The Debt Collector (Book 1 of a Jack Winchester Organized Crime Action Thriller) (Jack Winchester Vigilante Justice Thriller Series)
Authors: Jon Mills
Copyright © 2015 Jon Mills
A
ll rights reserved
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The Debt Collector is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
J
ack Winchester was
a notorious hitman for a ruthless New Jersey crime family until a job went wrong, and he wound up serving time.
Four years later, Jack is free and he wants out of the game, but his boss won't let him go. Forced to take on one last job to make amends for what landed him in prison, he travels to the small town of Rockland Cove, Maine.
There, he not only discovers that the target and money have disappeared; he finds himself falling for a damaged woman, and befriending an unruly son left behind.
Under mounting pressure from his boss and local police—as well as the ghosts of his past—he must unravel the mystery and decide where his loyalties lie…before it's too late.
U
ndisclosed
Retribution
Clandestine
The Debt Collector
Debt Collector 2: Vengeance
The Promise
True Connection
Dark Tide (Detective Forrester and Woods Crime Thriller)
Debt Collector 3: Reborn (coming May 2016)
F
or my family
Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
R
IKER’S PRISON WAS HELL
on an island. Jack paced back and forth in his cell for hours that morning. After four years, he felt more uncomfortable this day than he had when he first arrived.
The last year in and out of solitary confinement for fighting had only made it worse. Twenty-three hours holed up in a six by eight cell, surrounded by nothing more than cinder blocks, a bunk, a sink and a toilet; changed a man. It was known to break even the toughest, to push anyone to their mental limits and beyond. The men referred to it as “the box,” and even that didn’t quite describe the claustrophobic feeling you felt. The thought of never getting out haunted him daily.
Today was no different. There was always doubt eating away at the back of his mind. He’d seen men’s wills get thrown to the curb minutes before they saw the outside.
Now, however, as the familiar sound of steel toe boots striking against the steely catwalk approached his door, it brought a welcome relief. The twist of the key in the lock and the clanging of the metal flap had become a part of his daily routine.
This morning, though, was different. It would be the last time he would hear it. Between the small mesh window he saw two new prison guards. The faces changed frequently; not because of shift rotation, but because few lasted beyond a couple of months in this place. He turned his back, stuck his hands through the hole behind him, and felt the click of metal around his wrists. He winced, feeling the metal teeth pinch his skin.
“Inmate, take two steps forward.”
Led by the guards, Jack shuffled along the upper tier, greeted by the usual sounds of rage. Men and teens screamed obscenities, banging on the metal doors while others smeared their own feces through the mesh. It never let up, day or night. It was pure chaos. You just learned to block out the constant hollering.
They escorted him through a series of security doors, each one bringing home the reality that it was finally over. He was ushered into a small room where he could collect his belongings. He changed out of the prison garments and slipped back into his stonewashed jeans, black t-shirt, and leather jacket. While it felt good to have his belongings back, something was missing: sixteen bucks and twenty-five cents, to be precise. That’s exactly what he’d had on him when he’d entered. Conveniently enough, that was nowhere to be found now. He scoffed, knowing it had probably been used to buy the guards a case of beer.
Outside he squinted, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of the warm summer morning. He breathed in the deep salty air. Led up to the gates, he waited behind a thick yellow line as the aging steel cracked open. Cupping a hand over his eyes, the blinding orange rays of the sun blocked his view. It took him but a second to recognize the silhouette leaning up against a souped up Pinto: Freddy Carlone. He was one of Roy Gafino’s piss ants. They were cut from the same cloth and equally responsible for his incarceration.
“Jack.”
A cigarette hung out the corner of the man’s mouth. He spread his arms wide open. Ignoring him, Jack took a hard right, strolling past him. Freddy fell in step.
“No hug for an old buddy?”
Jack remained silent, forging forward.
“Jack?”
He heard the crunch of gravel as the Pinto crawled behind them.
“It’s a long walk back. Come on, let me give you a ride.”
He kept walking.
“Jack, c’mon, it’ll be like old times. I’ll buy you a drink. You can’t still be bitter after a few years?”
Jack stopped abruptly, spun around, and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. The Pinto came to a halt and Louis bolted out of the driver’s side. Freddy waved him off.
“Four years, thirteen days, seven hours, and thirty four minutes.”
There was a tense pause.
Freddy threw his hands up. “Okay, okay.”
Jack slowly released his grip on him.
“Look, Roy asked me to pick you up. He wants to see you.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Yeah, well, you know how it works.”
Jack studied his face for a minute, cast a glance off in the direction he had been heading, and then reluctantly walked over to the car and got in. Inside, Louis leaned over, banging a carton of Camels in his hand.
“Cigarette?”
* * *
D
ana Grant’s
morning hadn’t gone exactly as planned. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair outside the principal’s office, she gazed down at her crumpled to-do list. Nowhere on it had she listed a visit to Rockland Cove High School. Until ten o’clock that morning, actually, she had been under the impression that her fourteen-year-old son was sitting comfortably at a desk in one of his classes. Now everything had to take a backseat. That included phone calls to get quotes for repairs on the motel, a long overdue return call to the deputy sheriff, and a chat with the animal hospital to arrange pick up of the ashes of their recently cremated dog.
She glanced at her reflection in the glass cabinet that contained numerous regional awards, smoothing a few loose strands of black hair back into place. That was another thing—she sorely needed to get her hair done. The thought lasted only seconds before moving to the reason she had been called in. Her needs came second to her son’s. She didn’t resent that fact, since it had been a rough year for them both. In many ways, it was to be expected.
“Dana.”
Susan Walsh, the principal of the school, came out of her office. The woman had known her since childhood. She was a sweet person, but she did have a tendency to highlight Dana’s flaws any chance she got. At least, that was the impression Dana got. They both had a keen interest in teaching, but Susan was the only one who had moved from dreaming to achievement. It was no fault of Dana’s; getting pregnant at eighteen and having no parents around to help had seriously slammed the brakes on her own pursuit. In many ways, after seeing how Susan had turned out, she was glad.
The need to keep up appearances, be politically correct with every parent—it didn’t exactly appeal to her. She was a woman who tended to speak her mind. She considered herself a free spirit. She valued all the things that Susan appeared to have lost when making the transition from teen to adult.
Growing up is what they called it; becoming mature and responsible. It was a badge she’d worn with honor, and in many ways she owned it, yet simmering under the surface was a free spirit longing to be released. She wanted to experience a life without restrictions, responsibilities—not to mention morning meetings with beady-eyed principals who looked down on her.
Susan swept her hand toward her office, as if ushering in a child who had zero directional skills. Dana pursed her lips and stepped inside.
“Please, take a seat.”
Dana sat squarely across from Susan, a mahogany desk between them. Various photo frames of Susan’s family were scattered across the room’s shelves and tables, and two children who reminded Dana of robots smiled with pearly white teeth back at her. As Susan observed her, she couldn’t help but feel as if her life was under inspection. An engraved nameplate sat in front of her—a simple reminder of Susan’s title in life, or a reminder of who she was? Either way, it niggled Dana. She had an urge to flip it around the other way, but undoubtedly Susan’s name was on the other side too so she could fluff her ego throughout the day like a vain person checking a mirror every chance they got.
“How are you, Dana?” Susan asked, in her most condescending voice.
“Fine.”
Susan scanned her face as if trying to spot a crack in what she had come to expect every mother wore: a mask. Satisfied or just eager to get down to business, she flipped her computer screen around.
“This is a list of the days your son has attended school. Do you see anything wrong with this?”
Other than your reflection in the screen?
Dana thought.
“Well, this can’t be right. I’ve dropped him off every day here.”
Susan twisted the screen back around, taking a deep breath. Dana knew she was readying the speech she had prepared to give her whole life. The one that brought Dana up to speed on how kids really acted, and how responsible parents, ones not running a run-down motel, should be. Susan opened her mouth, then closed it.
“What am I missing here, Susan?”
“It’s not what you’re missing. It’s what your son is. He has been absent for close to thirty days over the past year.”
Dana didn’t hesitate in responding to what she could tell was more of an accusation against her than against her son. “Well, why have you not informed me of this sooner?”
Susan reached into the drawer in front of her and retrieved a folded piece of paper. She slid it to Dana, raising her eyebrows in the process.
“It appears your son has been forging your signature.”
Dana’s brow knit together as she unfolded the paper. Sure enough, there was her signature, as clear as day. However, it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t bad, actually, but there was a slight difference in the letter G.
“I, of course, recognized the forgery the moment I saw it.”
Yes, I’m sure you did
. Dana rolled her eyes.
“You see, he’s not the first teen that has attempted to pull the wool over our eyes, but thankfully our small town keeps a close eye on those who happen to be lingering outside Tina’s restaurant, the library, or the marina during school hours. From there, I pulled one of your older letters.”
“You keep them?”
“Certainly. How else do you expect us to catch them?”
Quite the Agatha Christie, aren’t we?
Dana thought.
“Well, be assured I will be having words with him. I appreciate you letting me know.”
“Is there anything at home that might be of concern?”
“At home? If anything, this is more likely related to school.”
“Right.” She nodded slowly, as if unable to comprehend that any student would find Rockland High School anything less than a paradise. “Well, I was referring to the situation with his father.”
“That is our business.”
“But when it affects his schoolwork, it becomes ours.”
Dana stood. “I appreciate your concern, and this will be taken care of.”
“Please, Dana. If there is anything we can do to help—for now we’ll let this all slide.”
Susan stood, extending her hand. Dana glanced at it, hesitating before shaking it and leaving with what remained of her dignity.
