Storm Front, page 1
STORM FRONT
By TONY REED
Copyright © 2021 by TONY REED
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editor: Darby O’Shaughnessy
Cover design: Damonza
BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
Lincoln Monk Adventures
Neptune Island
Jungle Games
Monk and Lee Adventures
MacLean’s Kingdom
Desert Gold
Sonoran Fury
Storm Front
Metal, Sand, and Blood (Books 1-3 omnibus)
Short Stories
Mann’s Best Friend
STORM FRONT
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
cyclone
noun
cy·clone | ˈsī-ˌklōn
A tropical cyclone, also called typhoon or hurricane, is an intense circular storm that originates over warm tropical oceans and is characterized by low atmospheric pressure, high winds, and heavy rain. Drawing energy from the sea surface and maintaining its strength as long as it remains over warm water, a tropical cyclone generates winds that exceed 119 km (74 miles) per hour. In extreme cases winds may exceed 240 km (150 miles) per hour, and gusts may surpass 320 km (200 miles) per hour. Accompanying these strong winds are torrential rains and a devastating phenomenon known as the storm surge, an elevation of the sea surface that can reach 6 meters (20 feet) above normal levels. Such a combination of high winds and water makes cyclones a serious hazard for coastal areas in tropical and subtropical areas of the world.
https://www.britannica.com/science/tropical-cyclone
CHAPTER 1
Manila, Philippines: the tourist district
2 a.m.
The strip club’s back door flung open releasing the thumping beat of Def Leopard’s Pour some sugar on me into the rain-swept alleyway. A drunk with vomit covering his oversized Hawaiian shirt flew through the opening and landed heavily in a pile of trash beside a trio of overflowing garbage bins by the door.
Lincoln Monk appeared in the dimly lit doorway. The rusted awning above did little to protect from the raging thunderstorm. Lincoln peered skyward into the pouring rain and sighed with resignation before venturing into the unsheltered alley and to the side of the club’s now banned patron. Saturday was always the busiest night of the week, but tonight was worse than usual—three fights so far and no end to the raucous drunken behavior. Between the all night half-prices drinks and keeping the overzealous patrons off the exotic dancers, the job was beginning to take its toll.
Lincoln placed his knee on the drunk’s back, pinning him down. He grabbed his arm and shoved it upward until it reached the nape of his neck. The drunk whimpered in pain. Lincoln applied more pressure. The whimpering became a cry for help.
Mich Lee watched from the doorway. Preferring not to get soaked from the downpour, he stepped back to the cover of the warehouse. “Monk. Dalisay says he tried to feel her up.”
“What a douchebag.” Lincoln shook his head and dug his knee deeper into the drunk’s spine. He wiped away the rivulets of water running down his face as well as the fatigue from his bleary eyes. The acidic smell of urine reached his nose. He spotted the wet patch spreading across the drunk’s chinos, quite an achievement considering the heavy downpour. Not caring to explain a urine stench on his clothes, Lincoln eased up on the knee to the spine.
The drunk groaned.
“Then he flashed his willy. According to Dalisay, he also mentioned rape.”
A douchebag and a low-life pervert.
“John Mark says you can do with him as you wish, as long as you don’t do it near his club.”
Lincoln blinked away the rain rolling down his face and leaned closer to shout in the drunk’s ear. “I could have you arrested tonight for lewd behavior. More than likely, you’d be thrown in a cell with all the other fun seekers. By morning, you’d be No Teeth Bubba’s proud bitch. Or—you can go home, sleep it off and sober up. Tomorrow you’ll come back here and apologize to Dalisay. She likes flowers, preferably tulips.”
Despite the downpour, Mich heard the one-sided conversation, a threat Lincoln had repeated often in the last six months. “And a bottle of wine,” he chimed in. “She likes Merlot—make it a reserve.”
“And a bottle of reserve Merlot,” Lincoln repeated in the drunk’s ear. “Your choice. What’s it gonna be?”
“Screw you.” The drunk spat and squirmed to get away.
Lincoln tightened his grip on the drunk’s arm and lifted it further until the drunk moaned. He thought he heard a pop and backed off a smidge.
“Okay!” the drunk conceded through clenched teeth.
Lincoln reached into the guy’s pocket and withdrew his wallet. He removed the driver’s license and tucked the wallet back into the drunk’s now soaked wet suit. “Well, Cyril Morcombe—” Lincoln reread the guy’s name with a thin smile. “Cyril? Hey, Mich, you ever met a Cyril before?”
“Cyril?” Mich recalled all the people he and Lincoln had met in their travels, but he couldn’t think of a single Cyril. “Nah. Strange name, if you ask me.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Wait! Wasn’t there a Cyril in that old eighties television show Moonlighting?”
“You’re thinking of Cybil, Cybil Shepard. And Cybil’s a she, not a he.”
“That’s right,” Mich said, nodding. “My bad.”
“Moonlighting was Bruce Willis’s debut performance on the screen.”
“How do you keep all that useless information in your head?” Mich called through the rain.
“We all have our skills.” Lincoln slid the driver’s license into his coat pocket. “Cyril Morcombe, I know where you live. If you’re not here tomorrow night with flowers and wine for Dalisay, we’ll come looking for you—and if we have to come looking for you, you’ll wish you’d had that night with Bubba. You understand?”
Cyril nodded.
“Good.”
Lincoln released the pressure from his arm and spine, and Cyril sighed in relief. Lincoln lifted his knee and turned to wipe the sweat from his face one more time. Cyril took the opportunity to spin around with a roundhouse punch, his fist catching Lincoln off guard and on the jaw. Before Lincoln could retaliate, Cyril convulsed. Projectile vomit spewed onto Lincoln’s security uniform before Cyril’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out on the pavement.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Lincoln shook his head in disbelief. “How the hell do I clean vomit chunks from a starched white shirt?”
Trying to suppress his laughter, Mich called from the sheltered doorway, “Don’t worry. The rain will wash it off.”
Lincoln tried not to gag. He looked away as he brushed Cyril’s chicken fried steak from his soiled shirt. He shot a quick peek at his chest and raised an eyebrow in surprise. The driving rain did wash away the puke.
Without warning, someone shoved Mich from the doorway and into the alley. Mich slipped on the wet concrete and fell onto his back in a growing puddle.
The towering patron staggered into the rain and stood over Mich, a sneer etched on his face. His muscles bulged through a tight wife-beater. Tattoos of death and violence ran down his arms for the world to see. “Little men, leave my friend alone,” he slurred. He attempted to focus on Lincoln and Mich, but his dulled senses failed miserably. Positioning himself over his prey, with the inside of his legs straddling Mich’s sides, he attempted another alcohol-fueled speech, confident of his superiority over the smaller man.
With a swift kick, Mich took back control of the situation. The muscled-bound patron fell to his knees, clutching his groin and moaning. Mich scrambled to his feet and for good measure kicked again, this time across the patron’s balding head. The drunk’s unconscious form lay in the downpour, his face taking the full force of the pelting rain.
Mich rubbed his aching back. “Damn, I hate this job.”
“There has to be an easier way to make a living,” Lincoln agreed as he flicked away the final chunks of vomit.
“Maybe there is,” a voice called from the club’s back door.
Vince Smith—with his deeply tanned skin, bleached blond hair, perfect white teeth, and crisp Polo shirt—was a stark contrast to the alleyway’s miserable surrounds of grime-stained brick and rusted escape ladders dangling precariously from above. The dark night and the drumming rain did little to hide the garbage stench wafting through the narrow lane.
Lincoln and Mich turned to the gravelly voice.
“I’ll be damned!” Lincoln grinned as he recognized an old friend from the past.
Mich failed to identify the well-dressed man standing in the doorway and studied him with a curious gaze.
“Mich, meet Vince. Vince, this is Mich.”
“What the hell are you doing in a shithole like this?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Vince glanced over at the two drunks propping each other up beside the doorway. “I heard you were working in Manilla, and I thought to myself, Where would I possibly find Lincoln Monk in this big city? The answer was obvious: in the biggest shithole in the city!” Vince’s perfect smile reminded Lincoln of a used-car salesman closing in for the kill.
“Any particular reason you wanted to find me?” Lincoln asked, stepping out of the rain and under the awning’s shelter.
Vince slapped Lincoln on the back, gave him a friendly hug, and pulled him close as old friends do. “Four reasons, actually.”
“And they are?”
“Sun, sand, surf—and an island full of beautiful ladies as far as the eye can see.”
From the cold water soaking into his suit and the night’s chilled air, Lincoln sneezed. “What’s the catch?” he asked, blinking away the rain.
“No catch.”
“There’s always a catch,” Lincoln replied from a lifetime of experience.
“Monk, let’s hear the man out before making a hasty decision,” Mich protested, taking in the gritty location and miserable weather.
Aware that the night was growing colder and the rain heavier, Lincoln conceded that the opportunity for a change of employment merited consideration. He was still suspicious, but the prospect of a warmer climate was irresistible.
After shooting a questioning glance at Mich, whose overeager expression gave away his position on the subject, Lincoln wiped the stinging water from his face and nodded toward the strip club’s open doorway. “Let’s talk.”
The three men sat in a booth at the back of the club. Vince enjoyed the stage show while Lincoln and Mich dried themselves with towels supplied by club owner John Mark. A leggy blonde was removing the last of her clothing while dancing seductively to “Shake It Up,” the classic Cars tune of the eighties.
A waitress wearing the smallest G-string ever created (and who noticed what else) sauntered over to the table with a serving tray. The three men thanked her as Rosie placed the drinks before them and gave them an appreciative smile.
“Thanks, Linc, Mich. Those guys you took out back were real assholes who deserved everything they got. The bigger guy even tried to get a free lap dance. Cheap jerk.”
Lincoln nodded in Mich’s direction. “That’s why we’re here, Rosie.”
“Our asshole boss John Mark says he wants you both back on the door in fifteen minutes.” She winked at Lincoln and smiled. “The drinks are from the girls, for looking after us.”
Lincoln shrugged okay and took a swig of his Corona. “Anytime.”
She handed a makeshift icepack of a dozen ice cubes wrapped in a small hand towel to Lincoln who gratefully accepted the offer. He gently pressed the icepack against his bruise and slumped back into the booth. As the pain throbbed through his jaw, he gave Rosie a thumbs up.
A patron at the end booth raised his hand and arrogantly snapped his fingers at Rosie. She acknowledged the client but before leaving, smiled at Lincoln. “Anytime, sexy.” Her eyes lingered over Lincoln’s lean physique, boyish looks, and emerald eyes one last time before she disappeared into the crowded room.
“Wow!” was all Vince could say as he checked out the semi-naked waitresses strutting their stuff around the club. A new exotic dancer had taken the stage. Wearing a leopard skin bikini she straddled the dance pole and gyrated in time to Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf.” Vince stared, agape. “You guys sure know how to live.”
After drying off most of the rain, Mich tied back his long black hair into a ponytail and sipped a Fosters, his favorite beer.
Lincoln downed his Corona while keeping the icepack pressured against his jaw. He followed Vince’s gaze to the beautiful girls wandering about and onstage. “This job has its perks.”
“It sure does. Must be tempting, all these ladies around you all night.”
“We don’t fraternize with the girls. Mich and I are professionals when it comes to work.”
Vince exhaled deeply at the sight of the scantily clad women on show. “You’d have to be,” he replied with a hint of admiration.
“The girls are pretty cool when you get to know them. Most are here for the money and a chance to get out of poverty and bad relationships.”
“Okay,” Vince answered without commitment or concern. He looked around the room one more time before focusing his attention on Lincoln and Mich. “This professionalism you speak of is the reason I’m here.” He took a sip of his bourbon to prolong the moment and create an air of anticipation for his long-time friend and his fellow crowd-controller.
Lincoln saw through the old ploy as he gently rubbed the icepack over his jaw. “Come on, Vince. Don’t dillydally. It’s been a long night, and I’m in no mood for games. I know you. What’s the offer?”
“You haven’t changed. Always to the point.” Vince locked eyes with Monk. “After we parted ways at the police department, you wandered the earth seeking . . . I have no idea what—”
“A sea change,” Lincoln supplied.
Vince continued as though Lincoln had never commented. “—and I went to work building the Smith empire. I currently have five hotels around the world, all land-locked, but my pride and joy is my island property. I spent five million renovating this glorious old French colonial hotel. After a bumpy start, the hotel is doing well, very well. Occupation rate is well over ninety-five percent, and I’m turning a pretty profit.”
“But?” Lincoln took a swig of his Corona.
“But, to appease land developers, workers unions, and government departments, I have to hire the locals.”
“So you bring employment to the island,” Mich interjected. “This is a good thing, right?”
“It should be. However, some of my staff are less than forthright. I’ve had to fire several workers for theft, which in itself isn’t a bad thing. Any workforce will always have that element.”
Lincoln rubbed his jaw again and winced, hoping the icepack would keep the bruising to a minimum. “And this is where we come in.”
“I can always get more workers; that’s not the issue. The issue is that I want staff I can trust. I want people I can rely on to get the job done without my having to watch my back and my cash registers all day long. Yes—this is where you come in.”
“And if I say yes, my job title will be—?”
“Head doorman at the island resort’s only club. Five nights a week, all expenses paid and tips. In addition, you’ll be helping the occasional guest access his or her belongings from my newly installed vault.”
Mich grinned with anticipation. “And me?”
Vince turned and studied Mich for a moment. He shrugged. “If you’re buddies with Monk here, then I trust him to trust you. I only have one opening in the club, but I always need room attendants.”
“Sounds good to me.” Mich grinned with smile that showed his dimples. “I know how to fold a hospital corner with the best of them. The job would be a welcome relief from violent drunks and puking customers.”
“Now, I have to be honest with you. The pay isn’t great. But on the upside, you get to share a furnished staff bungalow at the back of the resort with all meals included, plus free vouchers for all the water sports and leisure activities associated with the resort. We also encourage our staff to interact with the customers if the client wishes—if you get my drift.” Vince said his last sentence with a smirk, indicating sexual favors to appease the clients.
At the prospect of working on an island resort, Mich’s eyes lit up. He glanced at Lincoln who kept a steadfast gaze on his old police buddy. From Lincoln’s concerned look, Mich had the distinct impression he was contemplating turning down the offer. He leaned over to Lincoln. “Come on Monk. What’s there to think about? Anything’s better than 80s Nite in this shit hole.”
