Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Dom
The strange SOS text from Rick Morrison, my old partner from when I was a U.S.
Marshal, shocks me. The last time I talked to him was over ten years ago, after all the shit that went down years ago.
Now, out of the blue, he texts me to get my ass to his place in Chicago before someone kills him?
Hell, I didn’t even know he moved from Virginia to the windy city.
I’m thrown back into the clusterfuck of that day fourteen years ago.
It ended my career and left me with a brutal scar, but Rick lost so much more.
His wife left him—taking his only child with her, while he was still in the hospital recovering from gun shots he took to his chest and right arm.
He’d been a dependable partner and he’d saved my life that day, so I owe him.
Knowing Callum is in good hands, and Pen and the rest of the security team are protecting him, I have no worries about leaving. And the sooner I get going, the faster I get back to them.
I call Dean and ask to borrow his jet, then call Tobias and tell him what’s going down.
I should tell Pen, too, because keeping him in the dark is a shitty thing to do.
But when it comes to personal shit, he overthinks and over analyzes everything.
Once I find out what Rick needs from me, then I’ll tell Pen what’s going on.
And I’ll tell him about my past, too, when I get back.
While en route to Chicago, I get several text messages from Pen. The guilt is eating at me, especially when I replay the moment I barked at him to back off. I should have told him about my past right then so he’d understand that I have to go to Rick, but something stopped me.
Besides, with Callum’s attack and the assailant still free, Pen has enough to worry about. It wasn’t the right time to explain who I used to be. Or that’s the excuse I cling to.
Once I get off the plane at Midway Airport, I’m met by Jaeger, another one of Dean’s guys, who has a rental car waiting for me. I tap the address Rick texted me into the GPS, then head south on Route 50 toward Chicago Heights.
Jaeger warned me that Rick’s place is in a less-than-reputable area of the city and I need to be on guard. But I’m not worried. I pull up to a three-flat on South Peoria and park right out front of the three flat.
Before unfolding myself out of the rental, I pat my side, making sure my Beretta’s there.
Staring up at the third floor, I lock the car and proceed to climb the two flights of stairs until I’m standing in front of Rick’s door.
Glancing at the keycode mechanism on the door, I punch in the five numbers Rick texted me while I was driving here. With a soft snick, the lock opens and I push the door ajar.
I listen, but there’s no noise. “Rick,” I call out softly and open the door an inch wider. Still no noise.
When my ears catch a click, I withdraw my gun and use my foot to widen the gap of the door until I’m able to see a good portion of the living area and kitchenette—both trashed up with liquor bottles, beer cans and takeout containers.
“Rick, it’s Dom,” I call out louder this time, still keeping most of my body in the hallway.
“Dominic?” A cracked voice sounds off from the other end of the apartment.
I push the door all the way open and see my old partner peeking around a doorway, with a gun in his hand aimed at me.
“It’s me,” I say, keeping my eyes on Rick and his unsteady hand. “Are you going to lower your gun or are we going to have a problem?”
Relief slides across his face as he lowers the gun. “It’s good to see you, man. Come in.” He scratches his fingernails through the top of his buzz cut as he shuffles his way to the gray sofa in the living area.
I slip my gun back in its holster by my ribs, then cautiously enter the apartment and close the door behind me.
I take a real good look around the place and it’s a total pigsty.
He doesn’t look so great, either. But I keep my opinion to myself.
If the man has issues cleaning up his place and himself, it’s not up to me to tell him so.
“I’m here, Rick. Now what’s the SOS?” I ask, my attention back on my ex-partner, and taking in his disheveled state.
He nods, “Yeah. Get to the point, idiot,” he mutters to himself before focusing his bloodshot eyes on me.
“Someone is after me,” he says as he grabs an open cigarette pack and snags one.
He lights it with a shaky hand before planting himself on the sofa.
He takes a large drag of the cigarette and blows smoke out.
“Explain,” I say, not bothering to sit since there’s so much shit piled on top of the only chair in the room and I was not joining him on the dirty sofa.
“Last week, I was walking through the grocery store and I saw a guy following me. I didn’t think anything of it at the time until earlier today when I was coming back from getting cigarettes and happened to look over to the other side of the street. It was the same guy, Dom—I swear it.”
“And?”
“I kept on walking, but the bastard crept up from behind and hit me in the back of the head and then took off.” Rick stands, smashes the cigarette into some dried up food still in a takeout box on the coffee table, then turns around and points to a lump large enough for me to see from where I’m standing.
“By the time I got up from the ground the fucker was gone.”
“Did you call the cops?”
Rick spins back around and glares at me. “Have you seen my neighborhood? The cops rarely cruise around here. And no, they wouldn’t do a fucking thing. I’ll handle it myself.”
I narrow my gaze on him. He’s twitchy, like he’s coming down from a high. “Then why text me and have me come all this way? Jesus, Rick, did you drunk text me?”
“No—No. I…” He reaches for another cigarette. “I don’t think my attack was random.”
My body goes stiff at his words. “What do you mean?”
“I mean someone is out to hurt me—or worse, kill me. I know I’ve been out of the game for a while, but I know when I’m being watched.”
Out of all the things he could say, that’s the one that grabs me. Then I think of Callum… No way these two attacks are related.
Furthermore, the way Rick is acting… Suspect.
He’s manic and tweaking from the lack of drugs in his system.
I hate to think my old friend is battling a drug and alcohol problem, but the proof is all around the apartment.
Crumpled up and blackened aluminum foil and empty beer cans and alcohol are strewn about the place.
At first, I thought he might be delusional, but the large bump on the back of his head says otherwise.
“How about this? I have a friend who has a private security agency here. I trust him. Let me call him and see what he can do.”
“I don’t have the money for that shit, Dominic. After they released me from the hospital, our asshole boss put me on fucking desk duty. I didn’t last a year man,” Rick cries, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand.
But that was fourteen years ago. I keep that part to myself, though, because where would I be now without Dean?
“I’m on disability. I don’t make jack shit.
After Noelle left me, I wasn’t able to get back to my normal.
It’s that bitch’s fault. She won’t even let me see my own son.
But you know what, I have my ways. Want to see what Joshy looks like now?
He’s a freshman at Cornell.” He pulls out his phone, taps it a few times and then hands it to me. “See?”
The first thing I notice is the broken screen. Then I focus on the photo. The image is grainy at best, probably because it was taken from afar. But it’s enough to see the boy’s face. “I’m sure he’s happy to see you now.”
“No. Noelle took out a restraining order. No less than five hundred feet. That bitch. If you make a family, make sure your partner doesn’t take your fucking kid away man.”
I pass him back his phone and clear my throat. The weight of our past isn’t as heavy a burden to me as it is to Rick, which seals my commitment to help him. All this time, he’s been stuck in this perpetual cycle of near insanity, while I got out because Dean pulled me out.
If it wasn’t for my longtime friendship with Dean Harper—meeting him during my short stint in the military, I don’t know where I’d be right now. Maybe like Rick.
“I need your help, Dom,” Rick says as he stubs out the half-smoked cigarette, then grabs for another.
“I’m not sure what I can do, but…” I think for a second, remembering a friend of mine that moved back to Chicago. “I have a friend who might help. I’m going to call Leo and give him the details—you don’t mind if I give him your number?”
Rick shakes his head, puffing out a plume of smoke through his nose. “No, man. I’d appreciate it.”
“Leo owes me a favor. Just give him the details, and then we can go from there. Alright?” I ask, not sure what else to do for him. If anyone can get the answers, it’s Leo Richards.
“I don’t know what to say.” Rick stands and extends his hand. I glance down at it and for a second, I notice how clean his fingernails are. “Thanks, man,” he says graciously, which pulls my focus.
I grip his hand and shake it. Then releasing him, I slowly move to the door. “Rick.”
His watery, bloodshot eyes meet mine. “Yeah?”
“Watch your surroundings. And take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch.”
He drops down onto the sofa and blows out a long breath of smoke. “I will.”
Something about his response niggles at me as I close the door of his apartment and head to my rental car. The entire ride back to the airport, my mind keeps wondering—if Dean hadn’t pulled me out of the pit of hell and straightened my ass out, would I have turned out to be like Rick?