Payback, page 1
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For Melissa Frain, who has made me a better writer with every!!!, eye roll, and deleted comma.
Sean, Kiran, Colin, Ross, Henry, and yes, even Andrew, love you, and so do I.
Thank you for all of it.
CHAPTER 1
“I’m not feeling it.”
Henry Kowalski, the hustler with a heart of gold, rakes his blond hair to one side—a sign I’ve come to recognize as a nervous tic—as I track two men hurrying through the dark across the parking lot of the NightStar Canning warehouse. They knock on a rusted door marked “Employees Only,” and after a quick exchange with a big, burly bouncer, disappear inside, just like the dozen others that came before.
“You’ve got this,” I tell Henry, pulling him behind the corrugated metal wall of NightStar’s smoke shack, a free-standing structure twenty yards from the back entrance. “Just follow my lead.”
He shifts, the leather jacket he got for tonight creaking against my shoulder. It’s faded at the stress points. I know this, because he pointed it out no less than six times. It’s supposed to make him look tough.
Now he just needs to act that way.
“No, I know,” he says, smoothing down the wild waves of my dark, chin-length hair and absently straightening the collar of my coat. “But what if instead of me being your cousin, I’m a young entrepreneur who’s gotten rich off developing this app—”
“No.”
“Just listen. It connects athletes with personalized eating tips and hot new workout attire trends—”
“No.”
“And I’m looking to blow my tidal wave of cash in a seedy establishment with sweaty men who like to wrestle.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and leans closer to whisper, “I’ve even got a name. Dolph Müller. Good, right?”
A bitter December wind rattles the roof of the smoke shack.
I step closer. Take his warm hands. Try to smile so it doesn’t look like I’m about to kill him. I’ve timed our entrance so we aren’t here too early—don’t want to draw unnecessary suspicion—but Henry’s change of heart is threatening to put us behind schedule. “What if Dolph doesn’t speak English and lets me do all the talking?”
He pouts. “You don’t like it.”
“I like the strong but silent angle more.”
He lifts the collar of his jacket, giving me his best tough guy pose, and waits for me to change my mind.
I don’t.
With a sigh of resignation, he heads toward the warehouse, and my hesitance evaporates with the confidence in Henry’s stride. Soon, we’re standing in front of the rusted door, my fist poised under the faded “Employees Only” sign.
I give Henry one last look. His green eyes find mine. For a moment, the weight of this mission presses against my chest. Every day that Dr. O is still playing puppet master at Vale Hall is another day that we’re in danger. Charlotte and Sam are depending on us. Margot and all the students before her that Dr. O has erased from existence need this to work.
Caleb needs this to work.
Henry nods.
It’s go time.
I knock. The door pulls inward, and a man the size of a school bus hulks in the yellow ring of light above. He takes one look at our faces, ten years younger than the last guys he let in, scoffs, and begins to shut us out.
“Wait!” I cram my foot in the jamb, the rubber sole of my Chucks blocking the exit. “We’ve got money.”
Slowly, the door swings back open. My ears tune in to the raised voices somewhere down the dark hallway behind him.
“What do you want?” The school bus has a cross tattooed on his neck, and a lump of chewing tobacco in the pocket of his cheek. For a moment, I’m back in Devon Park, standing outside Pete’s apartment, waiting for his bouncer, Eddie, to let me in.
I imagine they’re pulling the same drug-selling routine in prison, thanks to a narcotics bust I kindly set up on their behalf.
“I want to bet on a fight,” I tell the school bus.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The door starts to close again. My worn-out Chuck stays locked between us.
“Girl,” he says, clearly annoyed, “you don’t move that foot, this door’s going to take it off.”
Before he can act on that promise, I pull a fold of cash from my coat pocket and wave it through the crack.
Now I’ve got his attention.
The door opens wide again, and the man’s gaze moves from the money to Henry, who wilts under his hard stare. So much for the confident young entrepreneur.
“My dad’s out of town,” I say with a guilty smile. “He left my cousin and me some pizza money.”
The bus’s brows flatten. “That’s a lot of pizza.”
I force a laugh when he doesn’t step aside. “So what’s the cover? Twenty?”
We both know there’s not a door charge, but if a little green is what he needs to let us in, so be it.
“A hundred. Apiece.” He smirks at Henry’s leather jacket, the zipper of which Henry is nervously jerking up and down.
My face paints a portrait of disgust.
“That’s extortion,” says Henry, before catching himself. “And I should know. Because I’m kind of a businessman—”
I flatten a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Fifty apiece,” I tell the bus. He wants to play? Fine. We’ll play.
“Sixty,” he counters, and I can see in his hard eyes he’s not budging. “And the jacket’s mine. It’ll look good on my nephew.”
He tilts his chin at Henry, whose hand stalls on his zipper midway up his chest.
“My jacket?” Henry asks weakly.
“Deal,” I say, tugging it off Henry’s back. He resists for only a moment, then gives in.
“It’s vintage, so you’ll want to be—”
He makes a sound like he’s dying when the bus snatches it out of his hands. I drag Henry down the hall before he can make a scene.
“That was my lucky coat,” Henry laments, looking over his shoulder.
“We all have to make sacrifices, Dolph.”
“Got to keep your coat,” he mutters.
With the bouncer behind us, my pulse quickens, bringing a grim smile to my lips. I know I shouldn’t enjoy this as much as I do—too much hangs in the balance—but running game feels right in a way few other things do. Maybe I’m an adrenaline junkie.
Maybe I was born to be a con.
The linoleum beneath our feet is yellowed and warped around the corners. When we reach a metal staircase, our gazes follow the noise downstairs.
In the center of the room below, two men, already shirtless and bloodied, face off with bare knuckles. One has a tattoo across his back of a coiled rattlesnake. The other is a head taller, with a forehead the size of a three-car garage. Their makeshift ring is marked by orange traffic cones and rope, and behind the rows of jeering fans, cardboard boxes marked with NightStar’s logo have been shoved against a conveyer belt.
Snake Tattoo strikes, and a spray of crimson erupts from Forehead’s nose.
“I’m positive there are at least five health code violations happening right now,” Henry says, wincing.
My chin lifts toward the opposite side of the catwalk, where a group of guys hover near the railing. Two of them are muscle, meant only to guard the bookie—a short man dressed in black, sucking on the end of a toothpick. The rest are pointing at the fight below.
On the fringe, a guy in a red baseball cap chews his thumbnail.
“Hello, James,” I say under my breath.
James Rolo—at least that’s the name he gives the bookie when he places his bets—has been here three times in the last year. In between, he’s made a killing at the Brick Barrel in Amelia, and the Tulane Auto Parts Factory in Sycamore Township—big street-fighting venues on the south side.
I know this, because I’ve been following him since we bumped into each other—something I made certain didn’t look deliberate—on the train two weeks ago.
James always wins. It was just a matter of time before someone figured out how.
Below, the fighter with the snake tattoo is pummeling Forehead into the dirty cement. It’s a knockout match. No fouls. No refs. The fans on the catwalk are cheering, fists in the air. They’ve got big money riding on this. Last I heard, the minimum bet was five large.
“Ready?” I ask.
Time’s ticking. I can feel the rush in my blood, urging us to hurry.
“I was born ready,” Henr
We make our way around the far side of the catwalk, pushing through the small clusters of people watching the fight below. As we approach James, I feel an old swagger take hold. My hips sway. My mouth curves into a grin.
A few feet away from James, we stop, and I lean over the railing.
“You’re right,” I shout to Henry over the noise. “You can see better over here!”
The comment, purely for James’s benefit, isn’t a lie. From this side, a smear of blood on Forehead’s jaw is visible. The crack and slap of skin on skin echoes off the floor.
I pull back, and do a double take when James’s gaze darts away.
“Oh, hey!” I slide toward him. “We met on the train a couple weeks ago, right?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, recognition lighting his eyes even while suspicion pinches his features. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze slides over my fitted jeans, my sharp gray coat, and the clean lines of my wavy hair, hanging just below my chin thanks to Charlotte’s latest inspiration.
He’s making judgments—maybe he thinks I’m too young to be here. Maybe he thinks I’m rich and naive.
He has no idea who I am.
“Same as you, I guess.” I give him my most reassuring smile. “Who’ve you got tonight?”
His eyes dart back to the ring, and he frowns. “McCann.”
That must be Forehead, who is now weaving from side to side like he just failed a Breathalyzer. My eyes land on the other fighter, dodging skillfully to avoid McCann’s wild right hook. He’s in his twenties. Older than the picture in the file I stole from Dr. O’s safe.
“Ooh.” I make the too bad face. “Got a lot riding on him?”
“More than I’d like, given the way it’s going.”
Probably something like ten grand, which is what he bet on the last two fights. Not an outrageous bet in a place like this, but enough to pull a solid purse if the underdog can actually win.
Slowly, Henry makes his way to the other side of James.
James notices.
“I’ve got the other guy,” I say quickly, bringing the focus back to me.
“Ramos,” says James as a cheer erupts across the catwalk for the fighter with the snake tattoo.
“Looks like I’m not the only one.” I look down at Ramos. His cheeks are flushed, one eye half closed from an old injury that hasn’t quite healed. There’s another bruise on his side, a purple oval on his ribs he guards with his right elbow.
I don’t know much about fighting, but it’s easy to see Ramos knows what he’s doing. McCann’s angry, his jaw flexed and his eyes wild, but Ramos is focused. His fists are up and ready. He’s light on his feet. This clearly isn’t his first rodeo.
James pulls on the brim of his hat. “You watch a lot of fighting?”
“My uncle was a Red Gloves champ in high school.”
His brows lift in recognition. Red Gloves is a big deal on the south side. Their gyms are always open to kids who need somewhere safe to go, and their fighters always beat the soft, north-end kids. My ex-boyfriend Marcus was all about it until he started selling drugs for Pete.
“I did Red Gloves for a while,” says James.
I know. He was wearing an old Red Gloves shirt when we met on the train.
“Really?” I say.
James nods.
Below us, Ramos swings hard, but somehow manages to miss McCann’s jaw and stumbles forward.
“Oh!” Henry slaps a hand on James’s chest. “Did you see that?”
We’re all watching intently now as McCann throws an uppercut to Ramos’s jaw, sending him flying backward into a conveyer belt. McCann takes that opportunity to rush him, raining down punches on the ribs Ramos isn’t fast enough to protect.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
“No!” I shout as Ramos falls to one knee.
Henry’s gaze heats the side of my face.
I thought we had more time.
One hit ends it, and Ramos crashes to the floor.
The crowd goes crazy. Everyone’s shouting for him to get up. People are cursing McCann, who’s barely standing himself. Henry’s jumping up and down, his arm around James’s shoulder. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he actually likes fighting.
“Lucky call,” I tell James through clenched teeth.
“Very lucky.” James’s smile is giddy, his eyes bright. He opens his mouth to say more, but behind him, Henry catches my eye and nods.
Time to move.
“See you next time,” I say quickly, shoving back from the railing. Adrenaline spikes in my veins as Henry and I push through the crowd toward the stairs.
“We’re going to miss him,” Henry says beside me.
“No, we’re not.”
In the ring below, McCann has raised both arms and is strutting across the floor. Ramos is back up, rushing away through the NightStar machines. I don’t blame him; he was favored six to one to win. He’s probably trying to get out before the mob tears him apart for screwing up their bets.
“Go out the front!” I shout. “I’ll cut him off before he reaches the highway!”
“On it!”
Henry veers left down the hall where we entered. I hit the stairs at a run, sweat dewing on my hairline as I jump down the last three steps. A hulking machine throws shadows over the cement floor before me. Boxes with NightStar’s logo are stacked on wooden pallets lining my path. The fighter is nowhere to be seen. Panic squeezes my temples. I can’t come this close and fail.
A dim red exit sign across the floor pulls my attention, and when I squint I see the door below it softly closing.
I sprint toward it, ducking between machines, ripping back the door to find myself beneath a bright security light. The loading docks and employee parking lot stretch to the right. A row of dumpsters to my left lead to the front of the building, and the highway beyond.
Movement draws my attention that way. In the shadows, a man in a thick gray flannel jogs awkwardly away, one hand gripping his ribs. He’s not moving fast, and it’s easy enough to catch him.
“Ramos!” I call. He doesn’t stop, though he must hear me. “Ramos, hold up!”
When he still doesn’t slow, I use his real name.
“Rafael Fuentes.”
I don’t know how he moves so fast. He’s injured; he should be slower. And yet before I can dodge out of the way, he’s got me pinned against the side of a dumpster, one fist pulled back, ready to strike.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
“Who are you?” His thick brows are flat, his stare hard and unforgiving. Up close, even in the low light, the bruises on his face are more apparent, and make him even scarier.
“A friend,” I say quickly.
“I don’t think so.” His grip on my shoulder tightens. My hands wrap around his forearm, finding solid muscle.
“I can be. I can help you.”
The corner of his cracked lip twitches.
“You’re one of his.” The word warps with disgust.
His. As if I’m owned by someone else.
“I go to Vale Hall,” I admit. “I know what happened to you and I know how to make it right, but I need your help.”
Rafael exhales in a hard breath. His fist drops. He releases my shirt.
I tip forward, the knot in my stomach unclenching.
Footsteps clatter off the ground, heading in our direction. I catch a glimpse of Henry’s golden hair.
Somehow, he’s gotten his lucky jacket back, and under the beam of the yellow security light, he does look tough.
“He’s with me,” I say as Rafael’s shoulders bunch at the new threat.
“And I’m very dangerous if provoked,” Henry adds. “I recently had a very ugly breakup, and I’m not entirely stable.” The leather coat creaks as he raises his fists in a fighting stance.
“How’d you find me?” Rafael demands. He sounds so much older than twenty-three, but that’s what the file I stole from Dr. O’s office says.
“We knew you were a boxer from your student records,” Henry says, approaching slowly. “When we couldn’t track you down, we started looking into illegal fights.”
“Figured you had to make your money somewhere,” I say.
“There are a dozen underground matches a week in this city.” Rafael wheezes as he grips his side again. Henry lowers his fists, exhaling his relief that there won’t be a confrontation. “None of them ask for names or records. There’s no paper trail.”
