Out for Blood, page 1
OUT FOR BLOOD
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR LOGAN FOX (BOOK 1)
ADAM NICHOLLS
Copyright © 2022 by Papyrus Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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adamnichollsauthor@gmail.com
CONTENTS
Out for Blood
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Warning
Epilogue
Afterword
Bonus Chapters
About the Author
For my wife, Charlotte, who made my writing hobby a career. I couldn’t have done this without you.
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And for my daughter, Sophie, who taught me the only thing scarier than losing a loved one is getting caked in poop.
OUT FOR BLOOD
1
Chicago, Illinois
1992
They were all going to die at some point. It was just a question of when.
This was what circled in the killer’s head as he breezed through the corridor, picking up his pace so as not to allow temptation to sink in. They weren’t here for sex or companionship or friendship. They were here for one reason, and one reason only.
They were here to die.
It was a long corridor, dark and grimy. A faint odor of stale beer seeped from the torn carpets. The wallpaper was torn, revealing solid brickwork that reliably housed his prospects. The same prospects who now wept behind each door. The ones who were going to die.
But not today. Today there was only one.
The killer found the correct door and applied the latch mechanism, opening the door for a few ungenerous inches. It provided just enough light to see the woman lying on her poor excuse for a bed – a thin mattress sitting on a filthy floor. He entered, locking the door behind him as he stayed out of her reach. From there, he did nothing but watch.
“Please,” the woman said. “Let me go home.”
She was all of twenty with luscious, emerald eyes and full lips. Stunning fiery hair draped over her shoulders, but even in its frayed condition, she still oozed sexiness. Not many women could pull that off, he thought. She was lucky. At least to a certain extent.
“I’m sorry to have kept you here,” the killer told her, and he almost sounded convincing. He stepped away from the door and gestured toward it. “Go on. It’s about time you went home to your family, don’t you think?”
The woman stared at him, stunned.
“Well?” he urged. “Don’t you want to leave?”
“Are… are you serious?”
“Of course. Go.”
Crossing his arms, the killer leaned with his back against the wall of this small, dark room. There was nowhere else for her to go. Nothing for her to do. She had two options: risk leaving or stay here to die. Oh, and the smell of this place.
The woman shot to her feet, hesitating before she moved. She watched the killer from across the room, apparently sensing a certain dishonesty in his offer. After a short while, she moved one foot as if to test the waters. Soon after, the other followed, and she was heading right for the door to her salvation. To her freedom.
That was when he made his move.
The killer launched forward, grabbing her hair. She let out a desperate cry as her head snapped back while he pulled with all his strength. The woman stumbled back on unsteady legs before falling, landing on her back with a thud.
“You really think you could just walk out of here?” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I’ve told you over and over that you’re staying here until you die. Do you really believe I would just let you walk out of here so you can run and tell the police?”
The woman cried, crawling backward with her hands and heels. She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks like twin rivers. The killer was supposed to feel sorry for her – he knew that – but of all the emotions flowing through him right now, only one stood out.
It was joy. Pure, unrelenting joy, as he stormed toward his next kill.
2
Multiple faces stared at him from around the crowded living room. They watched, waiting, as if his next words would change the future. Many of those hopeless eyes were filled with tears, but none of them had hope. That was what hurt Logan the most.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do it,” he said.
“Just take the money,” the old man said. He was the missing girl’s grandfather, and as her real father wasn’t around, he was stepping up to the role. The dominance in his voice was firm, and the large wad of cash in his hand was tempting. “Take it, son, and bring her home.”
Logan looked at it, realizing just how many of his problems that money would solve. It just wasn’t sitting well on his conscience. To accept the money would be to promise he would bring their missing daughter home. Problem was, he wasn’t sure he could do it.
Little Kerry Henris had been missing for two weeks now. In his experience as a police officer, a role he had given up six years ago, people rarely returned after the first forty-eight hours. Kids were even less likely. Kerry was sixteen, the perfect age to run off with a boy for a few days, but she wasn’t the type. That was what they had told him.
That was what they always told him.
“Mr. Fox?” Kerry’s mom asked.
Logan sighed and buttoned up his black jacket. “Listen, I’m not doing this for the money. I’m doing it because a young lady is missing. Why don’t you take that money and put it into something more useful? Maybe print out some pictures of her and leave them around town.”
“Do you think that will help?” came a voice from the back of the room.
“It wouldn’t hurt, that’s for sure.”
There were murmurs in the sea of desperate relatives. They exchanged whispers, some staring, some saying nothing and just watching this unfold. It was a lot of pressure, and Logan had only come here to fill them in on his investigation. To give them the results, which were – at this point – completely hopeless.
“I have to go,” he told them. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“Bring her home,” Kerry’s mom said before bursting into tears.
Logan kept his mouth shut, heading out into the dark Chicago night. Rain hammered from the thundering clouds above him, soaking him before he even reached his car. Most people hated the rain, but Logan loved it. He found it refreshing, particularly on this night, as he was running out of ways to tell the family he had nothing. There was no sign of Kerry Henris whatsoever, and in his experience, this only meant one thin g.
She was already dead.
3
Logan knew something was wrong the moment he parked the car.
The apartment block beside him was a tall, ugly thing with boarded-up windows and graffitied walls. It wasn’t the kind of place one should be at this time of night. Not without a concealed carry permit. Logan had one, but the teenage girl in the wheelchair did not. All she had was a blanket and a kind smile.
“Hey, Jenny,” he said, locking the car door as if it would make a difference in this neighborhood. He hurried up the steps and pulled the drooping blanket over her legs. “What’re you doing out here at this time of night?”
“Just getting some air. The door locked behind me, and the buzzer is broken.”
“The buzzer is always broken. Don’t you have a key?”
“Left it upstairs.”
Logan nodded and dug a key out of his pocket. When the door was open, he used the old piece of cardboard the residents used to wedge underneath it, then slowly backed Jenny’s wheelchair through the entrance. He was careful not to clip her arms on the doorjamb.
Jenny was a sweet girl of seventeen, somehow still uncorrupted by the dark dangers of this world. Logan always found that admirable, but it also drove him to protect her whenever he could. In the short time they had known each other, they’d already become fast friends. According to her big sister, he was the only man she trusted.
“You know what I’m going to ask?” Jenny said as they waited for the elevator.
“Yep.”
“And will you come?”
“Nope.”
Jenny laughed and sighed all at once. It came out like a breeze from her pencil-thin lips. She pushed the thick, black glasses farther up her nose. “It’s just dinner. I’m not asking you to strip naked and run down the street singing today’s top hits. Just sit down and have a meal with us. You’re our neighbor, for crying out loud.”
The elevator pinged. The doors slowly ground their way open. Logan, trying his best not to make a pun about being saved by the bell, ushered Jenny into the elevator and sent them both to the correct floor. Neither of them said anything until he left her at her door.
Only then was he stopped by her words.
“She likes you, you know.”
Logan turned and watched her hiding behind her blonde fringe. “Who?”
“Maggie. She thinks you’re cute. Wants to get to know you.”
Maggie was Jenny’s older sister and legal guardian. A thirty-year-old woman wasn’t too young for him – he was only thirty-five himself. She sure was attractive, but Logan wasn’t looking to date. His heart was still focused on the people he had lost. The people in his future weren’t so important to him. All that mattered was the job.
“I know,” he finally said. “She makes it a bit obvious.”
“Then why won’t you come for dinner?”
“Because she makes it obvious.”
Jenny laughed, and Logan went for his apartment door. It felt good to have offers in front of him, but he had other things to do. Other things to obsess about. He thought briefly of a life where he could get what he wanted, but that naïve, guilty thought lasted all of a second.
He was too busy to date.
4
Alone in the hallway, Jenny pushed open the unlocked door and wheeled herself into the apartment. The glorious scent of Maggie’s chili wafted through the two-bedroom cesspit, making this grim world seem just a little brighter. She made her way to the kitchen, where her sister stood at the stove. Marvin Gaye sang quietly from the radio.
“He declined the dinner invite,” Jenny said matter-of-factly.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Maggie, a five-foot-something brunette with long curls and perfect eyes, dashed around the kitchen with a spring in her step. She navigated the small room perfectly, quickly producing all the items she needed to butter some rolls.
Jenny watched her, jealous of her ability to walk but trying desperately to hide it. It’d been three years since the car had struck her down, and nothing below her hips had functioned right ever since. The drunk driver had been caught and convicted – they had Logan Fox’s private investigation business to thank for that – but nothing could get her legs working again. Maggie had taken care of her since that day, filling in the roles of mom and dad. Both of which had abandoned them some years ago. Thankfully, Maggie was old enough to become Jenny’s legal guardian, and now Jenny was eternally in her debt.
“He thinks you’re pretty,” Jenny told her.
Maggie creased up her face. “He said that?”
“No, but I can tell.”
“You can’t tell anything about that man. He’s an enigma.”
“Wrong. I can tell when he’s sad, which is always.”
Maggie paused, then sucked a dab of chili off her thumb. “I get that sense, too.”
“Then why don’t you go over there and ease his woes?” Jenny teased, quickly dodging the bread roll that whished past her head. They both giggled, but Jenny found a twitch of sadness in her stomach all the same. Logan did seem unhappy, and he was a secretive man at the best of times, but he was a good guy. Even Maggie seemed to think so, and although she had been seeing a guy on and off for a few weeks, she always perked up when Logan was around.
“Fine,” Maggie said, wiping her eyes with her wrist.
“Fine?”
“We’ll get him in here eventually. Help him open up.”
Jenny liked this. She nodded and smiled, then wheeled her way into the living room. She pictured a future where Logan and Maggie might sit on that old couch, arm in arm, while the sponge spewed from behind the torn fabric. Jenny had never known what it was like to have a father figure, but if she could choose one, Logan was the perfect fit.
If only she could break down his walls.
5
If one case wasn’t hard enough, two was sure to put him in his grave.
Logan shut the door, shrugged off his coat, then walked around the large machine under the dust sheet. The previous owner – a carpenter, he assumed – had left it here to make the dismal scene even worse. It wasn’t a big place, but the rent was cheap. It was really what he’d expected for such a price: creaking floorboards, windowsills caked in mold, and an awful smell he couldn’t get rid of. None of that mattered to him. Not for as long as he buried himself in work. And boy, did he bury.
All four walls of the claustrophobic living room were covered in police photos and case notes. An old friend in the Chicago PD was to thank for that, slowly dripping information into his hands whenever he coughed up some dough. It was enough to get by on, and despite his friend’s insistence that Logan could never close these cases alone, it didn’t stop him from trying. If anything, it only spurred him on.
