Payback A Strandville Series Short Six months earlier...

Max Reid parked behind Devil's Ink, Strandville's only tattoo shop, and avoided eye-contact with Mitch who scowled at him from the passenger's seat.

Situated on a six store strip which was the closest thing Strandville had to downtown, Devil's Ink was the black eye on the small town's otherwise simple, country facade. Strandville was a rural, blue collar working town and those that lived there either worked hard for low pay, or compromised their morality to work at the Nixon Healing and Research Center, one of the few decent paying jobs within a fifty mile radius. Max had worked for Bill Jenks, the town mechanic, up until he was fired a week before. He'd yet to tell Jess, the mother of his newborn son, but knew that sooner or later, he'd have to come clean. He hoped the race would buy him time.

He turned off the engine, grabbed the betting slip from on top of his visor, and sighed. Jacob's Revenge wasn't a favorite to win, but he needed a long-shot's payoff and there was no better bet than a horse with his son's name.

Mitch hadn't said a word since the stop at the bookie, but it was clear he didn't approve of the bet. "When do you plan on telling Jess you were fired?" He adjusted his lanyard to sit under the blue collar of his Nixon Center uniform shirt. A photo ID badge marked him as a member of security. "She finds out everything eventually, believe me."

Mitch and Jess had dated through high school, a fact Max considered moot now that they had Jacob. Mitch had cheated on her and she had ended things. Mitch didn't have to say that he never got over her. He came around often and stayed too long.

Max took his keys from the ignition. "Come on, I'm late."

"You're going to get evicted."

"Anyone else, you'd be cracking homeless jokes. I can take care of my own family." The assertion made Max feel more normal about things at home that, while he'd never admit it to Mitch, were falling apart. "This race will fix things. You'll see."

But the long-shot bet was double the losing one before it. Max was five hundred dollars down from a thousand dollar paycheck, his last from the garage, and it was less than ten minutes to post time.

He hurried inside and flopped down in the chair.

Mitch sat in the waiting area, massaging his furrowed brow. He picked up a water-stained Playboy off the milk crate table and flipped the well-worn pages, bouncing his leg to the thrash core beat coming through the speakers.

"Reid, man. I didn't think you were gonna show." Doug, the shop's owner, crushed out his cigarette in a coffee mug on the side of his work station and opened a fresh set of needles. He was a tall man, thin and fair-skinned with tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin except for his scruffy-bearded face. The black ink shapes bled together into a single, congested piece and other than the pair of praying hands on the right side of his neck, nothing stood out at quick glance.

"Had an errand to run." Max crumpled an empty paper cup and threw it across the room at Mitch. "Hey, put on channel twenty-seven, would you?"

Mitch muttered something under his breath and continued pretending to read.

"Come on," Max said.

Doug pulled his thinning hair into a low ponytail and set the stencil of a cross on Max's forearm. He sprayed down the paper to transfer the ink outline and held Max's arm when he wouldn't hold still.

"You're so fucking childish." Max gripped the chair's movable arm and prepared to stand up.

Doug, possibly sensing the tension, headed off the scuffle. "I got it," he said, turning on the television with the remote he took out of his drawer. "What number we rooting for this time?" He squeezed his large hands into a pair of black, latex gloves and poured several capfuls of ink.

"Lucky seven," said Max.

Doug lifted the stencil. "Good?"

"Good." Max didn't even look at the placement.

The Call to the Post sounded and the race was off. Max kept his eyes glued to the screen and didn't flinch when the needle broke skin.

Doug held Max's arm still and started the black outline.

The dull pain, hot like bee stings, soothed Max's frayed nerves as he watched for the green and white stripes of Jacob's jockey to move up the pack. Everything was riding on this race.

"And here comes Jacob's Revenge."

"Yes!" Max's hands trembled with excitement.

"And Jacob's Revenge is in the lead."

Mitch set down the magazine and leaned forward on the sagging futon, the wooden frame creaking under his weight.

Max couldn't tear his eyes away. The worries of being behind three months in rent and of having lost half of his final paycheck disappeared.

"Wait, what's this?" The announcer's voice lowered. "Lucky Louie is neck and neck with Jacob's Revenge. It's a photo finish."

Mitch snickered.

"Dammit!" Max slammed his hand down.

Mitch set down his magazine and pulled up a stool next to him. He rested his elbows on his knees, tee-peed his fingers, and held them to his lips. "Photo finish, Max, feeling lucky?"

Doug turned up the volume to hear the results.

"And the winner is Lucky Louie by a nose."

Doug shook his head. "Tough break, man."

Max clenched his jaw and balled up his fist. The mounting debt just got bigger, too big for there not to be consequences.

Doug excused himself for a convenient trip to the bathroom.

Mitch didn't move. "Another bust, tough guy." He smirked. "You ready to take that job now?"

As much as Max wanted to, he couldn't say no.

Five o'clock in the morning came faster than Max expected and he was exhausted, having been up most of the night with the baby. He rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb Jess, and checked on Jacob, sleeping in the bassinette. His tiny, pink mouth curled around his thumb. He was sound asleep on his stomach, his back rising and falling with each breath. Max wanted to lift him up and rock him. To pretend he wasn't relying on old habits to keep their family together.

He grabbed his cell phone and contemplated calling Mitch to back out. The money was just too good. It was either do this or tell Jess about his mountainous debt and that they were losing their apartment. The thought of her taking Jacob to her mother's in Tennessee was unbearable. He stumbled into the dark kitchen with his pants and shirt in one hand and his boots in the other. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness and he felt along the wall with his elbow for the light switch. There wasn't time to make fresh coffee so he poured the last of yesterday's pot into a mug and sucked it down, black and cold.

"Why are you up so early?" Jess stood in the bedroom doorway with a blue, striped burp cloth draped over her shoulder.

He hadn't heard her get up.

"I tried to be quiet." Max stepped into his well-worn jeans, faded in the knees and stained from crawling around at the garage.

"The shop doesn't open until seven. What's going on?" Her eyes were half-closed and she had the gentle, sleepy look on her face that he loved; the dazed calm that said she wasn't awake enough to pick a fight.

"I'm doing a side job, rebuilding a transmission," he said. "Everything's fine. Go back to bed." The weight of the lie kept him from looking her in the eyes. His cell phone vibrated and if Jess noticed, she didn't say. He let the call go to voicemail but when the buzzing started again, he knew he'd better get out of the house. "I'll be home at the regular time." He kissed her on the cheek and rushed out the door to meet Mitch who waited two doors down in a white van with a phony power company logo on the side.

Mitch wore dark jeans and a button-down work shirt with the name "Bob" embroidered on the pocket. He leaned over and fed a training treat to a Doberman puppy sitting on a blanket in a cardboard box between the seats.

Max looked down at his own shirt--the uniform for the garage that any local would recognize-and shook his head. "What's with the dog?"

"He's Amy's." Mitch reached back and tossed a shirt that matched his to Max. "She let me borrow him."

Amy Porter was the niece of Strandville's local convenience store and gas station owner. Her parents died when she and her brother, Billy, were kids. While Max never found Amy to be even remotely attractive with her stringy hair and acne-scarred skin, it was clear why Mitch liked her. The girl knew how to party and she'd do anything for attention. The week before, Mitch got into a fist fight with one of the locals after Amy overdid it on Tequila and began stripping on the bar. Mitch wouldn't admit it because Max often teased him for her looks, but he knew that Mitch loved her.

Max squeezed into the shirt, which stretched tight across his broad chest, and fought to button it. Several threads snapped under the strain. The long sleeves rode a good two inches up his forearms and irritated his new tattoo. He rolled them up to his elbows and flexed until the shirt's fit became bearable. He looked down at the puppy and after a long silence asked, "Borrow him for what?" His phone vibrated, and again, he put the call to voicemail.

Mitch kept his eyes on the road and refused to answer.

A sinking feeling set in as the bright orange sun peeked over the horizon. Max didn't press, figuring Mitch was screwing with him. He thought, instead, about the non-stop calls from his bookie and feared it wouldn't be long until he sent someone to make the house call that, given their strained relationship, would end things with Jess. The mental math to calculate his total debt had become too hard, but people had their legs broken over less.

Mitch turned off the headlights and took a left on Pike Rd. He passed the widow Hinkle's place and pulled over. "There," he pointed at a small, blue ranch house a few doors down. "That's where we're headed." He slipped the tiny, red collar from around the puppy's neck. "The girl comes out every morning at six to bring coffee to a pair of Strandville medics."

Max took a deep breath, dreading the answer but having to ask the question. "Are we going to kill her?"

Mitch let a moment pass before answering. "No, Max, we're not going to kill her. It hurts me that you think that's what I do. We're going to drop her off at an agreed upon location, leave, and never breathe a word about it."

"Until the next time." With something like this there was always a next time.

"As soon as the coast is clear, I'm going to let J.D. loose. I'll try to lure the girl, but if she runs, you catch her and if we go into the house, you follow. You hear me?"

Max nodded, knowing Mitch was capable of things he didn't want to be part of.

A white ambulance with the words Strandville EMS emblazoned in deep red pulled up on-schedule.

Mitch hooked the red collar to a leash and scooted down in his seat.

Max, realizing that Mitch was hiding, tried to do the same, but even hunched to the side, his broad shoulders stuck out above the dashboard. He moved as low as he could and J.D lapped at his face.

"She's coming out," Mitch said.

Max repositioned himself so that his legs were as far under the dash as possible. His back ached as he shifted from bent over to straight. He let out an unintentional grunt that excited the dog and made him start barking.

Mitch bribed J.D. to be quiet with a handful of training treats.

The early-thirties woman emerged from the small house. Her light brown hair hung in tangles over her shoulders. Her well-worn pink bathrobe collected leaves from the sidewalk. She handed two disposable coffee cups through the ambulance's passenger's side window and engaged in brief conversation.

The medics waved thanks, bid their farewells, and drove out of sight. The woman turned to open her mailbox and Mitch waved for Max to get out of the van. He held a finger to his lips, telling him to be quiet, and set J.D. out on the sidewalk. As soon as the puppy's paws hit the pavement, he ran off toward the hedgerow that partially obscured the van. Mitch waited until J.D. was far enough away and began calling him. The empty leash dangled from his hand for effect.

Max hid behind the van and watched for his opening.

"Excuse me. Have you seen a little black and brown pup?" Mitch asked the woman. "He slipped out of his collar and my daughter's going to be crushed if I don't bring him home."

Max shook his head, disbelieving of how benign Mitch could look when he wanted to. The woman helped Mitch search for J.D. who was gnawing a dead branch on the other side of her property line. Mitch let her be the one to find him and after thanking her profusely, convinced her to let him inside to use her phone.

Max followed them inside the woman's house, uncertain what came next.

By the time he walked through the living room into the kitchen, a struggle had already started. Mitch had the woman face-down on the floor and was trying to uncap a syringe with his teeth. The woman bucked and kick, bit and screamed, and broke free twice before Max stepped in to grab her. She'd fought him, too, at first and clawed his face before he finally got a good hold of her. He held her still while Mitch plunged the needle into her arm and within seconds, her body went limp.

Jacob wailed, screaming at the top of his lungs in the bassinette. Jess' heart pounded and her full breasts ached. The strung-out, scruffy man with the knife over her son's small body didn't care that the infant was hungry. He wanted answers and was growing impatient.

"I'm going to ask you one last time, where's Reid?"

The larger, fat man who smelled of stale beer and onions held her wrists together behind her back in a way that made it impossible to move painlessly. His breath was hot on her neck and his sweaty hands repulsed her.

"I told you, he's at the garage." She sniffed the thread of watery snot about to run on to her lip. The two men had been holding her long enough that the tears had dried on her cheeks.

The man lowered the knife further, resting its pointed tip against Jacob's bunny blanket. Jess strained to see that he wasn't hurting him even though it sent a searing pain into both of her shoulders. "Please, don't hurt him." Her voice cracked. "I swear, I told you where he is. He went to work early."

The man behind her snickered and pressed his hips against hers. She shivered and swallowed the vomit rising up the back of her throat.

"Do you think we're stupid or something?" the large man asked. "His boss shitcanned him a week ago. Now either you tell us the truth or cough up the twenty-seven grand he owes. Our boss doesn't cover bad bets."

Twenty-seven thousand dollars. Max had lied to her for the last time. The guilt of the secret she'd been carrying dissolved and all she cared about was getting these thugs away from Jacob. "What if I call him home? Give me two hours. I can get him here." Her voice went hoarse from shouting over her crying son.

The men looked at one another.

"I can't take much more of this shit." The thin man standing over Jacob wagged the blade over his chest as he spoke.

Jess was thankful just to have the knife off of her son. "Please," she said, "Where am I going to go with a newborn baby? Two hours."

The man holding her loosened his grip and eventually let go. Her shoulders ached and her hands were numb and cold. She ran to Jacob and held him to her chest. He turned his tiny face into her and rooted furiously for food.

"Two hours," said the scrawny man. "And if Reid's not here when we come back, that crying will stop being a problem, you understand me?"

Breast milk leaked through her nursing pads and bra and soaked the front of her shirt. "I understand," she said and prayed she had enough time to run.

The morning sun glared off the windshield and Max lowered the visor. He flipped open the vanity mirror and examined the scratches extending from the corner of his eye to his jaw. "What am I going to tell Jess?"

Mitch shrugged.

Max looked back at the woman, unconscious in the back of the van. "Where are we taking her?"

Mitch turned the corner, and the woman's body rolled from one side of the van to the other. "We're not taking her anywhere. You're going home."

He pulled up to Max's apartment and gestured for him to get out.

Max looked, again, at the angry red scratches that looked clearly like four fingernails. He changed back into his garage shirt and waited for Mitch to say something. "What now?" he finally asked after a long, awkward silence. He stood half-in and half-out of the open passenger's side door.

"Clean yourself up," Mitch said. "I'll be in touch after I collect our payment."

Max shut the door and walked slowly down the crumbling sidewalk.