Here’s a new episode in the blog series, FIRST CHAPTERS. It’s the first exciting chapters in each book in the Micah Reed series! Expect a new one each week.
To get this book, click here. To see all posts in the First Chapter series, click here.
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MY TWO OPPONENTS sit across the table from me, a grim triangle. On my left, there’s Frank Mueller. He’s the wise sage of the group. I’m not even exactly sure how old he is, but it’s on the wrong side of sixty. He thinks his dark skin and midnight eyes hide his poker face, but I can see right through him. Maybe he used to be a cop, but he’s lost his touch.
To my right is Layne Parrish. He’s the wildcard. Thirties, tall, muscular, exposed arms covered in tattoos. I can’t read his face at all. He could hold the keys to the kingdom in his fingers, and I would never know it.
The tension in this room feels like a layer of soup woven through the air. The kind where the silence is louder than screams.
“Micah,” Layne says. “Are you going to sit there all day?”
I look at the cards in my hand. “Go fish.”
Layne sighs and reaches across his dining room table to draw. He rolls his eyes at the card as he slips it into the others in his hand. Not good news.
I chuckle.
“You can wipe that grin off your face,” Frank says. “This game ain’t over yet, kid.”
Layne stands. “Either of you mind if I grab a beer? That’s not weird, is it?”
Frank and I share a look. Frank, my boss and AA sponsor, has been sober close to thirty years. About as long as I’ve been alive. He took his last drink before the internet was even a thing.
Me, I’m about nineteen months into living clean and sober, and being around alcohol doesn’t bother me much. Not anything like it used to do, back in my fledgling days of recovery. I used to wallow in a constant state of panic over my conflicting desires to both drink and not drink. At three or four months sober, seeing someone pop the cap off a Budweiser would have given me cold sweats.
“It’s fine,” Frank says, but he gives me a questioning look first. I shrug and wave my hand toward the kitchen, offering my permission.
Shifting my leg under the table, my knee scrapes against an exposed screw jutting from the bottom. Makes a little gash across my flesh.
“You got any duct tape?” I yell at Layne, who has disappeared into the kitchen.
“Yeah, why?”
“Going to fix your table so I can stop shredding my skin.”
Layne returns to the room with one Fat Tire and two Diet Cokes. He sets the non-alcoholic beverages in front of Frank and me. “Sure, check my closet in the bedroom. Should be on the shelf.”
When I stand, there’s a trickle of blood running down my knee. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn shorts, but it’s a brisk May day in Denver. The kind where the sun wants to bake you by noon.
“Either of you look at my cards while I’m gone,” I say as I swing a pointed finger between the two of them, “and you’re off my Christmas card list.”
Frank chuckles. “Don’t make idle threats if you can’t deliver.”
Feeling I’ve set the right tone, I leave the table and navigate through Layne’s living room down a hallway. His bedroom is a mess, but it’s understandable. He’s on the road a lot. I’m a rather sedentary person. Correction: I would love to be a sedentary person. Given what I used to do for a living and the fact that the name Micah Reed on my driver’s license isn’t who I really am, it’s not often an option for me. Trouble seems to follow me wherever I go like a piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Sometimes, it doesn’t follow, it leaps out in front of me, waving its arms.
When I open Layne’s closet, my mouth drops. Hanging on the inside door of his closet is a grate, with weapons suspended from hooks. Pistols, shotguns, magazines of ammo, boxes of shells. There’s enough to outfit a small army hanging there. Maybe ten, fifteen thousand dollars worth of gear. An AR-15 catches my eye in particular. It’s outfitted with a laser sight and a custom grip. I squint to study the biometric pad on the grip, something I’ve never seen on this weapon before. Custom made, probably.
“Thumbprint identifier?” I whisper. “What the hell is that all about? What kind of Jason Bourne stuff are you doing on your weekends, Layne?”
I leave the bedroom and wander back into the dining room. I know Layne was once in the military, and he has a certain distrust of the government, but I didn’t picture him as one of those tinfoil-hat militia types. Then again, I’ve only known him for a few months. We don’t exactly talk politics when we get together. Usually, we meet at the boxing gym, where we bond by punching each other in the face repeatedly.
Maybe I don’t know him at all.
“You not find the duct tape?” Layne says, eyeing me as I stare at him.
“Um, no.”
Layne frowns and rises from his chair. He disappears into the kitchen for a few seconds, then he comes back with a roll in his hand. But, he lifts his arm, pointing past me. “Whoa. Check it out. They’ve got video now.”
I turn to find him gawking at the television in the living room. Onscreen, there’s a firefight outside a house in the suburbs. Smoke. Gun blasts like yellow sparks of popping firecrackers. The view is from above, a helicopter hovering around. I can see the shadow of the blades on the neighborhood lawns below.
The three of us leave the dining room and walk into the adjoining living room. While Layne fumbles with the remote control, I read through the text crawl at the bottom of the screen.
Standoff in Dallas with police ends with six dead. Three police officers, three house occupants. Suspected mafia members the cause of the shootout. One man has fled, is wanted for questioning.
Layne hits the unmute button on the remote, and the sound of televised gunfire cracks through the room.
“Local police believe that members of a suspected organized crime family visited this Dallas home in an attempt to kill Elias Sellers, an accountant who works at the Austin law firm S&T.”
My heart thumps in my chest. Did I hear that name right?
The camera angle switches to someone’s jerky cell phone footage at the street level. Three police cars on one side of the street, barricading the way out. Cops huddled behind their cars, popping up to take shots. A group of men taking cover behind an SUV return sporadic fire.
“Micah,” Frank says. “You okay? You look like you’re having a panic attack.”
“Fine,” I say. “This is live?”
“No,” Layne says. “Notification about this popped up on my phone over an hour ago. Happened this morning.”
The camera overhead resumes showing the shootout from the helicopter’s perspective. The men behind the SUV flee, but the cops are still under fire from somewhere else. The running men leap over a fence and disappear through the backyard of a nearby house across the street. Within seconds, they’re out of view.
The helicopter swings around to the backyard of a different house. The door opens, and a man with blond hair sprints across the grass. The copter’s camera zooms in on him as he runs. The man looks up and raises a hand to shield himself from the blaring sun.
The camera frame freezes. Zooms in closer, highlighting the face of the running man.
My mouth dries up like the Badlands. I can’t swallow.
“The image you’re seeing now is Elias Sellers,” the news reporter says, “the man staying at this rented house. Authorities believe the armed men were there specifically to kill him. As you can see, Sellers fled from the back of the house and was last seen somewhere in a neighborhood in Irving, Texas. He’s been missing since then. The police want to speak with him regarding the incident, but have been unable to locate him.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s Fish.”
Frank puts his hands on his hips. “What are you talking about? You know that running guy?”
“He’s not considered dangerous,” the reporter says, “but if you encounter him, please contact the Irving Police Department via their website. It’s critical they find Mr. Sellers as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” I say. “I know him.”
I never thought I would see that blond-haired, blue-eyed face again. Never thought I would need to.
“Micah,” Layne says, “what’s all this about? How do you know this guy?”
My lip trembles. “Frank, I’m going to need to take a week or two off work.”
“You need to start talking sense,” Frank says.
I point at the TV. “I need to go to Texas.”
“What are you going to do?” Layne says.
“That guy the mob is trying to kill? That’s Fish. He was my cellmate.”
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To get this book, click here. To see all posts in the First Chapter series, click here.