Cold Fury by T. M. Goeglein

Author:T. M. Goeglein [Goeglein, T. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General, Juvenile Fiction, Action & Adventure, Law & Crime, Love & Romance
ISBN: 9780399257209
Google: RFmEOhR_SB4C
Amazon: 0399257209
Barnesnoble: 0399257209
Goodreads: 12849229
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2012-07-24T04:00:00+00:00

Monadnock Building, lobby, east wall

City Hall, second floor, men’s room

Edgewater Beach Hotel, Yacht Club, behind the potted palms

Green Mill Lounge, beneath the bar

Uptown National Bank, teller cage no. 5

3rd, 11th, 19th, 33rd, and 41st Ward Precinct Houses, lock-up

Henrici’s Ristorante, wine cellar

Lincoln Park Boat House, under the dock

Biograph Theater, north balcony

St. Hubert’s Grill, in the phone booth

All elevated train stations built before 1935, electrical closets

The list continued on, some locations I recognized, others I’d never heard of, but all of them surely containing (or at least at one time contained) its own personal Capone Door. I dog-eared the page so I could come back and finish, and turned to the next page. It was a new section titled “Safe Houses,” and explained how the Outfit owned dozens of hotels, homes, apartments, warehouses, and condominiums under assumed names where any member on the lam could hide out safely. This section contained a list of addresses, and I was skimming it when my eyes drooped and my chin touched my chest. I lifted the notebook and felt something odd, something hard and bumpy. I turned to the last chapter, “Volta,” flipped the pages aside, and there it was, a tarnished brass key taped to the inside back cover. I didn’t remove it, just squinted at it with heavy eyelids.

After that, I don’t remember anything until I heard a woman scream.

I jumped awake from the cot like I’d been electrified.

The notebook tumbled to the ground as the woman screamed again.

I rolled to the floor, crawled to the window, carefully pulled back the sun-streaming blinds, and looked down into the boxing ring where Ski Mask Guy was sprawled on his back, plaid rumpled suit still buttoned, tie askew. Across from him, Willy bobbed and weaved with fists cocked, ready to deliver another Sunday punch. Ski Mask Guy got to his feet and shook his head, adjusting his mask and his bulk. The lumbering goon had his back to me and was pointing at Willy while, from somewhere unseen, a woman shrilled, “Lucky punch. Okay, two lucky punches, you cockroach! For the last time, give up the girl or get ready to meet Jesus!”

Willy pushed his glasses up on his nose, spit through the ropes, and said, “Bring it, sissy boy.”

I craned my neck, looking around the gym for the woman, and then a flash of bodies drew my eyes back to the ring as Ski Mask Guy lunged like a Frankenstein monster. Willy ducked and delivered a one-two kidney punch that doubled him over, followed by a surgically precise left hook to the chin that put the freak on his back again.

Ski Mask Guy cried out in pain.

It was high-pitched and feminine.

It was the same voice I’d heard only a second ago, and it was his.

I watched as the giant lunkhead lay prone on the canvas, seemingly unconscious, and remembered the sugary voice from the mini-camera tape. I’d assumed there was a woman present then, too, but that high-pitched tone belonged to Ski Mask Guy, and it only made him creepier.

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