Death Mark (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re obviously playing you.”

  “How so?”

  “Did you see the body? Your dad’s, I mean.”

  “Well, no. But… but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  He stared me down. Or up, as I was a bit taller than him. “Really?”

  “No,” I said. “It shouldn’t. They want something from me, and that’s to take out their mark. Another guy, one they are claiming killed my old man.”

  “But what if he didn’t?”

  “What if he didn’t? It doesn’t change anything. They’re claiming they have something on me, enough to take the bar.”

  Joey smiled. “But did they threaten to break your legs?”

  I laughed. “You know, it did come up.”

  He took another sip, and I followed. The whiskey was good, and it got better the cooler and more diluted it became. “So they want you take out their guy.”

  I nodded.

  “Any idea who it is? This ‘Rockford Elizondo’ gentleman?”

  I nodded again.

  “Really?”

  “Yep. They told me who he is, where he is, and when it needs to be done by.”

  Joey’s eyes widened. “Christ, Mason, they’re not asking you to take him out, they’re telling you. This is a planned hit, and you’re the unlucky SOB who has to do it.”

  I sighed, then downed the rest of the bourbon. “Yeah,” I said. “I know. That’s why I’m doing it myself this time. Without you.”

  Joey laughed again, then refilled my drink. “Bullshit.”

  I glared at him.

  “Seriously, Dixon. No way I’m out on this one. You haven’t been in the game since… well —”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Fine. But you’ve been out since then, and you know you’re getting soft. I’m —”

  “Like hell I am.”

  “You were better at this, your mark would already be dead.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, since I couldn’t tell if he was right or just trying to piss me off. I decided to drink another shot of bourbon, but I cut him off when he tried to top me off once more. It was, after all, a work day. The bar would be opening in a few hours.

  “There’s no way I could have known —”

  “Maybe,” Joey said. “Maybe not. Point is, your old man’s dead and they want you to find his killer. They’re probably into something big, and they can’t be bothered with, or they don’t have the manpower, to off him themselves. They’ve got enough brains to know they need plausible deniability, and they have the added benefit of knowing the old dead guy’s son is an assassin.”

  “Don’t call me that. I hate that word.”

  “Whatever. You’re a… dealer of vigilante justice.”

  “You make me sound old.”

  “No, you make you sound old.”

  I glared at him again, simultaneously doing a walkthrough of the bar area and prepping the few liqueurs we kept on hand. It was a quick job, as I made sure the bar was in perfect shape every night after close. Joey had picked up the habit as well, so when he was closing without me I knew I’d come in the next morning to a beautiful, fully stocked bar.

  “I’m helping you.”

  “You have to run the bar, Joey.”

  “No we don’t. It’s the middle of the week. There’s no one but a few oldies who’ll care that we’re closed, and we can buy them off pretty quickly.”

  He was talking about the little BOGO cards Joey had printed up — discounts or buy-one-get-one free coupons that offered a free meal, a discounted drink, or something else valuable to our regular customers.

  Besides those cards, our regulars thought I was quite the fisherman. Joey had a sign he’d hang on the door whenever we were out and the bar had to be closed temporarily that claimed we were going fishing.

  The ruse worked, I’d always assumed, because Joey cooked the best damned catfish this side of the Mississippi — and any place on the other side of the big river didn’t have catfish worth talking about.

  He was mean with a spatula, and he knew it. He’d turned my little bar into a full-fledged restaurant, complete with fancy-looking menus and often-shifting delicacies, like imported lobster and English beers. He was a true asset to my business, but he was also a true asset to my extracurricular business.

  I sighed. He was right, and he knew it. He would help me, no matter what I tried to do to keep him away. I’d learned the hard way to keep him close and let him be part of the team, and as much as I railed against the idea, he would be an asset to me there, as well.

  “Fine. But I’m not going to let you —”

  “I’ll help you however I can. No constraints this time.”

  “You’ll help me however I tell you —”

  “I’ll quit. You can cook the catfish yourself.”

  He was smiling, and even though I knew the threat was empty, I balked. “Yeah, okay. Fine. I need help. Just… just don’t get… don’t get killed.”

  “Sounds like good advice,” he said. “Want to head out on the water and make a plan?”

  10

  JOEY AND I SPENT THE rest of the night like we always did — cooking up fish and serving up drinks. He manned the griddle and took care of the house, while I made sure our patrons at the bar weren’t going thirsty.

  I thought a lot about the offer. Not much of an offer, really. They were twisting my arm, forcing me into it. They knew I could do the job, and they knew I’d have no choice when I found out about my old man.

  And then there was the money.

  It was a lot of money. I didn’t typically see that kind of money come through my bar in an entire year, and I definitely could use it. I’d made some headway on buying the place outright, but there was still a ways to go, and there were still things I wanted to do with the place — all of which cost money.

  Or rather, there were things Joey wanted to do with the place.

  He’d already fixed the lights — something that had always bugged him. They were either always too bright or too dim, or something. He was a Goldilocks about the aesthetic stuff, and I didn’t care one way or another, I just wanted it to be cheap.

  So he’d found some inexpensive LED lighting fixtures online that were dimmable, wired them up, and even recessed them into the fixture sockets that had been there before. Then, as if to rub in how much younger he was than I, he even got a little app for his smartphone to control them.

  When the bar opened, the lights turned on. When it got dark out and the oldies’ and guests’ palates shifted from fish and chips to bourbon, the lights dimmed just a bit.

  I had to admit it he’d done a bang-up job, but I refused to let him know. He always smiled at me, big and dumb, whenever the lights changed according to the ‘mood’ of the room, which always seemed to be a ‘mood’ I wasn’t tuned into. He’d wait for me to see him, with that big dumbass grin on his face, then he’d break out into laughter.

  “See, much better, ain’t, boss?” he’d ask.

  “I don’t see any difference.”

  I always tried to make my response seem crustier every time, but I knew he saw right through it. I like the lighting, and liked that he was making improvements, large and small.

  I really liked that he cared about it all. It was like having another me walking around, with a different skill set and different personality, but cared about it all just as much as I did.

  I always gave him a hard time, but I tried to make him know he was a valuable asset — and good friend — to me. One of the ways I did that was by giving him access to the Wassamassaw, the 131-foot yacht that Hannah Rayburn had given to me.

  We were on it now, heading out into the bay, just past the last buoys and before the breaks started. During the hotter months there were windsurfers and paddle boarders out on the surf, and you could see the cruise ships heading to and from the Bahamas out on the horizon.

  Now that it was cooler the wind picked up a bit
and only the die-hards were out in the water. The majority of the traffic now was sailboats and catamarans, each vying for control of their own narrow little slice of the vast expanse.

  I loved being on the boat. She had been completely refinished, from the carpet to the furniture, thanks to a generous clause in the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s operating agreement.

  Or, at least, thanks to a friend of mine who worked there.

  I still didn’t know if it was common practice at the FBI to let their case victims keep huge boats after a traumatizing incident, but I didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t care to know the truth.

  The boat was mine, and that was that. I had the papers for it, the registration and license, and a dock for it two blocks away from my bar.

  If anyone loved the boat more than I did, it was Joey. He and his new girlfriend from the city would come out and sleep on it, even while it was docked. I’d let him take it out a few times as well, but there was hardly a time I wasn’t also available for a quick jaunt up and down the bay.

  “Hey boss, you have dinner plans?” Joey’s voice called up into the bridge. He and his girlfriend, Shalice, with an ‘S,’ were cozied up on the couch in the adjacent room, the long, large dining and entertainment lounge. Joey had already made his way through half a bottle of one of the more expensive bourbons I kept stocked, Shalice a bottle of red.

  “Me? You’re the chef.”

  Joey laughed. “Well, yeah, but I’m probably a little too buzzed to cook. There’s fish in the fridge — you can just grill it.”

  “Oh?” I said. “That right? I have your permission to cook you dinner?”

  I had already planned on grilling fish, and I’d already told Joey and Shalice that, but it was funnier to give him crap for it.

  “Unless you want to risk me falling overboard.”

  I stared him down from my chair in the cabin. “I might take my chances.”

  Shalice laughed. “I would.”

  Joey returned — slowly, so he wouldn’t fall — to his chair, pouring himself another generous splash of whiskey, then sipping it as he closed his eyes. I stood in the doorway, watching. To be young again.

  “What?” Shalice asked, her bright smile lighting up her face. “You wishing you weren’t so old and worn out?”

  I shot her a glance, trying to feign anger. It was impossible — she was absolutely gorgeous, yet still had the youthful cuteness of a college schoolgirl. She was African-American, with long, skinny legs and wiry arms, but in a lithe and fit way. I couldn’t remember how she and Joey had met, but they’d been inseparable for the past few months.

  “Not any more than you’re wishing you weren’t named after a cup.”

  She frowned.

  “Shalice — Chalice. It means cup.”

  “It’s Shalice, with an ‘S,’” she said. “And it’s pronounced ‘Sha-leece.”

  “Not my fault your parents can’t pronounce cup. What kind of dancer did you say you were, by the way?”

  She scowled. “I told you about fifty times, Mason. I teach ballet. To children.”

  “Yeah?” I asked. “That what they’re calling it these days?”

  I knew she had a sense of humor, so I wasn’t too worried about her feelings, but I still didn’t want to come across like a jerk, so I let up.

  “Dinner’s ready in half an hour,” I said. Shalice nodded, and Joey rolled his head side to side and then back and forth. I took that as a confirmation that he’d heard me, then retreated to the small kitchen to start dinner.

  11

  DINNER WAS GOOD, BUT NOTHING special. I secretly wished Joey would have sobered up enough to cook it, as he was a master cook, even when it was as simple as fish on the grill.

  We shared a bottle of wine I’d dug out of a cabinet, then the three of us parked it up on top in the deck chairs, waiting for the sunset. Sunsets on the Wassamassaw were a new favorite of mine, and I’d spent many evenings up here alone or with Joey, or with Joey and Shalice.

  Since Hannah, I hadn’t dated or seen anyone, even though I often felt like it would be quite nice to hang out with a lady closer to my age once in a while. Joey and Shalice were nice, but they were, well, together. Even though it was my boat, when they were here there were times I felt like a third wheel.

  They bunked up in one of the guest rooms, which were plenty big enough for two people and luggage. Joey had a few clothing items in the closet and some hygiene accessories in the bathroom, ready to go in case we decided to make a jaunt somewhere. As my only friend, he was a good one: ready for anything, whenever I said the word.

  His background in the Navy didn’t hurt, either. A scrapper, learning the ropes from having to figure them out on his own. No family that he talked about, and I didn’t ask. Shalice perhaps knew more about the guy than I did, but I knew one thing: I could trust him, and I could count on him to pull through.

  It was no different now — I was going to find this guy who’d killed my old man, and I knew Joey would help. I couldn’t keep him from doing it anyway, even if I’d wanted to.

  I knew that was the topic as soon as Joey turned to look at me from his chair on the top deck.

  “Finally sober up enough to chat?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Yeah, and I was waiting for Shalice to head down to the room.”

  Shalice had gone down to shower, or put makeup on, or something women did after dinner. It gave Joey and me a minute or two to talk about the situation, and even though she’d eventually know what we were up to, it would save her from getting too wound up about it before we’d even started.

  “Well, what are you thinking?”

  He shrugged. “Still going through with it?”

  “Damn right I am. The guy killed my old man, and I —“

  “It’s not about that,” Joey said.

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I know you, Dixon. It ain’t about your old man.” He paused, sniffed, then took a pull from a long cigar he’d been cradling. “I mean it is, but it’s not really.”

  I looked him up and down. He did know me, better than anyone with the possible exception of Hannah, but that didn’t mean he could read minds. “What do you think it’s about, then?”

  “They want you to take this guy out. Sure, he offed your dad, but they know that you’re still their best option for getting their mark.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “And,” he continued, “it means they’re paying you.”

  I chuckled.

  “When were you going to tell me, and what’s my cut?”

  This time I actually laughed out loud. “Your cut? You think just because you’re a mediocre sidekick you get more than your current share?”

  “My ‘current share’ is a manager’s salary and some perks.”

  I laughed again, looking out at the sunset over the Atlantic and taking a puff from my own cigar. I wasn’t much of a cigar smoker, but I could appreciate them. Joey had picked these up from Charleston, and I had to admit the kid had decent taste. Mild, sweet, and very aromatic, it was right up my alley.

  “Your manager’s salary is a very generous salary, kid. And those perks you’re referring to — wining and dining in the fanciest yacht from here to Boston Harbor? You think they’re just little perks? This baby costs money to run.”

  Joey smiled. “I’m messing with you. But seriously, you wouldn’t be as gung-ho about this if it was just your father’s death motivating you. You might look around, poke into some of the undercurrents in Charleston, maybe even call in some professional help. But you wouldn’t take it on just by yourself. And you certainly wouldn’t be that interested in getting it done quickly.”

  I looked at the stairs, then listened to hear if Shalice was returning yet or not. All I could hear was the splash of waves falling gently on the hull of my boat, and the distant wash of the same waves crashing against the beach. We were only out about a quarter mile, enough to get some decent fishing in but not too far we couldn’t
get back to the bar in a hurry if we had to.

  “Fine,” I said, turning back to Joey. “You caught me.”

  He smiled again. “I knew it. So what’s the payout?”

  “Ten percent. Typical.”

  “Okay, so this guy stole money from them — they want it back, and ten percent of that makes sense. But ten percent of what?”

  I waited for him to take a sip from his scotch. It was expensive, and I had bought it, so planning for him to spit it out wasn’t probably the smartest decision I’d made that night, but it would be funny.

  “Three-point-two,” I said.

  His eyes widened a bit, then shrank. He was thinking about it. “Three-point-two…”

  “Million.”

  As if reading my mind, he looked me in the eye, carefully swallowed every damn drop of the whisky, then took a deep, long, puff from his cigar.

  “Come on, Joey. That’s a lot of money.”

  He laughed. “Sure it is. Your payout then is three-hundred twenty thousand?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn. That is a lot of money. I figure we can still split it fifty-fifty, get you some nice wallpaper for the bar, and —“

  “Like hell we will.”

  “What? You don’t like wallpaper?”

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  He laughed.

  “More like eighty-twenty, if you’re good.”

  “You mean like if I save your ass like last time?”

  I blew out a puff of smoke. “Yeah, like last time.”

  He immediately reached a hand over. “Deal, boss. Only this time you let me in the action.”

  “Joey,” I said. “Let’s hope there won’t be any action.”

  As soon as the words escaped my lips, the sound of a large boat motor ripped through the serenity of the orange-cast sunset.

  12

  THE BOAT WAS SMALLER THAN mine, but certainly faster because of it. Even with only one of their twin engines they could burn me in a race, and I knew it.

  “We’re not going to outrun them,” I said.

  “Why would we?”