moon slipped behind a cloud and left me moving blindly. Finally, a whistle filled the darkness. It was what I’d been waiting for.
Let’s see how bad they want this.
I spun in the opposite direction and spotted the familiar red and blue lights. With a quick jump, I vaulted over the damaged guardrail and found myself tumbling down a steep ravine.
Landing on my stomach, blood dripped from my nose, and the taste of rust flooded my mouth. I didn’t take the time to wipe it away. I had to keep moving. I’d started this game and I was going to finish it.
Quickly, I leapt to my feet and began to run again. When a sharp burning and throbbing pulsated in my right ankle, I knew my speed would be impaired. I must have twisted it in the fall. With everything I had, I tried to ignore the pain.
Adrenaline pumped through my bloodstream, making my heart race and giving me the strength I needed. I was no longer on the pavement and my terrain was harder to navigate. Trees, broken branches, and the sickening smell of the stagnant river surrounded me. I pushed onward.
It could have been worse—at least there wasn’t any ice.
Still, it was fucking freezing out here. Snow fell around me. Chilled to the bone, I tugged my hat farther down over my ears.
I didn’t stop, though—I had to keep going.
When my eyes were streaming from the cold and my leg muscles began to seize up, I knew my body needed a break. I’d find cover and play the wait-and-see game.
The dilapidated abandoned warehouse a few yards away seemed like my best choice. The hinges were rusted and appeared broken, but when I yanked on the door, it wouldn’t open.
With a sigh, I stomped my salt-stained shoes in the slush I was standing in and looked around.
No sign of them, yet.
They’d be here soon enough.
My lungs burned as I bent over with my hands on my thighs in an attempt to catch my breath.
Poised to move in any direction, I thought about my decision to bait them.
Smart?
Stupid?
I couldn’t believe the game of cat and mouse I had entered into—with the Boston Police Department nonetheless.
But I’d had enough. They’d been following me around for almost a week. Their more-than-obvious tail was bordering on harassment. Pushed to the limit, today I’d decided it was time to find out what it was all about. I was going to force their move. I left my vehicle and took off. They were tracking me, but what they were waiting for to approach me, I had no idea. At this point I had two choices—approach them or keep going. Since I didn’t want to make it easy, I kept running.
Time seemed to be at a standstill as I looked around again. I knew they were close. Yet, as I searched my surroundings, there were no signs of life; everything around me was dark except for the golden glow from the cables of the Zakim Bridge.
The bridge.
I couldn’t believe I’d ended up on the West End. That was more than a slight hike from the tip of the South End, where I’d started all this.
What time was it anyway?
Before I could look at my watch—the one my grandfather had given me, the one worth more than most of the houses in the surrounding area, the pretentious Patek Philippe with an authentic enamel dial and custom-made rubber watchband, the one almost a match for his own—a yellow beam of light shined down on me.
I guess the BPD finally decided to make their move.
A heavily Boston-accented voice carried through the wind. “Put your hands in the air where we can see them.”
“Fuck me. Really? You’re going to arrest me? For what?” My gaze scoured the area until they came into sight.
There were three of them and one of me. I didn’t plan to keep running. I didn’t need to, but even if I wanted to, there was nowhere to go. The riverbank was on one side and they were on the other. The trio moved closer and drew their weapons. I responded with equanimity and raised my palms. Still, not a single one of them lowered a gun. Step by step, they moved toward me. When they were about five feet away, I decided to help them out and face them, but before I could, the tallest figure lunged for me.
He pinned me to the wall. “I just wanted to talk. I wasn’t going to arrest you until you assaulted me. But thanks for giving me a reason.”
“I was putting my hands behind my back, asshole,” I grunted.
“Right,” he snickered.
Nostrils flaring, the fatter one grabbed me by my collar and yanked me to him. “Stop resisting.”
What the fuck?
A quick punch to the gut and a kick to my leg had me belly down in a matter of seconds.
Most men would have been scared shitless, but not me. I grew up living in two very different worlds, the only similarity being power and greed. To look at me, you wouldn’t believe I was capable of doing the things I had done. Born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I was the grandson of one of the wealthiest men in New York City.
It wasn’t my trust fund background that anyone had to worry about, though. I was also the grandson of the former head of Boston’s Blue Hill Gang—a piece of me I had tried to renounce. That I wanted to escape. But my family ties kept me bound. The Irish Mob might have changed since my father’s father ran things, but there were some things that never changed.
I’d been raised in both worlds and these cops knew it. They were counting on the Blue Hill Gang part of me to greet them. That’s not what they were going to get. “What exactly do you want with me?” I asked calmly, exuding that civility I’d been reared in. When no one answered, I pressed on. “Why have you been following me?” Although I knew my heavy breathing was starting to betray my calm façade, I didn’t care. And besides, in the mood they were in, I doubted they noticed my breathing at all.
When one of them ground my face into the icy concrete, I knew he was more than aware of my forced calmness, and he didn’t like it. He was trying to rattle me. Which cop it was, I couldn’t tell. But then he muttered, “Did I tell you to talk?” with that thick accent of his and I knew who it was.
The reserve I’d been holding on to faded as soon as the coppery taste of blood seeped into my mouth for the second time tonight. Unable to restrain myself, my jaw tightened and I spoke through my teeth. “Do you know who I am?”
His laugh was cold, mirthless. “Do you think I give a shit?”
A large boot stepped forward and a voice of authority drew their attention. “Not here, not now.”
Spit landed near my head as cuffs were slapped on me.
The cuffs were clenched good and tight around my wrists and I winced. There was no hiding the fact that I felt pain. My skin scraped mercilessly against the metal when I was yanked to my feet and I knew my wrists were already raw. Regaining my stability, it no longer seemed so dark. The neon green of the TD Garden billboards lit up their faces. And the sight wasn’t pretty.
Anger.
Hatred.
Disgust.
The fatter one glowered at me with narrowed eyes. “Wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit doesn’t make you any less of a piece of shit.”
“Fuck you.”
A shot to the jaw—my head swung and my face ached.
A jab or three to the stomach—it felt like every fist in the world was punching me.
The sock to my gut had my lungs swinging from my rib cage.
A club to the back of my knees took me to the ground like a pussy.
But it was the swift kick in the ribs that had me swallowing hard and gasping for air. “Fuckkk.”
I looked up.
There was one.
Two.
Or all three of them on me—I wasn’t sure.
“Get up,” one of the men barked.
Blood was still dripping from my mouth, but this time I couldn’t wipe it off even if I wanted to. One of them attempted to pull me up, but I shrugged off his help. I could get myself up.