The Man Who Lost Everything (Miles Franco Book 3) by Chris Strange

Author:Chris Strange [Strange, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cheeky Minion
Published: 2014-11-29T11:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN

While we’d been in Heaven, a full day had passed on Earth. It was nearly nightfall when we got back to my apartment. Time doesn’t flow quite right in Heaven, which makes the jet lag a pain in the ass if you’ve been gone too long.

As I closed the Tunnel, I looked around. My apartment seemed strangely silent without Toto scuffling on the floor and yelping.

Frankie sniffed. “It smells strange here.”

“Deal with it.” I looked him up and down and glanced at Vivian. “Is it just me, or is the cowboy getup going to draw way too much attention?”

“He can wear some of your clothes,” Vivian said. She seemed too busy turning her cell phone back on to pay much attention.

“Are you kidding? I’m not letting him near my wardrobe.”

He scowled at me.

“Bloody hell,” Vivian said. “I’ve got eleven missed calls.”

“Reporters looking for a comment,” I said. “I had plenty of that before my trial. Ignore them. We need to come up with a plan.”

We discussed and bickered our way into one over the next half hour. Vivian and I both needed showers, but we had to get working. We could all feel that forty-eight hour deadline looming. We took Vivian’s car—the number of reporters outside had already thinned out considerably—and headed to a mall on the other side of town.

Frankie had no cash—at least none that would be accepted in Bluegate—so Vivian and I pooled our money so he could buy clothes. He came back from the store wearing a guayabera shirt and a white Panama hat with a black band. All he needed was a cigar and he’d look like some kind of cocaine-dealing cartel member.

“Well, it’s an improvement,” I said. “I think.”

We bought some burgers and fries to go, then got back in Vivian’s car and headed to Dawson’s house.

His place turned out to be on the outskirts of Flaming Aces territory, where the close-packed apartments began to give way to rundown homes surrounded by wire fences. There seemed to be a dog tied up in every yard.

Dawson’s house was halfway down one little street ending in a cul-de-sac. Strange place for a guy like Dawson to hang out—in my experience criminals preferred streets with plenty of exits in case the police ever came raiding. Then again, Dawson was cocky enough to shoot up a rival’s strip club in his play for power.

We drove past the place, munching on our burgers as we went. The house was a two-story affair with three cars somehow crammed into the tiny yard. Tall grass crept up around the cars, nearly enveloping them. The chain-link fence surrounding the property was at least eight feet high and topped with razorwire. Inside, a Rottweiler was chained up to a post. It growled at a butterfly fluttering past. I had visions of throwing a T-bone steak at the dog to distract it while we snuck in. I decided I probably shouldn’t take my B&E plans from cartoons.

Vivian’s sedan was too conspicuous to allow us to park over the road and stake the place out.

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