Ashen Rayne (Shadowlands Book 1) (3 page)

“You’re not leaving the service, Private MacKenna. You’re going on a mission with me. I could use someone with your skills. Now, go get your gear, and meet me in the quad in ten minutes. I’ve got a chopper waiting,” the general replied.

Smoak saluted. “Aye, sir.”

She ran off toward the barracks, her mind on what was about to happen. Behind her, she could hear the general.

“You ladies have obviously failed to learn a very important lesson. I hope Private MacKenna’s example has hammered home something you should have learned by now. You’re soldiers. Fall in, give me six laps and then report to your new C.O. at the barracks. You’re being returned to a regular unit in the morning.”

The sound of waves crashing on the beach awakened Smoak just after dawn. She opened her eyes to a cloud of blonde hair in her face and a weight on her chest. She pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared at the mirrors above her head. They reflected a bed covered in white, and her tall, muscular form with its handful of tattoos and scars lying on cold white satin. A petite young woman with black hair and a body full of tattoos lay next to her, along with an empty bottle of Talisker whisky.

Smoak groaned inwardly as the warm, womanly scent of sex hit her like a wet rag. Dammit, she couldn’t even remember the girl’s name. Keiko? Kimiko? Definitely something Asian-sounding with a K.

She pushed the girl’s arm off her chest and slid out of bed. The satin sheets whispered against her bare body, and her feet sank into the deep, white carpet. The bright white of the room stood in stark contrast to her blonde hair, beach tan and French tipped ‘stripper-length’ nails.

Smoak ran a hand through her hair and pushed through the sheer white curtains to stand on the veranda that overlooked Miami’s South Beach. At this hour, the beach was calm and quiet—pristine, the way the Goddess intended.

Behind her, she heard the bedroom door open. She recognized Ashley’s footsteps, even on the plush carpet and didn’t turn around.

“Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty, time to get up and out,” Ashley said.

“What? Who are you? Where’s Kamryn?” the other girl asked.

“I’m the one telling you to get up, get dressed and get the hell out. If you like, I can tell you to just get out, and you can leave your clothes here,” Ashley replied.

“Leave me alone, I’m Kam’s girlfriend!” the girl snapped.

Smoak shook her head and looked down at the sand below.

“Honey, you’re not even close,” Ashley said. “I guarantee you, she doesn’t even remember your name. You were Ms. Lastnight, that’s it. Sorry to be the bringer of bad news, but that’s the deal. Time to go.”

“Kam? Kam tell this bitch I’m your girl!”

Smoak half-turned and looked at Ashley. She almost smiled. Ash was leaning over the Asian girl, and she still looked eighteen, complete with skinny jeans, Converse sneakers and a ‘Lollipops’ tee.

“She’s not a bitch, she’s my roommate,” Smoak said. “Look, last night was fun, but you should leave…whatever your name is.”

“I told you she couldn’t remember your name,” Ashley said. “Now get dressed and get out before I throw you over the balcony.”

“My name is Kazue,” the girl said, pulling on her skirt. “I can’t believe this! What a bitch!”

“Believe it, Kazoo,” Ashley replied. “And watch your mouth.”

Kazue gathered the rest of her things and stormed out of the room, cursing Smoak’s entire family line. The woman’s rant was only ended by the slamming of the apartment door.

“You could occasionally try to remember their names, SK,” Ashley said, stepping onto the Veranda.

Smoak shrugged and looked at Ashley. “I do try, Ash. At least I knew hers started with a K. I’ll remember her name when she’s the one.”

“The one?” Ashley asked.

“Yeah. The one. The girl for me.”

“Ah, you’re looking for Ms. Right, instead of Miss Rightnow.”

“Delicate as ever, Ash,” Smoak said with a smile.

Ashley smiled back. “Someone has to look after your big ass. Speaking of which, you smell like Kazoo.”

Smoak laughed and kissed Ashley on the cheek. “Gotcha. I’m going to grab a shower, feel like whipping us up some breakfast?”

“Sure, coffee, toast and a teaspoon of honey?”

Smoak nodded and hurried off to the shower.

The women enjoyed a breakfast of wheat toast, honey and coffee so dark, it looked like a black hole. Coffee was not Ashley’s strong suit, but Smoak would never tell her that since breakfast was the only meal she could make.

The rest of the morning was spent sunbathing and playing beach volleyball with an odd mixture of friends and tourists. Both women walked off the beach just past noon with half a dozen phone numbers tucked in their tops. Smoak tossed all but one in the trash while Ashley sorted through them as if they were cards, placing them in an order only she understood.

Afterwards, Ashley dropped a set of file folders on the desk and fanned them for Smoak. Smoak closed her eyes and chose one at random, not caring who or what was inside. She flipped it over and ran her fingers over the photo on the cover. It showed a not-unattractive man with a scar running down the left side of his face.

“Tell me about scarface,” she said, looking up at Ashley.

“Jacob Coussy, arrested for multiple murders, including a child, during a home invasion earlier this year,” Ashley said. “He was released on a chain of evidence technicality three days ago.”

“Chain of evidence was the only issue?” Smoak asked.

Ashley nodded. “Yep. I checked it out while you were playing kissyface with Kazoo. The evidence record was somehow “misplaced” shortly before the trial. The judge ruled that, without proof of where the evidence was collected and who handled it, there wasn’t enough to hold Coussy and he let this waste of flesh walk.”

“Bullshit,” Smoak said. “I’m going to get dressed. Try to find out who’s paying the bills, someone paid for that record to go bye bye, I want to know who.”

“You’re going after him? Like, now? Where are you even going to start?” Ashley asked.

Smoak stood and turned toward her bedroom.

“He’s Haitian. I’ll try Take One at the edge of Little Haiti. Someone there will know something. They’re a tight community, and every Haitian with a dick makes it into the club at least once a week.”

“That’s a rough place,” Ashley said. “They’ve had twelve murders in the last six weeks, are you sure just barging in and asking a lot of questions is a good idea?”

Smoak made a symbol with her right hand as she walked away.
No problem.

“Shit…you aren’t planning to kill anyone else, are you?”

Smoak didn’t answer.

A purple and black customized motorcycle roared out of the parking garage twenty minutes later. Smoak had dressed in what she called her working outfit—a pair of snug-fit leather pants in black, a black tank top and a black leather jacket. A custom-made belt of silver cartridges encircled her hips, while flat-heeled leather boots caressed her knees and hid a pair of fighting knives she’d brought back from Afghanistan.

The ride to Little Haiti was quick. The high-powered bike cruised through traffic as if it was standing still, and in just under twelve minutes, she was cruising past the brightly painted walls of Little Haiti on her way to Seventy-Ninth Street.

She pulled into Take One and parked her bike next to a lime green ‘88 Hurst Oldsmobile. Though it was early afternoon, there were over a dozen cars in the lot and maybe half as many motorcycles. The dull thud of a dance beat echoed through the building’s walls as Smoak paused to look the place over.

The club was a one-story, concrete building that dated back to the ‘70s. A line of pink neon highlighted the roof, while yellow, black, and pink panels hid most of the blocks that made up the exterior, giving the structure a colorful appearance that did nothing to hide exactly what went on inside. A large Haitian man stood outside the door, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

Smoak crossed the lot and smiled at the watching bouncer, whose face looked as if it would crack if he showed any emotion. When she reached the door, he pulled it open for her. She braced it with the toe of her boot and pulled Coussy’s photo from the breast pocket of her jacket.

“
Bon apre-midi
, big man,” Smoak said. “I’m looking for this guy, his name is Coussy. Have you seen him around?”

The tall man glanced at the photo and looked back at the blonde woman. “
Non,
but you can ask inside, no cover. Try the bartender, he knows everyone who comes to the club.”

“
Mèsi,
” Smoak replied.

She slipped under the man’s arm and entered the cool, air-conditioned interior of the club.

The inside was dark, lit only by neon tubes and a variety of spotlights. Tables with dance poles were placed around the room in front of comfortable-looking leather chairs. Beyond them was a single stage, shaped like a U. Three poles were placed along it, and four girls were currently gyrating to an Ariana song about Problems. A handful of men were sipping drinks and tossing dollar bills and coins to the girls, who looked as about as excited as a funeral procession. Smoak agreed. It was too early for this shit.

She crossed the dance floor and slid onto a stool at the end, far away from the few men who preferred the bar to the chairs by the stage. She placed a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and waited patiently for the bartender to finish pulling a beer for one of the waitresses.

When he was done, he came to Smoak’s end of the bar. “What can I get ya?” he asked in a southern drawl.

“I’ll take a grape club soda and some information,” Smoak replied, laying Coussy’s photo on the bar. “Have you seen my friend here?”

“The club soda I got,” the bartender replied. “The info I might have if you got more than a couple bucks and you ain’t a cop. Your…friend…won’t be happy if I send bacon his way.”

The bartender pulled a can from one of the coolers beneath the bar, popped the top, added a couple of ice cubes to a Scotch glass and poured the soda over the top, all the while watching Smoak.

Smoak sighed and reached into another of her jacket’s many pockets. She pulled out a gold Krugerrand and tapped it gently on the bar.

“Fine. If the info is good, this is yours. And you already know I’m not a cop. Now where can I find Coussy?”

The bartender’s eyes widened, and he reached for the coin. Smoak held onto the gold and narrowed her eyes.

“Where is he?”

“Is that gold? Darlin’ I had no idea you were with the Brats…” the bartender started.

“I’m not with the Bratva. I just have some of their coins, like your girls here. The brotherhood likes to give them out in exchange for favors. Now do you want the damn thing or not?”

The man nodded. “That’s five hundred bucks, easy. I’ll tell you my mother’s maiden name and social security number for that thing. You can find your boy on the other side of the highway. A shithole called Miami Court.”