Hell Bent (A Rogue Warrior Thriller Book 4), page 1
HELL BENT
A ROGUE WARRIOR THRILLER
IAN LOOME
Published by Inkubator Books
www.inkubatorbooks.com
Copyright © 2024 by Ian Loome
Ian Loome has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-351-7
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-352-4
ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-353-1
HELL BENT is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
CONTENTS
Inkubator Books
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Inkubator Newsletter
About the Author
Also by Ian Loome
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1
The night air was warm, and the northeastern breeze off the Santa Catalina Mountains considerable. Martin Guevara stood on the very lip of the homeless shelter roof, three stories up, his sneaker-clad toes over the edge, his body swaying, buffeted by gusts of wind.
The booze flowing through his veins numbed him to his predicament, but only slightly. He was insensible, drunker than he had recently been while remaining conscious, of that he was certain. At least, in the few seconds that he could hold a coherent thought together.
He looked down, the pavement wobbling from side to side like the image in a funhouse mirror, farther away, then seemingly a little closer, then farther again.
Long way down.
His thoughts were muddled, fatigued, drifting. He didn’t want to fall; he knew that much. He didn’t want to die. He had a family in Agua Prieta whom he loved, who would miss him. At least, he hoped they would.
Ojos que no ven, corazón que no siente, he thought.
Eyes that do not see, a heart that does not feel.
Out of sight, out of mind, as the gringos would say. Will my family even miss me? After so long away, how will they even know I’ve died?
The evening was not supposed to end this way. He’d gone to the shelter angry, yes, but he was a danger to no one. He’d sat with his friends; he’d played cards. It had been a good day.
I was a danger to no one.
That was something they knew. They told you that before you left, stupid. Before you crossed the desert and risked everything for… what? Living in a dirty homeless shelter, no job, no money, no prospects? No love in your life?
Somewhere at street level, he could hear the faint sounds of mariachi music, a pub across the street playing “Cielito Lindo” on a jukebox, the notes interspersed with jumbled voices.
Happy, normal people.
They haven’t discovered the body yet, or noticed Manny slumped in his chair.
When they do, those people will probably run screaming.
He looked down, over the edge. His former friend, Manny Ramos, lay dead just outside the shelter’s front door, with two bullet holes in the back of his head. From across the street, the music drowning out the shots, they probably just thought he was sleeping. Some of them probably even judged him for it, the old narrative about the lazy Mexican, even as the man with the opinion downed another fat burger and overpriced beer.
Poor Manny.
What will they think of me? What will my mother think of any of this? He wanted it to be over, but he didn’t want her to suffer. If she learns you bled out on a sidewalk…
He hated that idea.
His family had practically disowned him in Agua Prieta because of his involvement with cartel members. But he still loved them. He had tried, when working, to send money home. He hadn’t been a gangster himself; he’d just helped out from time to time, delivered the odd paper bag, the occasional briefcase. He’d known better than to look inside.
His mother had refused to pick up the wire transfers. They wanted him to work in one of the factories, the maquiladoras – businesses that allowed American companies access to the same manufacturing standards as across the border, but at a fraction of the daily wages.
Instead, he’d accepted the cartel’s compromise, that he pay his entire life savings, that he cross the desert like anyone who owed them and wanted life in America, guided by “coyotes.” That he work for them to repay his debts. Two years of manual labor, driving other migrants to illegal shelters once the coyotes’ jobs were done.
His mother and sisters were ashamed of who they thought he had become. To them, he was as bad as the people smugglers. If he left, his mother had said, he should not bother to return. He’d begun drinking, been unable to do his job or find another.
It’s all gone so terribly wrong, Martin thought with a sigh.
He looked down again. The street was perhaps forty feet below. Maybe it wasn’t so far, he told himself. Maybe he’d survive.
Then what?
“All right, chief,” a voice behind him said wearily. “Adios. Time to go.”
The sole of a boot slammed into his backside. His balance lost, his body was pushed over the edge.
And then he was falling, headfirst, arms flailing to each side as the sidewalk rushed towards him, everything decided in the blink of an eye.
The screaming started just a few seconds after Martin’s body slammed into the sidewalk with a thump, pub patrons shrinking back from the gore.
2
Sister Eva Morales never wore her nun’s habit at the Pima Youth Center. There was something officious about it that made kids nervous, she’d found. So she usually settled for simplicity: denim overalls, a checkered working shirt, her red hair tied up in a short, frizzy ponytail.
She walked around the café area of the Pima Youth Center and nodded approvingly.
The cafe was divided into two sections, each housing eight tables and divided by swinging galley doors halfway along. The front half, which led to the building’s main doors, was occupied by paying diners, proceeds from the small restaurant helping to pay for the center’s operations.
The back half featured a scattering of kids aged three to ten, their parents unable to afford daycare, and some late to pick them up. They were kept busy with handheld video games, picture books and crayon drawings, all donated.
Behind the café, a short flight of steps led to the rec center lounge. It was filled by older kids, most of them watching a furious Xbox battle on the flat-screen TV on the wall. Past them, a gym area took up most of the large, open-concept room, with two universal weight machines, some free weights on suspended barbells, mats, and a basketball hoop affixed to the wall. A rear corridor led back to the offices. At the far end of the café, a kitchen supplied the kids with nutritious meals twice a day.
Sister Eva made her way to the back of the lounge. “Excellent,” she said as she stopped behind a recliner and watched the gamers. “Nine kids still, at nearly six o’clock.”
“Very impressive,” a familiar voice suggested from her left flank. “You play video games too, or do you just hustle pool?”
She turned. Bob Fleming was in a black T-shirt and sweatpants, leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed, next to two exercise mats and racks of barbells. They’d met six months earlier, when he’d dropped a package off at the convent chapel. A few games of pool and some enjoyable company later, he’d volunteered to help at the center if she needed it.
But he’d developed a slightly disconcerting habit of just appearing, as if a moment earlier he’d been mist.
“I didn’t see you come in. You look like a gym teacher,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. It’s an improvement.” They had an easy, dry banter, she’d found. He’d come to Tucson to get away from something, but didn’t want to open up about it. So had she, many years earlier. It worked.
She nodded towards the stairs. “Sit and chat?”
“Okay.”
They walked back down to the café proper and took the last table, by the galley doors. She retrieved her coffee, left a few minutes earlier, then looked around to make sure no one was watching. She took the flask out of her purse and dropped a dollop of whiskey into the coffee, then stashed the container. She took a sip, sighed contentedly, then reached into her top pocket and took out a capsule.
She popped it into her mouth and washed it down with more coffee.
Bob’s gaze narrowed.
“What? A nun can’t have a drink when she’s taking a break?”
“You’re taking your cancer meds with booze.”
She took on a deadpan look. “Like it really matters.”
“It’ll matter when you’re chucking your guts up, you know that. Makes it twice as bad. You said so yourself.”
She shrugged. “I’m going out fighting. That’s what everyone wants, right?”
“Sure.”
“So don’t begrudge a dying woman a drink. Or even two! Gosh! Perish the thought!”
“You’re not dying.”
“I am dying! You trying to boost my spirits by telling me I can win this, when we already know I have about a six percent chance, isn’t going to change that. I’m okay with it, Bob. I wish you would be, too.”
He clearly didn’t even want to talk about it, which she understood. Bob had problems with emotion, handling them, seeing others disappointed. She’d seen the same general social awkwardness in him that she saw in some kids on the spectrum. When he was focused and fascinated, he was all business. When people just wanted him to relax? That just seemed to make him more tense, like he was perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He crossed his arms and nodded towards the door. “Where’s your boy?” He glanced at the clock quickly, just irritated enough for her to realize Chico was late.
“He’ll be here. He has a lot of responsibilities for a sixteen-year-old. No father; mother works three jobs.”
Bob considered that. “Sure. Are you… entirely sure you’re cool with this idea? Teaching kids self-defense is sometimes seen as encouraging them—”
“To fight? Believe me, he doesn’t need any encouragement. He’s in a tough school, in a tough neighborhood. He’s… well, he’s headstrong, Bobby. He’s got a bit of a temper, and it keeps getting him into trouble. And he says he wants to be a boxer.”
“Okay then, as long as no one’s expecting miracles overnight. I’ll train him a little, and if he’s still into it after that, we’ll find him a proper trainer. He… any good at other sports?” There was a slightly plaintive tone to it, like he wasn’t relishing coaching a nerd.
“Don’t worry, he won’t trip over his shoelaces. Geez! I mean… I’m guessing. I don’t know him too well, if I’m being honest. He’s working with a guy from social services and agreed to come here to convince them he’s taking working on his temper seriously.”
She heard steps to her right and turned to see the boy approaching. The rest of the center was obliviously engaged, kids playing air hockey on tables near the front, others gathered around the titanic video game battle.
The boy looked around self-consciously as he approached. He had jeans on and a worn leather jacket, a T-shirt.
“Uh… Hi.”
Sister Eva rose. “Chico! How are you?” She moved over to his side and gestured to his new instructor. “Chico, this is Bob. He’s agreed to show you some stuff. Bob learned to fight in the Army and did some boxing.”
Chico frowned. “Okay. Are you a real trainer?”
“I’ve worked with some really good ones,” he said. He leaned in and offered the kid a hand to shake. The kid did so firmly.
Bob gestured with a half-nod for Chico to join him on the mat.
He looked the kid over. “Jeans and sneakers aren’t really ideal for this, kid. Maybe shorts next time? It’s not like it’s cool outside or anything.”
The kid frowned. “Yeah, okay. Whatever, dude.”
“ ‘Whatever, dude’?”
“It’s just training, right? And you ain’t even a real trainer.”
Bob looked over at Sister Eva. “Is he for real?”
The nun cringed slightly. Bob was probably unaware that Chico’s family were perpetually broke: a single mother left after her husband’s death with three growing boys. He’d probably literally grown out of his shorts, and she probably didn’t have the money for replacements yet. As he was the oldest, there was no one to hand down clothing to him.
But he was proud, and angry sometimes, and he wasn’t going to admit any of that.
“It’s fine, Chico,” she interjected. “Right, Bob?”
He looked at her quizzically. “Sure. I’ll get you some gloves, and we’ll get started.”
He began to cross the mats to a storage trunk in the back corner.
The nun’s phone rang. The number displayed was Sacred Heart, the men’s shelter she volunteered at on weekends. “Hello?”
“Sister Eva?”
“Hey, Jen. What’s up?”
“We’ve got some visitors. The same officers as this morning.”
Jen was one of the volunteers from the intake room, where they screened new guests and ran down the shelter’s rules, including its no alcohol, no weapons policy.
“What are they looking for?”
“They said something about wrapping up, but they didn’t take their tape down, and they’re talking to some of the men. It’s making them all really uncomfortable. I’m sort of worried one of them is going to flip out or something.”
“Okay. Just leave them be; don’t interfere. I’ll be down there in ten minutes.”
“Okay, Sister. Thank you!”
The nun ended the call. “I have to go out. Can you look after things here for me, make sure they lock up at ten if I’m not back?”
Bob looked curious once again. “Sure. Anything I can help with?”
She shook her head. “They’re still investigating the incident at the Sacred Heart Home. Police want to wrap it up tonight. The regulars… they’re not being helpful. Mostly they’re scared of the cops.”
“And you’re good with handling all of that?”
She was about to put her hands on her hips and lecture him, but she recognized in the moment that it was just more concern. “I’ll be fine. Nauseated as hell within a half hour, I’m sure, but this shouldn’t take even that long to handle.”
He nodded slowly, but didn’t ask her to elaborate. The “incident” was a murder-suicide three days earlier. It had made local headlines, but she’d asked him not to bring it up around the kids. It was another part of her world, and one the kids did not need to enter.
“I had a regular beer delivery for a local microbrew to one of the bars down the street just a few hours before it happened,” Bob said absently. “Harsh way to go.”
Eva noticed Chico looking puzzled. “It’s nothing. Just… be good and listen to Bob! He knows what he’s doing.”
She took Bob by the elbow and moved him to one side, then lowered her voice. “Like I said, Bobby, he’s got a temper. If he loses it, don’t be too harsh on him, okay? He’s had a really tough life.”
“Cheers,” Bob said, giving her a wink. “This squares us, by the way.”
She nodded and grinned as she backed out of the room. “Until I run the table on you again.”
“Never going to happen,” he called out.
“You said that before, as I recall,” Sister Eva chirped. Then she was gone, the front door swinging closed behind her.
3
Bob turned to Chico and handed him the eight-ounce boxing gloves.
“These look… smaller than on TV,” the boy said.
“They are. These are lighter, less padding.”
“Won’t that… like… hurt more and stuff?”
“Nope. The weight of the gloves does much of the damage. It’s why you have fewer traumatic head injuries in mixed martial arts than in boxing. They use lighter gloves. Until you know what you’re doing and can defend yourself, we go with the less damaging option.”
Chico looked over his shoulder towards the door. “Sister Eva beat you in a fight?”
