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  HURT HAWKS

  Mike Miner

  PRAISE FOR HURT HAWKS

  “Wars never really end; the fight just follows you home. In HURT HAWKS, Mike Miner brings the battlefield to Dorchester, Massachusetts, steeping his tale of revenge and honor in deep New England roots. It’s like if Harry Brown (and a few of his closest pals) lived in a Dennis Lehane novel. With lean, exacting prose and imagery that cuts to the bone, Miner shows what life is like when the bombs fade and the smoke drifts away. Because a new enemy is always ready to take the place of the old, and men born to fight do what they do best: they survive. Or they die trying.” —Joe Clifford, author of Junkie Love and Lamentation

  “Miner’s HURT HAWKS is like well-aged bourbon. It’s smooth, smoky but with a kick! There are hints of Frederick Forsyth’s Dogs of War and a very pleasing Elmore Leonard after taste. It’s an action-packed noir beauty. Kick off your shoes and drink it straight.” —Joe Gannon, author of Night of the Jaguar and The Last Dawn

  “Mike Miner’s prose style is as spare as the final round in your last magazine and as singular in purpose. HURT HAWKS is propelled most of all by great characterization. Add to that a very timely setting, and a story that echoes both the tragic and heroic elements of Yojimbo and Seven Samurai, and this book is a shot that hits the mark.” —Bracken MacLeod, author of Stranded and Come to Dust

  Copyright © 2015, 2017 by Mike Miner

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  an imprint of Down & Out Books

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Bad Fido

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Hurt Hawks

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books and its Imprints

  Preview from A Brutal Bunch of Heartbroken Saps by Nick Kolakowski

  Preview from Crossed Bones, a Tommy & Shayna Crime Caper by S.W. Lauden

  Preview from Down on the Street by Alec Cizak

  This book is dedicated to the villains.

  Where would our heroes be without them?

  Hurt Hawks

  Robinson Jeffers

  I.

  The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,

  The wing trails like a banner in defeat,

  No more to use the sky forever but live with famine

  And pain a few days: cat nor coyote

  Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.

  He stands under the oak-bush and waits

  The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom

  And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.

  He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.

  The curs of the day come and torment him

  At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,

  The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.

  The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those

  That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.

  You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;

  Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;

  Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.

  ONE

  IF HE COMES, when he comes, Chris Rogers will kill him.

  The man will bring others. Chris will kill them too. The man is coming to rob Chris, to kill him, to take his wife. The others the man will bring because he is a coward. They will be well paid. Their deaths will pass unmourned.

  Chris sits in his wheelchair, in his small convenience store in Dorchester, Massachusetts. His father’s store and before that, his grandfather’s store. A rifle lays across his ruined lap. In a shoulder strap, his Glock is holstered, loaded and ready.

  A long time since he fired a weapon. Not since the desert.

  Behind the store, in the attached house, his wife and son sleep. They want nothing to do with Chris. He can’t blame them. The soldier who went off to Afghanistan did not return. He is a jigsaw puzzle missing all the important pieces. His legs didn’t make it back. He isn’t sure all of his mind did either.

  His dog, Sam, is at his side. Part of his therapy, a helper animal. Sam did not know Chris before the war. The dog accepts his master as is, unconditionally. The feeling is mutual.

  A drug induced fog haunts his brain. Pain killers, psychotropics, for this evening’s event he has doubled up. Real life and dream life merge and overlap. He is only half awake.

  In real life, Chris was a hero. His hands never shook, his mind never wavered. He saw the Afghan soldier aim his rifle at an American officer.

  A perfect shot took the Afghan out.

  In his dreams, Chris is a coward. He hides and watches as the Afghan takes the American out. In his dreams, Chris returns home with no injuries, no pieces missing. He can walk, he can run. He can lift his son up and toss him high, then catch him in an embrace. No pills. No dogs instead of friends. He can make love to his wife.

  In his dreams.

  Real life always comes knocking, every morning, to chop off his legs.

  The rifle is no longer in his lap.

  The man he planned on killing holds it. He looks from the gun to Chris. He winks. Looks back at the rifle. Whistles.

  “Hey, Nate.”

  “Hey, Chris. This is a serious piece of equipment.”

  Nate’s left eye squints, doesn’t look in the same direction as the right one. He is squat, not more than five feet seven inches, with the proportions of a dwarf; huge head, barrel torso, long arms and short legs. A shape that hasn’t changed much in the twenty or so years they have known each other.

  The store is dim. Chris’s vision is blurry. Two or three men lurk behind him. He senses their menace, a nasty scent in the air, like something burning. The weight of the pistol is still there, under his arm.

  Nate paints his face with regret, like a reluctant messenger. “You know, Chris.” He can’t quite lose his smile though. “Pay us our fee and you won’t need a piece of equipment like this. We’ll protect you.”

  From ourselves, Chris reads between the lines.

  “But you gotta be a tough guy. A hard case.”

  Chris stares at the ground. Looks for his dog.

  “This ain’t school anymore, pal. You’re not homecoming king an
ymore, not dancing with the prom queen.” Nate giggles. “Shit, I guess you’re not dancing with anyone anymore.”

  The others join the laughter.

  The dog Sam sidles up next to Nate. Chris grins. Nate looks at the dog, moves his hand to pet it. Sam sinks his teeth into Nate’s offered hand. A shelter animal, the one rule is to move your hand toward Sam from below. Anything from above he will take as a threat.

  “Son of a bitch.” Nate draws a hand cannon out of a holster and shoots the mutt.

  The ruckus gives Chris a chance to draw his piece. He starts shooting, his chest a riot of adrenaline and drugs, his heart pumps fast, his extremities tingle, even his phantom legs.

  The gun is empty but Chris keeps firing. In his head, he’s back in Kandahar. Bullets whiz past his head, the night a Van Gogh painting of explosions, a symphony of violence.

  Then Nate stands in front of him. Not the adult version but the squinty-eyed child Chris used to tease on the playground, the kid with all that hate in his eyes and the chip on his shoulder. The boy with a crush on his future wife. He looks at Chris with something like pity before he shoots him in the heart.

  TWO

  MR. SILVER HAS TRADED one desert for another. He’s gotten used to the scenery. The big sky, a land of horizons, comforts him now. Cities make him claustrophobic, but Vegas has the view he craves. This landscape allows him to keep his bitterness close. After his military career blew up, along with his foot, bitterness is all he has left.

  He walks with a cane now, like another famous pirate. He’s taken his name. Silver. L.J. Silver. At your service. Maybe he was always a pirate. Now he owns the title. Officially he runs security for various fat cats. Military contractors, arms dealers, a few cartel jefes. Does their dirty deeds, washes their dirty laundry, guards them, hires their help, and supplies them with weapons. A middle man. A bag man. A mercenary. A pirate.

  Why not?

  He is well compensated. Why should he care how dirty the money is?

  If he didn’t do it, wouldn’t someone else? That’s what he tells his conscience after a few drinks.

  Being a hero just got your limbs blown off. Ask Chris Rogers.

  Silver is in an extravagant suite in the Bellagio Hotel. Bosses from Colombia, Mexico and the Cosa Nostra sit in leather chairs. Like the start of a bad joke, Silver thinks; a Colombian, a Mexican and an Italian walk into a room. The producer, the supplier, the buyer. They meet once a year. Silver sets up the meet. The room has been swept three times for bugs. The last time by him personally. He has two other rooms reserved in two other casinos, same catering spread, same everything. Smoke screens.

  The three bosses complain about their wives, they brag about their kids. Just like regular folks do, Silver supposes, though he wouldn’t know. No wife or kids for him. These are not regular guys. These men have murdered dozens, ordered the deaths of hundreds, they run guns, drugs and women across the border. Their souls are deep in the devil’s pocket. Just like Silver’s.

  The three men puff on cigars. Cubans, a gift from the Colombian, Alejandro.

  Silver stands apart, sips from a glass of Remy Martin. He enjoys having a job that allows him to have a stiff morning drink without raising any eyebrows. He is labor not management in this meeting though he is trusted enough to hear what they discuss. A logistics man, they often ask his opinion.

  “Sit, Johnny,” the Cosa Nostra man, Giovanni Junior, GJ, tells him. A heavy man, in a perfectly tailored blue Canali suit, white shirt, white tie with a matching pocket triangle, GJ maintains a fatherly aspect. He seems sentimental but Silver has seen his temper, knows how quick it can rise.

  Silver taps his cane, nods and sits.

  “The new border patrol budget is chingado, it’s fucked,” says José from the Mexican mafia. He has not stopped eating since he entered the room. One look tells Silver this is a man of uncontrolled appetites, a man who takes what he can grab. The scars on his face show he is willing to pay the price for what he takes. He speaks with his mouth full. “The tighter security changes the routes of my burros. The ones that don’t get caught get lost in the Sonoran Desert.”

  “That’s a real waste of my product,” the Colombian, Alejandro, says. His voice is deep, his eyes are sleepy.

  Silver has not dealt with Alejandro before. He makes Silver nervous. Like a coiled snake, the Colombian is ready to strike. Something off about him. A few years too young. A few pounds too light. He doesn’t move like a boss, he moves like an assassin.

  “A terrible waste,” José says.

  GJ clears his throat. “So less drugs are costing more money.”

  “So it seems.” José eyes the desserts.

  The Mexican doesn’t realize what Silver just realized. José won’t be walking out of this meeting.

  GJ says, “I suppose that’s the price of doing business.”

  José offers an apologetic smile.

  “Gentlemen.” Alejandro stands, slow and lazy, stretches his legs. “How about a drink?”

  Silver makes to stand.

  Alejandro, too quick, motions for him to stay seated.

  “Relax, Johnny.”

  Silver puts his hands up in surrender.

  Alejandro gives him a look that says, Are you cool with this?

  Silver shrugs, Of course.

  Alejandro nods. “What can I get you, amigos?”

  “Sambuca for me,” GJ says.

  “Patrón, si puedes, amigo.”

  “Claro que sí.”

  The bar, fully stocked, is right behind José. Silver remembers GJ and Alejandro arriving early. He should have known then. He’s slipping.

  The Italian looks melancholy, resigned. Alejandro’s eyes, no longer sleepy, are wide and happy. He whistles as he brings the other two their drinks.

  “To another successful year.” Alejandro raises his glass.

  “Salúd,” José says. He tilts his crystal glass back.

  One bullet in the chest. One in the face. Two soft coughs from the silenced pistol. José drops onto the thick carpet. Even the glass falling barely makes a sound. A nice, quiet death. The gun is put away as fast as it was drawn.

  Alejandro and GJ toast each other and drink.

  GJ turns to face Silver. “You don’t look surprised.”

  “When did you know?” Alejandro looks curious. Did he tip his hand too soon?

  “Less drugs are costing more money.” Silver knows the bottom line in this business, the only line.

  Alejandro purses his lips. “You were a soldier, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have been tested in battle. It shows.”

  Silver raises his glass and sips it. “I will take care of the mess.” He’s seen worse. Much worse. Again he thinks of Chris Rogers. Why? Now maimed in a wheelchair, nursing visible and invisible scars. Silver remembers the screams, the young soldier’s mangled legs. Remembers thinking, What have I done? Bullets can do worse than kill sometimes.

  Silver’s missing foot itches today, like a guilty conscience. He would have to go to Afghanistan to scratch it. To Kandahar. So Silver knows it is an itch that will never be scratched.

  The gangster and the killer finish their drinks.

  “Tell me,” GJ talks to Silver. “How would you handle the new border regulations?”

  Silver smiles. “Last I checked, the border patrol is not made up entirely of saints. Find the right men, open a new path. Pay more to ensure more product gets through.”

  “A practical man,” Alejandro says. “The good things I heard about you are true, Señor Silver.” He grins. “Tell me, I am always curious. How did you wind up doing this? Your father was a soldier maybe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now?”

  “He owns a small store in New England.”

  “But this was not for you, right? A caballero.”

  A cowboy. “I reckon.”

  Alejandro finishes his drink. “Some days, I wager that little store looks pretty good.”

&
nbsp; “Some days.”

  “Today?”

  “Today, I’ll make more money than he does in a year.”

  “Yes, the money. Covers all manner of sins, sí?”

  “Sí.”

  “Hasta luego, amigo.”

  As Silver shakes hands with these despicable people, he wonders what has happened. When did he become such a bad person? Is he bad or just indifferent? Numb, he decides.

  He remembers himself as a boy, so anxious to escape his small New England home town. His father, a Yankee merchant, owner of the general store in town, a Vietnam vet. How could he be happy following the same routine day after day? His mother tended the yard, made the meals, sighed, her eyes tired, bored, sad. He did not want their lives, did not understand them. Did not want to settle for a life. Just get by.

  School did nothing for him. Classrooms and chalk dust made him sleepy. So he enlisted. Army, like his dad.

  Marching. Running. Obstacle courses. Drills. Guns. Silver loved it. His body responded like a perfectly calibrated machine. Who knew? His scores were off the charts. Set the camp record on the obstacle course. His range scores were unreal, his bullets, like bullseye magnets, never missed.

  He was sent to be made a Ranger at Fort Benning, Georgia, with three thousand other guys, give or take. A collection of gung-ho grunts too young to know they could be killed. Special Forces. They all thought they were invincible, bullet proof. Some of them were. Like Silver.

  More running - harder, faster, more weapons training – bigger, more dangerous, vehicle training. Silver jumped out of dozens of perfectly good airplanes. Learned a hundred ways to kill another human being.

  He itched for combat.

  His battalion was shipped to the Mojave Desert in California. They learned how to survive in the desert, how to read and draw maps. In his spare time, Silver learned Farsi, a tongue twisting mess of a language.