Finding Kyle
By
Sawyer Bennett
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Sawyer Bennett Kindle Edition
Published by Big Dog Books This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
ISBN: 978-1-940883-71-7
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Connect with Sawyer
Other Books by Sawyer Bennett
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Kyle
My ass hits the couch cushion, but no sooner do I twist the cap off my bottle of beer, then there's a knock at the door. With a sigh, I push back up, set my beer on the black lacquered tabletop, and move my way through the sparsely furnished apartment. It's done in whites, grays and blacks with plenty of leather, chrome, and glass. It's way too contemporary for my taste, but what do I know? I've pretty much lived the past three years in a shit hole.
After a quick look through the peephole, I'm unlocking the door to pull it open. Joseph Kizner stands there with a worried look on his face.
He's always fucking worried around me, and it's grating on my nerves.
"I'm fine," I say before he can ask, stepping aside to let him in.
"You look like shit," he returns casually as he shrugs off his heavy wool overcoat. Winter in Chicago is no fucking joke, but I wouldn't know as I'm not allowed outside this apartment. The walls are closing in on me, and all I can do is ride it out.
I don't address his comment on how I look. Instead, I walk to the fridge to pull out a beer for him. He follows me into the modernized kitchen, which is done all in stainless steel and granite, and accepts the bottle from me. He twists the cap off, setting it on the counter.
I wait patiently as Kizner takes a sip. After he swallows, he gets right to the point. "The wiretaps have been approved and are going into place as we speak."
I nod in understanding. That means shit's getting real.
"We're going to go ahead and move you," he says, and then watches me carefully for my reaction.
I've known Joe Kizner a long time. Over the years, he's lost a little more hair on top and gotten a few more wrinkles around his eyes, but, otherwise, he's not changed much. We worked together at the ATF on a very dangerous and high-profile case that started ages ago, but that doesn't mean we've spent a lot of time together. That's because I went deep undercover, immersing myself into a sinister motorcycle club named Mayhem's Mission. The club was long suspected of running drugs, guns, and sex slaves. Joe was my handler on the outside.
The case started just over five years ago after several informant tips started adding up to a plausible decision to go in. I volunteered and moved to Jackson, Wyoming, settling into a new life as nothing more than a motorcycle mechanic at a local shop. Over the next several months, I got to know some of the club members who would bring their bikes in for work. Eventually, I was invited out to some parties at the club. I went on some "charity" runs, which were nothing more than fronts to make the club look legit. I fucked club whores and snorted coke with my new buds. I devolved from my basic human nature, and I became just like them.
As time went on, I saw things.
I saw illegal shit go down at the clubhouse, and I kept my mouth shut. I did this all under the watchful eye of their leader, Zeke, until, after almost two years, he approached me to patch in with the club.
I'd been tested, of course, before the offer came to me.
A test that will probably continue to haunt me as it involved conveying a very direct message to one of Zeke's enemies, and while said enemy was a lowlife piece of criminal shit who had just gotten out of prison for raping a sixteen-year-old girl, I still see rivers of blood on my hands because I became his judge, jury, and executioner in one fell swoop just so I could pass Zeke's test.
That's when I became a real criminal as well.
For three years after that, I rode with the club. I facilitated drug deals, helped to transport women sold into slavery, and I hurt countless people who the club felt deserved to be hurt. I participated in gang bangs with my new brothers, and I lived without a single fucking regard for the law that I'd sworn to protect.
But I did all of this with the sanction of the U.S. government. As a deep undercover agent, I was given absolute autonomy in my actions to help solidify my position within the organization so that I'd be given a position of trust. It was sort of a "don't ask, don't tell" type of policy, and Joe will never know the true extent of the heinous things I did to play my part.
Thereafter, it was a matter of collecting evidence and information, and then passing it on as carefully as possible to Joe. We barely saw each other over the three years I was deep because it was just too dangerous, but I did my job and did it well. I garnered enough evidence that just a few short months ago, the ATF was able to bring down Mayhem's Mission and their operation, which was spread out over the entire western part of the United States.
This was one of the most remarkable take downs in ATF history because an agent had never been that deep before, or stayed that way for that long. But the real feather in my cap, which will earn me a hefty promotion, a pay raise, and probably some presidential medal or some shit, is that I was able to learn that one very high-ranking U.S. senator from Colorado was deep into business with the club. The senator had state-level cops in his pockets. They were able to pull strings all the way down to local police so that blind eyes were turned to most of the criminal activity. The club made millions of dollars on their enterprises, and that money surged upward to reward the senator.
While I was able to provide plenty of direct proof against Zeke and the club, I'd never been privy to any actual exchanges between the club and the senator. As such, the ATF was quietly moving to get federal wiretaps in place, because while Zeke headed the largest chapter of Mayhem's Mission in the United States, it wasn't the only one, and there was plenty of shit still going down.
Which brings me back to Kizner's visit to this apartment that I've been holed up in for almost three months now.
"Moving me?" I ask.
"We had to disclose you as a witness when we sought the wiretaps," he returns. "You're now officially a target."
"Not going into WITSEC," I tell him adamantly. No way am I giving up every last vestige of control to the U.S. Marshal's and their witness protection program.
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"Stupid fuck," he mutters in return.
When the ATF took the club down back in October, I was still in deep. They were able to secure the compound and make their arrests without one Mission gang member knowing I was a rat. When they busted in with their flash-bangs and SWAT gear, I took off running as was the plan. I went out the back door, along with two other gang members, and we fled into the back woods, all three of us splitting up in various directions.
I stayed hidden until I was later extracted with such secrecy that only three people in the entire ATF knew of my whereabouts. It later went down in the official report that I'd been executed by Zeke's right-hand man, a Mission gang member who had taken a bullet between the eyes during the raid and couldn't say anything to the contrary.
So, on October twelfth, I was officially declared dead and whisked away to hide out in Chicago until the ATF could finish building their case against the senator and the law enforcement officials who were on the take as well.
"WITSEC is your safest option, Kyle," Joe reminds me.
"It's a wasted resource on me," I counter. "I can take care of myself."
"But you'd have added protection until this gets to trial."
"You mean, I'll have watch dogs that will curtail my freedom," I tell him with a pointed stare. I'd been locked up here in this tiny apartment for almost three months, and I was going stir crazy. I wasn't about to stay in this type of situation going forward.
"To help keep you alive until trial," he again pushes at me. "And we need you for the trial. Every single fucking arrest hinges on your testimony."
"Well, gee, Joe," I say sarcastically. "I'm glad you're worried about me personally and not just as a valuable asset."
Joe sighs and rubs his hand along his balding head. "I'm not even going to address that. You know I'm worried about you personally."
I sigh as well, raking my fingers through my long, blond hair. It's taken on a few extra grays over the last few years with all the shit I've seen and done. "I know, and I appreciate it. If you'll just get me a new identity and send me somewhere remote, I'll handle myself. I can keep myself safe until the trial."
"There's more to it than just--"
"I know," I cut him off. "So set up bank accounts under my new name, move my monies in there because God knows I've saved a fuck of a lot of money over the last three years the ATF was paying me, and I don't know... get me a job or something, so I can stay busy."
Joe stares at me a long moment before he says, "You know if you don't go into WITSEC, you're on your own. And you know he'll send people after you."
"He" being the senator, and I nod... because yes, I know this is a distinct possibility.
"Then make sure you send me somewhere he'll never find me, and then cover my tracks," I say simply. The government's been hiding witnesses for decades, and they're good at it.
Joe takes a long slug of his beer before setting the unfinished bottle down on the counter. "Alright. It will take a few days to get everything set up. I'll be in touch. Until then--"
"Stay in the apartment," I mutter.
It sucked donkey dick being dead and having to hide.
CHAPTER 1
Kyle
She's had enough.
She sits on the cold concrete floor, slumped forward as far as she can because her arms are tied behind the four-by-four post and her legs are sprawled out in front of her. Her head hangs low, stretching her neck to its limits and causing her matted and blood-crusted hair to hang over her face, so I can't see the misery in her eyes. Yeah... she's had enough.
Kayla throws an icy bucket of water over the woman, but she doesn't even flinch.
Not satisfied by that lack of reaction, Kayla draws her foot back and kicks the woman in the thigh.
No reaction.
Bending over, I grab a hank of her gnarled hair and pull her head up. She's completely lax, eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open, but she's not feeling anything at this moment. I slide my gaze over to Kayla, who looks at me expectantly.
"She's had enough today," I tell her.
"Maybe another bucket of water will wake her up," she suggests pointedly.
I shake my head and release my hold on her. Her head flops back down, and I ignore the roil of acid gurgling low in my belly. Shaking my head, I tell her, "Nah. Try again tomorrow. Maybe using a knife on her again will get her to loosen her tongue."
Kayla gives a cackle of glee over my suggestion, and her eyes turn darkly clouded with wicked desire. Desire to continue her sick torture or desire for me, I can't tell. She licks her lips as she looks at me, and I have to repress the shudder that wants to overtake my body.
Instead, I lift my chin up at her as if I share her delight in tormenting this woman. Kayla gives me a mischievous wink and says, "Tomorrow then. I'll start with the knives."
My eyes snap open, but they don't see a damn thing. The room is pitch black at first, but then the soft glow of moonlight off the Atlantic Ocean starts to lighten my surroundings. I scrub my hands over my face briefly before kicking off the covers and rolling out of my bed. The floor is cold because I didn't bother turning the heat on last night. Even though it's May and spring is in full gear, it still gets chilly at night. My heart rate is only slightly elevated from that nightmare, but my skin feels like it's crawling with ants.
I don't dream of Maggie often, but when I do, it's that particular dream. I'm not sure why that dream plagues me because while it was definitely horrendous what we did to her, it's certainly not the worst thing I've done. On top of that, I broke every protocol in the book for an undercover agent by rescuing Maggie from that basement where Kayla was torturing her. I did it in the dark of the night when everyone was asleep, and I did it knowing I could be blowing three years of undercover work just to save one woman's life.
In hindsight, it worked out, but also in hindsight, it was probably a stupid decision. That is what I'm having a hard time reconciling. Probably why I keep dreaming of it.
I pad out of the small room to the bathroom just one door down, flipping on the light and momentarily blinking against the harsh glare. Bending over the sink, I turn the cold water on and let it run for a few seconds before cupping my hands under it. It's icy and abrasive and exactly what I need. I splash three handfuls on my face and give a hard rub to my eyes before I straighten up and look at myself in the dingy mirror above the sink.
Dead, bleak eyes stare back at me. The lightest of blues... practically colorless. They had never held much warmth in them to begin with, but coming out of the dregs of my memories, they seem to almost shimmer with a frostiness that matches the cold feeling inside my veins.
The man staring back at me is named Kyle Sommerville.
Well, that was his name as of last October, but then he was shot, execution style, in the back of the head. That's the official story that was given to my only living relative, my sister, Andrea. She was told her brother was an undercover agent, a hero, and that he sacrificed his life to take down Mayhem's Mission. The day after I "died," I became someone else. I kept my first name because I was told it would make it an easier transition for me, but I had no say-so in my new last name.
And frankly, I didn't care.
It was just a name, so I became Kyle Harding.
The "new" Kyle who stares back at me looks nothing like the old Kyle. I've lost a little over thirty pounds over the past seven months--by design--and the gaunt angles caused by the weight loss and the removal of a fuck of a lot of my long, blond hair and beard left a new man in its place. Many people who go into hiding color their hair, but all I did was remove it, so nothing is left but very short stubble that actually appears dark against my pale skin. Put a recent picture against the old Kyle and nobody will see a resemblance. I'm hiding in practically plain sight.
My gaze drifts down past my jaw to halfway down my throat. Tattoos rise above the collar of the white t-shirt I'd worn to bed. Now those tattoos... those would identify me as Kyle Sommerville, so I keep
them hidden as much as possible. I moved to Maine from Chicago in February. Those first few months were bitterly cold, and it wasn't a problem to hide my tats. But it's May now. The weather is starting to warm, so they'll be partially visible.
Oh, well.
I seriously doubt anyone from Mayhem's Mission or, even worse yet, a certain senator who probably didn't take kindly to his arrest, are going to look for me here in Misty Harbor, Maine. This is about as far off the fucking grid as possible to get, and I trust the U.S. Marshal's office, in conjunction with the ATF, to have crossed all t's and dotted all i's when it came to creating my new identity.
I'd love nothing more than to return to bed and fall back asleep, but I've had that nightmare one too many times to know that won't fucking happen. With a sigh, I turn the faucet off and blot my face with the hand towel, deciding to head out for a late-night drink--or ten--and maybe for something else that will help me sleep.
The Lobster Cage is a dive bar that smells like sea salt and fish. That's because most of the inhabitants work the numerous lobster boats that prowl the local waters by day. The jukebox is playing an old Johnny Cash tune, but it's turned down low. The men here aren't interested in loud music or entertainment. They want to get drunk, and possibly get laid, then they'll go to sleep before they hit the waters tomorrow for another hard day's work.
The pungent scent of cheap perfume hits my nose before the scantily clad ass hits the barstool beside me. It's getting late--or rather, early morning--and there are only a handful of people still here. I've got a good buzz going as I nurse my fourth whiskey.
"Hey stranger," the woman purrs beside me, but I don't even bother turning my head. Her perfume identifies her clearly. "Haven't seen you around in a while."
That's true. I moved to Misty Harbor in February and since that time, I've only been here a handful of times. Still, I've come in enough times that I'm known by the bartender and a few of the other locals.
"What's up, Barb?" I return gruffly as I stare down into my liquor. If I were to look at her, I'd see a woman who has the potential to really be pretty. But she mars that up with too much makeup and too much hair frizzed up all over the place. She's got a decent body. Even in the winter months, it's always on full display with lots of cleavage and legs showing. She has no clue I've seen so much of that in my lifetime that it's sort of like looking at the same piece of art every day. No matter how fantastic or beautiful it may be, when it's seen over and over again, it just ceases to be special anymore.