The One Read online

  The One

  Edmund Stone

  Copyright © 2022 by Edmund Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Editing and Formatting by Horrorsmith Editing

  Cover Art by François Vaillancourt

  Dedication

  * * *

  To Mikel, my wife, my love, my reason for every day.

  To my children and grandchildren,

  Mckenzie, Lauren, Parker

  Laynie, Carver, Ellie, and Beau

  Never stop dreaming.

  Contents

  1. Start Spreading the News

  2. On the Road Again

  3. Ghosts

  4. Kentucky Bound

  5. Where Have All the Good Guys Gone

  6. The Mine

  7. A Warning

  8. The New General

  9. Going to Town

  10. Let’s Get This Party Started

  11. On Good Terms

  12. Plan B

  13. Let the Children Lead the Way

  14. A Brand New Purpose

  15. Once Upon a Sage

  16. Preparing for the Fight

  17. Ghosts and Demons

  18. Regroup

  19. The Evil Celebration

  20. The Road to Pa-Rudy’s

  21. Into the Fray

  22. The Parts Awaken

  23. Nikki Rising

  24. The Future of Rebecca

  25. Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Edmund Stone

  Start Spreading the News

  The warehouse stood under the bridge, half in the eerie light of the street lamp and half out. The old brick façade crumbled onto the sidewalk below, and the windows were dark, giving the place an air of abandonment—a stark contrast to the lively renovated structures a few blocks away.

  Peter McNamara knew the area well, had been running goods from there since he was old enough to drive. His dad, Carl, had too.

  Carl McNamara was once the best runner the Russian mob knew, trusted by all the bosses. Peter supposed he’d taken on the same mantra, picking up where his dad left off.

  But this job was different.

  The guy who set it up was surely no mob go-between. Charlie Shope had no pedigree at all, and he damn sure wasn’t Russian—just a slob in prison for running drugs, same as him. Peter figured he’d get this job done and be back in Brooklyn before sunset if all went well, and he didn't suspect there’d be any problems. He wasn't even using his own car. Nobody could trace him.

  Peter left the subway terminal and headed toward the water. It was a little chilly for an August night in New York, so he pulled his jacket snug around him. A couple of cops were parked on the corner—at least he figured they were cops—plain clothes, but they had the air of police surrounding them. He wondered what they were investigating but decided not to do too much speculating. Peter only hoped it wasn't anything to do with the people he was meeting.

  They watched him suspiciously as he walked by, and he figured the color of his skin alone would bring on a search. Though his skin wasn’t as dark as his dad’s, Peter knew a man like him would be suspect walking down there alone at this time of night.

  He almost made it by before one of them called him over.

  “Hey, buddy. Can we talk to you?”

  Peter thought about running, but it was better to keep his cool. They had nothing on him, unless they were looking at his record as an ex-con. Could be, but he’d done his time and was clean. Nothing to be worried about.

  He nodded and walked toward the cops—one a tall white man standing next to the car, the other one sitting in the passenger seat with his laptop, checking something. The tall man flashed a badge and began to speak.

  “Name’s Smith. Detective at the lower precinct. Me and my partner here are looking for someone. Big guy. Scary, with some breathing problems.”

  Peter immediately took pause. The same guy he was looking for. Charlie had told him the man would be big and scary, with an inhaler constantly in his hand. The kind of guy who looked like he walked straight out of some horror film, nicely dressed but would stand out in a crowd. Now the cops were looking for him too. Maybe this wasn't a good job after all. The pay was too good to leave, but if it landed him back in jail before he could get back to his mob jobs, well, the family wouldn't be happy. They put too much into getting him out.

  “No, ain’t seen a thing. Just got here myself. Going to see some friends in one of the renovated warehouses around the corner. The ones they put the big loft apartments in.”

  Detective Smith nodded. The passenger window eased down, and the other cop, brown like Peter but much more clean in appearance, cleared his throat.

  “Says here you just got out of prison. Running drugs for the Reznikov family. You wouldn't be setting up something like that again, would you? Maybe the guy we’re looking for has something to do with it?”

  Peter smiled. “No, man, I’m clean. Did the time and ready to be done with it. Like I said, I’m meeting some friends around the corner.”

  “I suppose if we followed you there your story would check out?” Detective Smith asked.

  Okay, it might be time to run, but no, he’d be a suspect for sure then. They could frisk him if they wanted, but they’d find nothing. Peter didn't keep a gun with him, only when on a run. Charlie had told him the guy he was working for would provide one in the car, so he didn't need to worry about anything.

  “Yeah, it would. Just some friends.”

  Smith looked him over, then turned to his partner and nodded. The window closed, and an eerie silence pervaded. The cop seemed to be assessing the situation, see if his story checked out or if they should investigate further, Peter assumed.

  “All right. I’m going to take your word for it. We’ll be checking on you though,” Smith said, smiling smugly. “If you see anything, give us a call.” The man produced a card from his pocket with his name and number.

  Peter scanned it: Officer William Smith, Lower Precinct, Special Victims Unit. Peter looked back at him.

  “SVU? Like on TV, huh?”

  “Yeah, but this ain’t make-believe down here. A lot of people have gone missing lately, and we’re trying to find out the cause. Seems like the man I described is near every scene. He’s a person of interest. We just need to talk to him.”

  “Got it. I’ll be on the lookout.”

  “You do that.”

  Smith got back in the car. The engine fired up, and the vehicle eased out, disappearing around the corner.

  Damn, the cops were onto the guy he was supposed to meet. Charlie told him the guy was clean. Nobody knew him. Now, right before Peter was set to get to the warehouse, he finds the guy is wanted for questioning. It all had a bad vibe. But the money they were paying would get him back in business and get him a gun and a car to boot.

  He thought back on the conversation he and Charlie had when they were cellmates. Peter didn't like the guy at first but endured him for a few months, and he got more tolerable as time went on. Charlie had been telling him about a job Pete would be perfect for.

  “Hey, Pete. Need a smoke?”

  “Naw, I’m good. Been thinking about the job you told me about. You sure it’s a good one? My people wouldn't be too happy if I ended up back here just as I got out. They pay cops off and all. But these people you talk about sound like they don’t have any connections.”

  “Oh no, they’re connected, all right. Ever hear of the Pendleton Corporation?”

  “Yeah, who hasn’t?”

  “Well, word has it, they’re elbows deep with the group, and I believe it. I should be out of here soon. I’ll be running for them too. The big guy said so. They’ll pay you at least a hundred grand to run this job alone.”

  Peter thought about this. The sum was more than he made in twenty jobs with the mob. But he had a nagging feeling this was all too good to be true. “The big guy? Sounds a little cliche’. He got a name?”

  “He goes by Samson, and once you see him, you’ll know why. Looks like a white Shaquille O’Neill.”

  “That big, huh?”

  “Every bit of it. Scary too. Sucking on his inhaler like a pacifier.”

  “Inhaler? Is he sick or something?”

  “Not sure. He seems to be okay, but I don’t know. All I know is they pay well, and I’m sure you could use the cash once you’re out of here.”

  “You’re right about that. When you take a fall, you lose all your standing for a bit. They get you back into the game as soon as they can, but it’s hard to make ends meet at first. With the parole officer hanging on my tail, I’ll have a tough time getting by. My family will want me to hang low for a little while. I’ll have to figure out a way to ditch the ankle monitor. Shouldn't be too tough though. Won’t be the first time I’ve done such a thing.”

  Charlie nodded. “Good.”

  “You know anything about where this guy’s from?” Peter asked.

  “I think it was Baltimore at one time. But he’s been all over
. Kentucky, I think, was the last place.”

  “Really? Must be involved in drugs. The family runs shipments that way all the time.”

  It was then they heard a gruff sounding voice in the cell next to them—some hillbilly they’d tried to avoid. He was old and in for murder. Nobody thought much of him.

  “You all talking about Kentucky? A big man? Probably Salt Flat. It’s where all the weird shit happens.”

  Charlie shook his head and spoke to the old man. “What the fuck you talking about, you crazy old cook?”

  “I know the place, and I know the big guy was the one took my son, Buck. I heard through the grapevine he was all over the town before my boy disappeared, along with half the town itself. The last time I talked to him, before they put me up here, I tried to warn him to stay away, but he fell in with them just the same. I worked the mines there, and I know all about the crazy ass shit goes on there.”

  Peter nudged Charlie, tilting his head sideways, then expressing clearly how much he thought the old guy was full of shit.

  “Well, old man, Kentucky is a long ways from here, so you don’t need to worry about it. Mind your own business.”

  “You all are the crazy ones! I’m as sane as anyone. They’s some bad dealings going on there, and now they’s here! I want my boy to come visit me. I shouldn't be here. Whatever’s in that mine should be burned,” the man droned.

  The last thing Peter remembered were the guards coming in and taking the old man, dragging and kicking, to the hold.

  Good riddance, Peter thought.

  The next few days, he and Charlie discussed where to meet and what to say when he got there, but he said nothing of the cops looking for the guy. Yet here he was, and there was no turning back now.

  He walked on, stopping at the chain link fence surrounding the place. A sign hung from the front of the fence: The Pendleton Corporation and Holdings.

  A guard sat in a shack just beyond the entrance. When he noticed Peter standing there, he pushed a button, and a large gate began to roll to the side, jerking slightly with each hum of the motor. Peter walked uneasily through the gate. The guard nodded as he went by. Just beyond the shack, a large man stood beside a black Cadillac. He was just as big and intimidating as Charlie said, and as he stepped toward Peter, he puffed an inhaler, releasing it from his lips with a peculiar popping sound.

  “You must be Peter. My name’s Samson. Charlie told me all about you. I think you’ll make a welcome addition to our clan.”

  “Pleased to meet you, but I’m only here for the one job. My family wouldn’t be too happy if they knew I was here, so let’s keep it on the down low, if you know what I mean?”

  “If you mean the Reznikov family, I assure you, they will do nothing to interfere. Mr. Pendleton pays them handsomely for their protection in this area of the city.”

  Peter gave him a surprised look. How did he know the family, or that Peter was involved with them?

  “I assure you, Mr. McNamara, you have nothing to worry about. Now, let’s get you set. The car is to your liking?”

  Peter looked at the beast before him. It was an older model Cadillac Fleetwood, the kind you’d see in a parade or something. Peter thought the mayor rode around in one. Either way, it was a sweet old ride. Blending in wouldn't be easy, but it would get him to his destination fast and in style. He ran his hand down the side and tried to look through the driver’s side window but saw only his reflection staring back at him. The window tint was too dark to be legal. May be a good thing.

  “Nice car, but I doubt I’ll get far before the cops get suspicious and want to pull me over. I can tell you, if they do, I’ll be going straight to jail. Man who looks like me can’t be seen driving something this nice. You can call me Pete, by the way.”

  “I think Mr. McNamara is more appropriate.”

  Peter gave him a strange look. What was with all the formality?

  “Suit yourself.”

  “You’ll have no problems at all, Mr. McNamara. You can drive with confidence, knowing all is taken care of.”

  Peter stared at the car, then to Samson, before he spoke.

  “You get the piece I asked for?”

  “If you’re referring to the gun, then yes. It’s inside on the front seat. I hope it’s to your liking.”

  Peter opened the door and looked inside. On the leather seat lay a short-barreled Remington pump shotgun with an assortment of shells.

  Just what the doctor ordered, he thought.

  A briefcase sat beside it.

  “What’s in the case?”

  “Why, the money we’re paying for the job, of course. You can check it if you like. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied.”

  Peter reached for the case, bringing it closer to him, then unsnapped the clasps. Stacks of one hundred dollar bills lined the entire thing. Charlie wasn’t lying; these people meant business.

  “Shall we go over the details of the job?”

  Peter slid the case across the seat to the other side, then stood to look at Samson.

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Okay then. Come into my office.”

  “What about the money? Will it be safe in there?”

  “The car takes what I tell it to and protects it. Anyone or anything not authorized to be there will meet with some dire circumstances.”

  Peter nodded. Must be some kind of high-tech security system protecting the car, he thought. Smart move with the kind of money floating around in the case. He followed Samson to an office across the parking lot. Once they entered, Samson directed him to a chair on the other side of a big desk.

  “I have the directions here.” He pushed an old school atlas map toward him.

  Peter smiled at the thing. “What? No GPS?”

  “No. Too easy to track.”

  Peter looked at him thoughtfully. “Makes sense, I guess.”

  He studied the map. A drawn line led to an area in South New Jersey, ending in a star sticker attached to a small town, or maybe just an area off the road. Another line led from it, across Pennsylvania, through Maryland, and into West Virginia. It finally stopped in Eastern Kentucky.

  “This looks crazy. So, I’m going to Jersey, then taking a detour to Bum Fucked Egypt?”

  Samson looked puzzled. “No. You’re not going overseas. There is no ship involved.”

  Peter shook his head. “Nevermind. Why Kentucky?”

  The big man smiled. “The shipment you’ll be delivering is in New Jersey. It will be taken to Kentucky.”

  Peter studied the map again. This could be some serious downtime away from the people who would surely be looking for him—the parole officer for one. If he just disappeared, wouldn't they come after him? Even without the ankle monitor he ditched, they could still find ways to track his whereabouts. But the money…That was some serious cash to consider.

  “All right. But what about my parole? I have a parole officer, and they’ll be coming after me if I jump before time’s up. Even without the ankle bracelet.”

  Samson sat back in the chair, then pulled an inhaler from his pocket. The large man pushed the plunger and breathed in. It popped as he released it from his mouth. Peter thought the man looked like a large balloon ready to blow at any time. Samson let out a sigh.

  “Don’t worry about the authorities. You’ve been incarcerated for far too long. All is taken care of, including your parole.”

  Peter wondered how far a reach these people had. If they were tied up with the Pendleton Corporation, must be very connected. The whole thing was crazy, but profitable. He shook his head.

  “I guess I’m in then. When do I start?”

  “Why, Mr. McNamara, right now, as soon as we leave this room.”

  Peter gave him an incredulous look. “Now? I haven't even had time to visit my momma since I’ve been out.”

  “There will be time for those things later. Give her a call in the meantime. I’ve provided a cell phone for you. Make the call on there. It’s completely untraceable. There’s also a credit card with it, to pay for any travel expenses.”