All In: Iggy's Story Read online

  All In

  Sidney Halston

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  All In

  Copyright © 2019 by Sidney Halston

  Ebook ISBN: 9781641970884

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  NYLA Publishing

  121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  To all my wonderful readers who have asked for Iggy's story since reading my first book. Hope he is all you dreamt him to be.

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Sidney Halston

  About the Author

  1

  ABBY

  “A-b-b-bigail Jones.”

  After many years of speech therapy, I can normally control my stutter, but with four police officers standing in front of me and a dead man ten feet away, stammering is the least of my problems.

  “Ms. Jones, my name is Detective Daniels,” one of the officers says with a kind smile, trying to put me at ease. But it’s an impossible feat at the moment. I nod and wrap the aluminum space-suit-blanket-thing they’ve given me tighter around my body. I’ve watched enough CSI to know that this blanket always comes out during critical times, and, after witnessing a murder, this seems to be one of those times. I never understood why they gave those things out when it's ninety degrees in Florida. But as I sit here, shivering and scared, I know I will never again question the space suit. I thank God for it, otherwise the cold fear that is invading my body and soul would consume me. “A-Abby. P-p-please call me A-Abby.”

  “Abby,” he repeats with that soft smile. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this. I can imagine how scared you must be. But I do need your assistance.”

  I nod, trying to focus on the very tall blonde detective standing in front of me, and not the lifeless body in my peripheral vision.

  “Abby, can you please tell me what happened?”

  “I—I was just pumping gas o-o-over there.” I point to my Accord that still has the gas hose attached to it. “W-when I h-heard a motorcycle drive by slowly and start y-yelling. Th-the g-g-guy on the bike st-started to argue with the other man. The one pumping g-g-gas. Then he-he-he, the one on the bike, pulled out a gun and sh-shot the other guy.” It feels like an eternity getting those words out of my mouth and I have to stop and take deep breaths so that they can understand me.

  “Do you know what they were arguing about?”

  “S-s-something about a password. I heard the guy, the one who was sh-sho-shot tell the biker something like, ‘I can’t tell you the password or I’m dead.’”

  “We need a description of the motorcycle and the man. Do you recall anything at all? Think really hard for me, Abby.”

  I close my eyes and try to remember. “He was wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.” I recall the Hawaiian shirt because it didn’t match with the hardcore-looking bike he was riding. “He was white and was sort of big.”

  “Big?” One of the other officers asks. “As in heavy? Muscular? Fat? Tall?”

  “No. Big as in… Like you, D-d-detective Daniels.

  “Jack. Please call me, Jack.”

  “Tall like you and like…I don’t know…muscular.”

  A small smile appears on his clean-shaven face, and the officers beside him snort and roll their eyes.

  He continues, “Anything else? Hair color? Eye color? Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos? Piercings?”

  “Ummmm…” I close my eyes again and pinch the bridge of my nose hard. I can’t think right now. I’m still focused on the blood splattered everywhere, and the sound of the gun going off, and the odor of the gun powder. There are people bustling about all around me—checking for bullets, making marks on the gravel, taking pictures of the crime scene. “I c-can’t…”

  My mind is a mess, my ears are still ringing, and I’m trembling uncontrollably.

  I take a long deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. “The motorcycle was black. Not shiny b-b-lack but like a matte color and it had those big handlebars that you have to hold up, like this.” I show them, my arms up and extended.

  “Good. Good. Those are called Ape hangers,” Jack explains as he makes notes.

  “Abby!” My sister, Claire, comes running toward me, and before I can fully turn around, she’s already hugging me tightly.

  My brother-in-law, Tim, is right behind her. “Are you okay?” he asks with concern in his eyes. Claire and Tim were my second phone call after 911, and I had already given them a quick and very hysterical summary of what had happened.

  “Shit,” I hear Jack mumble beside me.

  Tim evaluates me and then starts spitting out words in that lawyerly way that gets people to do his bidding. “Has she seen a medic? She’s in shock.”

  “Not yet,” Jack responds. “How exactly do you two know each other?”

  “This is my sister-in-law and I demand that she see a medic before you continue.” My sister is fourteen years older than me, and Tim was her high school sweetheart, so he has always been more than an in-law to me; he’s like a protective big brother. Plus, Tim’s a very well renowned criminal defense attorney, and I’ve heard rumors of his attorney skills. Judging by Jack’s reaction, he isn’t a huge fan of Tim.

  The officers look at each other, and then one signals for the medic by the fire truck.

  The next half hour is a whirlwind. After he checks me out, the paramedic warns me that I'll probably have an adrenaline dump soon and should rest. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Jack tells me that I am free to leave and that he’d come by and check on me at home tomorrow when I’ve had a chance to recover. His colleagues don’t seem happy about this. I know they have more questions for me. But I don’t care. I just want to go home.

  I've had enough drama to last a lifetime, and witnessing a murder isn't something I need to tack onto my already very hectic life.

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  IGGY

  I toss my sweat-drenched towel aside, along with the worn-out black punching gloves I’ve just used.

  “You’ve been here twice a day for the last five days. Work must be slow. Is there a lack of war-torn countries these days?” Slade Martin, one of the owners of Worth the Fight Academy II, an MMA training gym, jokes as he takes off his sweat-soaked t-shirt and uses it to wipe his brow.

  I chuckle. “Nah, I have a date with Syria and then a brief one-
night stand with Iran next month. Trying to get back in shape.”

  Tony Marino, Slade’s partner, joins our conversation. “How about less sparring and more weight lifting? You’re going to fuck yourself up jumping from helicopters. It seems like you’re more in the mood to kick ass, not get in shape.”

  I rub my thigh muscle, which is cramping up. “I think you mean that I’m in the mood to get my ass kicked.”

  “Agreed,” Slade laughs as we both step off the hexagonal ring.

  “I’m also hanging ’round more because I need to make sure my investment is profitable,” I say, but I'm just messing with them. As I look around the room, I see people working out, sparring, punching bags, and jogging on expensive fitness machines. My investment in the gym is very, very sound; profitable is an understatement. The waiting list to join is a testament to that.

  The original Academy is in Tarpon Springs, Florida, but when Slade and Tony opened this second location in Miami, I invested into the Miami nightclub, Duality, and it's given me some very lucrative returns. Between working out, working at the club, and taking the occasional job overseas, I’m always busy. But that works for me since it’s the only way I know how to be.

  “Yeah, and it’s not because you’re an adrenaline junkie or anything,” Slade teases.

  “Why don’t you enter the next match? It’s a small, local ticket. Good way to get your feet wet in the professional circuit,” Tony says.

  “You can’t get your feet wet with just one foot,” I joke, but they don’t find it funny. I roll my eyes and pull my shirt on. No one seems to have a sense of humor these days. “I don’t want to go pro. I’m good coming in and getting my ass kicked by you two. Plus, women don’t want to fuck a guy with cauliflower ears, a black eye, and a prosthetic leg. One impairment is enough.”

  Tony rubs his ears. “Nothing wrong with cauliflower ears. It says, I’m a man and I can kick your ass.” His Cuban accent is strong and his ears are horrible. How he hooked Francesca, his gorgeous wife, is beyond me.

  “It says you’ve been rolling around with men on a mat too long,” I retort.

  “Shut the fuck up and get out of here before I kick your ass again,” Tony responds with a chuckle. I bump my fists with both men and head out just as my phone rings with an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Iggy?”

  “Who’s asking?” I ask brusquely as I slide my workout bag over my shoulder and walk to my car.

  “My name is Tim Daws. I’m an attorney from Tarpon Springs.” I stop mid-step. An attorney from my hometown? That’s odd. When I don’t respond, he continues. “I understand you know an Abigail Jones?”

  Now I’ve not only stopped walking, I feel nauseous and my hands start to shake. “Excuse me, Williams. Abigail Williams,” he corrects.

  An attorney is calling me about Abby? My Abby?

  “Mr. Iglesias, you still there?”

  “Yes. Talk to me. What happened?”

  “I’m her brother-in-law, you probably don’t remember me. It’s been a long time. I met you a few times when you used to live in town. I’m calling because I need your assistance. Two weeks ago, Abby was involved in a… Well, it’s a delicate situation and she needs your help. I understand you are back in the States and work as an independent contractor? I’d like to hire you.”

  My mind is spinning. I have at least ten different questions but all I can muster is, “What?”

  “You work as a contractor for Iron-Clad Security services, right?”

  “As a cryptographer. Does she need some sort of code broken?”

  “No. But I did my homework and I know you also specialize in special-ops combat. You can protect her, if necessary.”

  How does he know this? It’s not something that I have on my fucking Facebook profile, for Christ’s sake.

  “Back the fuck up. You need to start from the beginning. Is Abby okay?”

  “She’s fine, yes.” Once he says that, my legs start to move toward my car again. “But she witnessed a murder and…” There’s silence for a moment. “I’d rather talk in person if that’s possible.”

  “Why me? What can I possibly do to help? How did you even find me? Did she ask for me?”

  “No. She doesn’t know I called you. How I found you is, again, something we can discuss in person. I can fly you over here and we can talk. Time is of the essence, Mr. Iglesias.”

  If it were anyone else, I’d have hung up, but it’s Abby.

  “Talk about what, exactly?”

  “Me hiring you to watch over her and her kids. My niece and my nephew.”

  The breath leaves my body. She has kids. The thought of her belly swollen with a child brings a smile to my face. I wanted that for her even if it could not be with me. Still, it stings. I have absolutely no right to feel this pain, but it’s there, like a sharp knife piercing my heart.

  “Text me your information. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I’ll have a plane ticket sent—”

  “I'm gonna drive. Just send me your info.” And with that, I hang up and hurry home.

  After fighting Miami traffic for thirty minutes, I make it home, barely turning off the car before jumping out. I take two steps at a time up to my apartment, open the door, walk straight to the closet and take out my carry-on. I’m an expert at packing, and in ten minutes I’m back in my car.

  I don’t have kids or a pet. I don’t even have a plant. Coming and going is easy for me, and it’s the way I intend to keep it.

  I can’t imagine what I can possibly do to help Abby, and I don’t know how she’ll react to seeing me again after all this time. I’ve headed special ops missions in Syria, I’ve jumped out of Black Hawks, I’ve scuba-dived in shark-infested waters, yet I’ve never felt this nervous in my entire life. It’s been almost twenty years, and I suspect the greeting I’m going to receive is not going to be heart-warming.

  If I get out of this without a kick in the balls, I’ll consider myself lucky.

  2

  Twenty Years Ago

  IGGY

  I’m sitting in the back of the classroom pulling at a loose string on the hem of my ratty Goodwill jacket. Starting a new school and moving into a new foster home—the seventh one in the last three years—is getting old. But after fifteen years of this, I’m used to it, and I have to admit this new school and this new foster mom seem nicer than the others.

  “Class, please welcome Charles Iglesias. He just moved here from Tallahassee.”

  The whole class turns toward me; some wave, some say hello, but most turn back around, ignoring me completely. Then the teacher begins her lesson and no one speaks to me the rest of the morning, which is fine by me. I won’t be here long enough to make friends, anyway.

  During lunchtime, I sit underneath the bleachers. It’s cliché, but there’s no other hiding spot in this school. I take out a pack of cigarettes and light one up. I sigh contentedly after the first long pull of smoke.

  A sound, much like what I'd imagine a herd of elephants would sound like, thunders from above. I look up and can kind of make out a group of girls, maybe five or six, climbing up the bleachers. The soles of their shoes against the aluminum is loud, but their chattering is louder.

  “What’s that smell?” I hear one say, and I know it’ll take about two seconds before I’m caught by one of them. I toss the cigarette on the ground and climb out, hoping to go unnoticed.

  “Hey. Hey you! New kid!”

  Damn it. I turn around, a fake smile plastered on my face.

  “He’s cute,” one of them says, as the others giggle. But the clear leader of the group ignores them, as she stands and leans against the railing. “Can I have one of those?”

  I look around, furrowing my brows.

  “Oh, come on, I smelled it.”

  I shrug, pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. I can’t risk getting in trouble. My new foster mom is really nice, and I don’t want to fuck it up.

  “
Fine. Be like that.” She pouts. “At least come up here and tell us about yourself.”

  It’s not really my scene, but this chick is hot and flirting with me, and I’m a guy after all. So, I push the thick black hair that’s fallen over my eyes behind my ear, hike my backpack higher, and climb up the bleachers. Now I’m sitting with a bunch of chicks. Things could be worse.

  “So, Charles, huh? Can we call you Charlie?”

  I hate Charlie. But I just shrug. “Yeah, whatever.”

  I glance around and notice a girl with the reddest hair I’ve ever seen, sitting with the group. She has a face full of freckles and huge green eyes. When my eyes meet hers, she quickly looks down and her cheeks turn pink. She’s not exactly beautiful, but she’s intriguing and cute. There’s something about her that makes me want to stare, to study her features, make her smile…

  “Helloooo!”

  I turn my head back to the original chick.

  “I’m Jenna and this is—” I lose track of all the names, except for the redhead’s. Her name is Abby—yet even as we’re being introduced, she still hasn’t looked back up. She’s obviously shy, sitting behind the rest of the bunch, not saying a word.

  In every school there’s always a group like this. The chatty chick and her minions. Too bad Abby’s a minion.

  “There’s a dance next week—are you going? You should totally come. We can go together.”