Each week, I send out a story via my email newsletter. Each story is around 1000 words, sometimes less, sometimes more. The stories are in a variety of genres: supernatural, thriller, sci-fi, horror, and sometimes romance, and all of my stories typically feature a gay protagonist.
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This is story number 32 of the series. Enjoy!
The Safe House
The staccato pop-pop-pop of gunfire echoed through the abandoned warehouse as Casey sprinted across the concrete floor, his boots pounding and his heart racing. Muzzle flashes strobed in the dimness behind him. Too close. Way too close.
How the hell did they keep finding him?
He scanned the cavernous space, searching for an exit, any way out. There – a rusted metal door, half off its hinges. Casey pushed his tiring legs faster, faster, sucking air. If the flash‑drive in his pocket reached the DA, Mendoza’s whole pipeline would crumble. He had to succeed. He must.
Almost there. Ten feet. Five.
With a hoarse shout, he lunged through the door and out into the cool night. The door banged shut behind him and he was running again, legs churning, the gun heavy in his sweat-slicked hand.
Angry shouts rang out from inside the warehouse. Any second they’d come bursting out after him. Casey scanned the dark alleyway. A chain-link fence blocked one end. The other direction led deeper into the maze of derelict buildings.
No choice. He sprinted away from the warehouse, the night air burning his lungs, a stitch stabbing his side. The yells of his pursuers grew fainter behind him as he plunged down the trash-strewn alley.
After several twists and turns, Casey slowed to a jog, then a walk, gasping. He needed to catch his breath, get his bearings. This part of the city was unfamiliar. Decrepit brick buildings loomed on either side, their windows blank and black. A carpet of rotting newspapers, beer cans and used needles crunched under his feet.
Casey leaned against a graffiti-scarred wall, trying to still his shaking hands. That had been too damn close. Mendoza’s men had tracked him down again, like bloodhounds on a scent. How the hell did they keep finding him?
He checked the pistol. Three rounds left. Not enough. He needed to hole up somewhere, come up with a plan. Get the evidence to the authorities before Mendoza silenced him for good.
Casey pushed off the wall and–
“Don’t move.”
The voice was low, rough. Male. Casey froze.
“Hands up. Slowly.”
Heart pounding, Casey did as he was told. He turned to face the speaker.
It was a man around his own age, late 20s. Ratty army surplus jacket, ripped jeans, scuffed boots. A greasy blonde ponytail. Narrow face, knife-blade nose. Cold blue eyes and a hard twist to his mouth.
And he had a gun leveled right at Casey’s chest.
“Toss the piece. Nice and easy.” The man jerked his chin at Casey’s gun.
Casey couldn’t see a way out. Carefully, he tossed his gun to the side. It clattered across the cracked pavement.
“There. You got me.” Casey licked his dry lips. “So what’s the going rate for bounty deliveries these days?”
The corners of the man’s mouth twitched up.
“Now you come with me, all quiet-like. Mendoza’s got some questions for you.”
A chill rippled through Casey. This guy worked for Mendoza. Of course. The psychotic drug lord had his hooks in everything in this city. The same evil bastard who once mailed the mayor both of his daughter’s ears.
“Sorry friend, I’ve got urgent business elsewhere.” Casey measured the distance between them. Five feet, give or take. “Maybe some other time.”
The man smirked. “Sorry friend, you don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
Casey tensed, ready to spring, but the man anticipated him. In a blur, he lashed out, pistol-whipping Casey across the face. Pain exploded in Casey’s head and he crashed to the ground, lip split, spitting blood.
The man grabbed a fistful of Casey’s hair and wrenched his head back, shoving the gun barrel under his chin. Casey hissed in pain.
“Listen close,” the man growled. “You try anything else and I’ll put one in your brainpan and dump your body in the river. We clear?”
Casey glared up at him. The man glared back, ice blue eyes glinting.
“Crystal,” Casey gritted.
“Good boy.” The man dragged Casey up by his hair. “Let’s go. And don’t try nothing funny.”
Prodded by the gun, Casey limped along, his head throbbing. The man marched him deeper into the decaying urban jungle, past the blocks of condemned buildings.
After twenty minutes, the guy nudged Casey toward an old brownstone with boarded-up windows. “There. Inside.”
Casey’s eyes darted, searching for escape routes, but the gun jabbed hard into his spine. Defeated, he climbed the crumbling front steps and the man unlocked the door, shoving Casey through into musty darkness.
Casey tensed, ready for anything, but the man just secured the door behind them. He flicked on a camp lantern, illuminating a decrepit foyer with peeling wallpaper and moldy carpets.
“Sit.” The man gestured to a ratty plaid couch.
Wary, Casey perched on the edge of the couch. The man sank into an armchair across from him, gun still trained on Casey.
They stared at each other, a tense beat. Then the man sighed, lowering his weapon. A creaking floorboard from upstairs caught his attention. Did this thug have friends with him?
“You’re a goddamned idiot, you know that?”
Casey blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. An idiot.” The man glowered. “What the hell were you thinking, going after Mendoza alone?”
“How did you–”
“I know all about it. The incriminating files. The deal you tried to cut with the DA.” The man shook his head. “Mendoza owns this city. You never stood a chance.”
Casey’s hands balled into fists. “So what, I’m just supposed to let that psycho operate unchecked? Flood the streets with his poison?”
“Of course not. But you can’t take him on solo. That’s suicide.”
“Why do you even care?” Casey snapped. “Aren’t you one of Mendoza’s thugs?”
That actually made the man laugh, a short, harsh sound. “Mendoza’s thug? Hardly.”
He reached into his jacket – Casey tensed – but the guy just pulled out a badge. He flipped it open.
“Detective Hunter Novak. Deep cover in Mendoza’s outfit.”
Casey gaped at him. “You’re a cop?”
“Something like that.” Novak tucked the badge away. “Point is, I want to take Mendoza down as much as you do. But you gotta be smart about it. You need help. Back-up.”
Casey studied him, still half-convinced this was a trick. But there was something about the frank intensity in Hunter’s blue eyes. Something that made Casey want to trust him, despite himself.
He took a deep breath. “What did you have in mind, Detective?”
Hunter’s mouth twitched into that crooked smile. “Now you’re talking.” He leaned forward. “Here’s the plan.”
Together, they’d hatch a scheme to bring Mendoza’s empire crashing down. But that was a whole other story.
For now, Casey settled back on the musty couch as Hunter talked, his deep voice rolling over Casey like whiskey and smoke.
For the first time in weeks, Casey felt a tiny spark of something bright and dangerous kindling in his chest.
Hope.
It looked like he wouldn’t have to run anymore. At least, not alone. He had an ally now, a partner.
A loud crash boomed from upstairs. Novak’s head snapped toward the staircase. “Dammit, we’re out of time,” he muttered, shoving a battered folder into Casey’s hands. He drew his gun and made his way toward the stairs. “Stay here.”
Casey opened the folder. Inside was a Polaroid: Mendoza—arm‑in‑arm with someone Casey thought he could trust.
It was the DA.
Hope curdled to dread.
No one was safe.
THE END