CHAPTER TEN

 

 

Micah spent part of the morning at home, trying to verify Daisy’s assertion that Nathan had left town. Micah kept coming up empty.

Nathan didn’t leave much of a paper trail. That domestic abuser seemed to be squeaky clean, in every way that counted. He didn’t have traceable offshore bank accounts, no criminal record, and no strange business partnerships with shady European front companies.

His twin brother Alec was equally a mystery. He worked in medical device sales, specifically for a company that manufactured sonogram equipment. Pretty boring stuff. But, given the car Micah had seen Alec driving the other day, he was either the best damn sonogram machine salesman ever or he was in the same shady business as his brother.

Whatever business that was.

Micah wanted more information before returning to the private hangar at the airport to attempt another break-in. That hangar was owned by a company named Twin Engine LLC, which seemed like some shell that existed in name only. Micah couldn’t track them through tax documents, through public filings, or anything.

These Auerbach brothers were meticulous and invisible. They had no literal connection to Twin Engine LLC, but the name connection seemed obvious. How had they hidden it so well?

He kept hitting dead ends, so he decided to take part of the morning off and distract himself for a while. His old habit of popping off a few rounds at the shooting range didn’t seem appealing right now, but he knew of another place in the same neighborhood that might help him get his fix.

After hitting a morning AA meeting, he drove into the Five Points neighborhood of Denver, past the gun range he used to frequent. Cruised by the Pink Door, the strip club where he’d spent the night of his last drink, over a year ago. His memories of that night were vague and splotchy. And it was fine with him if they stayed that way. Some demons were better left to be seen through a blurry lens.

Past the Pink Door, he pulled into the parking lot at Glazer’s gym. A run-down, dirty place with shabby outsides and insides. Exactly what Micah was looking for. He didn’t want some fancy gym with an organic smart juice bar and personal trainers in polo shirts. No, sometimes you crave a grungy and smelly dive to throw some punches at a beat up bag held together with duct tape.

When Micah opened the front door, that stink of sweat was unmistakeable. Like coming home, he used to box at a place like this in Oklahoma City with his best friend. And never once since his friend had died.

He purchased a six-month membership to the gym with no hassle, and that was another thing he appreciated. No testosterone-riddled high-pressure sales people. The grumbly sales guy couldn’t have cared less whether Micah joined or not.

After a quick change and a few stretches, he went to work on a heavy bag. With each punch he threw, he imagined Nathan’s face crumpling under his knuckles. The kind of man who would ever hit a woman deserved to be pummeled, and Micah could only hope he would get the chance someday.

“You are playing with fire, asshole,” said a voice behind him.

Micah halted, panting, and turned to find two men facing off. They were about twenty feet away, standing between the two main boxing rings. The men were pointing fingers in each other’s chests, shoulders high and stances wide, like cons in the yard. No one backing down.

“You’re going to threaten me?” One of the guys said. “I will kill your ass.”

Just then, a beefy man with buzzcut blond hair appeared next to the two men. Muscle shirt, tattoos, square jaw. He was holding a bucket in one hand, a flex grip in the other, towel slung over his shoulder. Madly pumping away at the flex grip.

“Guys,” the beefy one said as he shoved the flex grip in his pocket. “Settle down, or take it outside. Or put on pads and get in the ring. Don’t be children.”

One of the two arguers tossed a punch, and the beefy peacemaker threw up a hand to block it, then he wrapped his hand around the guy’s wrist. With a quick tug, he pulled that wrist away from the guy’s body and jerked it downward, which drove him to his knees.

Micah’s eyes shot wide open. This beefy guy was lightning-quick. The towel didn’t even slip from its spot over his shoulder as he restrained one of the two combatants. The other guy took a step back, hands up, head shaking.

“Not inside the gym,” Beefy Guy said. “I already told you once. Now both of you, get the hell out of here.”

The two guys backed off, the one who’d thrown the punch rubbed his shoulder socket, wincing. Not so tough now that he’d had his ass handed to him with half the gym watching.

Beefy guy picked up his bucket and strode off, which placed him directly in Micah’s path.

“Hey,” Micah said as the guy neared him.

“What’s up, man?”

“Do you work here?”

The guy looked down at the bucket in his hand and grinned. “Actually, I don’t. I know the owner, though, so I’m helping out for the day. They’re short-handed and I’m doing the guy a favor.”

“Oh,” Micah said. “I was going to ask you for some pointers on this heavy bag. Been a while.”

The guy put down his bucket and extended a hand. “Layne Parrish. I’d be happy to help.”

Micah shook, and he had to flex his arm to meet the force of Layne’s grip. Told the guy his name. He didn’t like to do that if he could help it, but Layne’s combination of brawn and his childish grin was somehow endearing to Micah. He got the blink test feeling that this guy was okay.

Layne waved his hand at the bag, and Micah tossed a few punches at it. Layne watched intently. Made a few little grunting noises as he bobbed his head.

“Not bad, man,” Layne said. “Seriously, you got some style and you’re quick as a whip. But with the heavy bag, you’re looking for power, not finesse. It’s more about the hips that you might think. You’re pushing from your shoulders. Wastes a lot of energy that way.”

Layne squared off with the bag, sneered, and pounded it a few times. Micah tried to keep his eyes from bulging out of their sockets. The poor bag threatened to fly apart with each wallop it took. Layne’s teeth gritted with a fury in every punch, and he pushed out his breaths like grunts between each movement. His biceps seemed to grow to twice their size.

Layne stepped back and waved to the bag, and Micah gave it a few goes, throwing his hips into it. Layne had been right. His punches landed harder, he recovered faster, and he felt less pull on his muscles.

“There you go, man,” Layne said, rubbing the towel on the back of his neck.

“You were totally right about the hips.”

Layne pointed at an unused boxing ring in the corner. “Want to spar a little?”

“With you? Are you crazy?”

Layne chuckled. “Maybe I can show you how to protect yourself from black eyes.” He pointed at Micah’s shiner and Micah involuntarily turned his head. He’d stopped thinking about it since he’d left his condo this morning.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Micah said.

Layne shrugged and wandered off, and Micah returned to working the bag. He hardly ever made small talk with people. Even a few months ago, Micah would have felt so unsure—in the early days of his sobriety—that talking with strangers would have filled his stomach with rabid butterflies. But Layne didn’t freak him out at all, and that fact was freaky in itself. Micah usually operated from a place of paranoia as a baseline. He hated being that way, but the practice of it had kept him alive for the few years since the trial and Witness Protection.

After thirty minutes of bag work and some light cardio, Micah hit the showers and left the gym. When he opened the door, Layne was in the parking lot, fiddling with the engine of a black Harley Davidson motorcycle.

As Micah was considering raising his collar and walking in an arc around him, Layne lifted his head. Gave him a wave.

Shit. Micah didn’t have much choice other than to approach Layne to say hi. More small talk, and now Micah did feel a twinge of anxiety in his stomach. One conversation was happenstance. Two meant he was getting to know a person.

“How was your workout?” Layne said as Micah came within spitting distance.

“Good. I’m exhausted. I’ve been lazy lately and it feels good to be tired like this again.”

“I hear you, man,” Layne said. “I’m on the road so much, I don’t get to hit the gym as much as I’d like.”

“What do you do?”

“Well, I’m retired, but I do some security consulting on the side.”

Micah thought Layne appeared a little young to be retired. He couldn’t have been more than four or five years older than Micah. Maybe thirty-five, tops. And Layne didn’t look like the retired-at-twenty-five Silicon Valley entrepreneur type.

Layne must have noticed Micah’s raised eyebrow, because he added, “army.”

Micah now surveyed one of the tattoos on Layne’s shoulder. A skull wearing a beret, with the word Ranger behind it. It was faded and slightly stretched.

Layne opened a bag slung over the back of the Harley and removed two silver cans. Micah shied away at first until he realized they weren’t beer cans, but protein drinks.

Layne jerked his hands back, looking confused. “Did I scare you?”

“No, I just… I thought those were beers. I don’t drink.”

“Oh, I gotcha. Me neither. It’s hell on your body when you’re trying to train, so I usually stay away from the stuff.”

Micah accepted the protein drink and sipped at it, and he kept getting the feeling that this Layne guy had no hidden agenda. And that observation unnerved him because he didn’t usually get that sense from people. Or, if he did, he tried his hardest to ignore it.

So they drank their chocolate protein shakes and chatted about the weather, about the Broncos’ chances this season, and about a lot of nonsense. By the end of their conversation, they’d exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet back at the gym in a couple days. Layne promised he’d go easy on him in the ring, but Micah wasn’t so sure about that.