Revenge I Will Have

Naples, Florida Jake Logan took a deep breath and looked around as he drove north on Route 41. “Gotta keep moving,” he muttered, sweat rolling down his brow. “Time-out. Clear my head and regroup. It’s not safe to stay at my condo or any place for too long. Think, Jake!” Preoccupied and exhausted from lack of sleep and driving around in a circle for the last two hours since leaving his condo, he turned right and then left to Imperial Square Plaza, steering his black Ford F-150 pickup into the parking lot adjacent to Jack’s Bait Shack. He looked up at the red neon sign, then glanced over his shoulder. A few cars were in the parking lot, as was a janitor, who appeared to have finished his shift, but otherwise nothing looked out of place. At the door to the restaurant, he glanced around again to make sure he had not missed anything and then entered the dark world of Jack’s. The chairs were sitting upside down on the tables, waiting for someone to clean the floors, and the booths along the sides were empty. “Jake, how can I help you?” asked the man behind the long, well-polished wooden counter. “Hey, Murphy, is the joint open?” “Was the door locked?” Murphy asked as he dried a beer mug. Despite his abrupt manner, he had a soft spot for Jake, a regular at the restaurant when he was in Naples. Walking slowly to the bar, Jake looked up. “I guess not.” Jack’s Bait Shack was a casual restaurant and, some would argue, the place to find the freshest seafood in Naples. Jake’s fondness was for the thirty-five flat-screen televisions throughout the place, which played live football, baseball, basketball, and golf. However, the silence that surrounded him at 7:00 a.m. informed him that all the TVs were off. He took a seat at the bar and studied the rows of liquor bottles aligned in front of him as well as the aquarium filled with water-dwelling plants and aquatic reptiles. Beer taps flanked the fish tank, as did dozens of glasses, which Murphy had arranged perfectly. “Dude, you look like shit!” Murphy said. “Coffee?” Rather than reply, Jake just stared at Murphy, thoughts churning in his head. Hmm, let’s start with my fiancée, Alice. She’s dead. A dead man was found in my ex-girlfriend Jessica’s apartment, and don’t forget, Jessica murdered Alice. And the explosion, what the fuck was that about? Instead of saying any of those things, Jake merely placed his order. “Make it a bourbon, neat.” Jake considered moving to one of the empty booths along the right but held his ground. Murphy was a veteran bartender who had seen and heard it all. If no reply was forthcoming, Jake could count on him to shut the fuck up. A moment later, Jake pushed his empty glass to the side and stepped down from the stool. The floor beneath him felt like it was seesawing from side to side. He rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes, stepped back, and grabbed the bar for support. His hand collided with the glass, and it slid off the bar, plunking pitifully at his feet. In front of him, the floor opened to a set of stairs leading to the basement. He turned to his right and saw another set of stairs ascending. His eyes moved to the right and followed an escalator leading to a black hole. He clung to the bar for a few moments and hallucinated before he ambled to one of the empty booths. He turned back toward Murphy. “On second thought, I’ll take that coffee, black, and keep it coming!” He slid into his seat, mumbling, “JessicaputafuckingknifeinAlice.” The words fell from his mouth, the syllables indistinguishable. Minutes later, Murphy put a pot of coffee on the table. “Sleep is what you need, Jake, not coffee.” Jake heard vehicles enter the parking lot. He recognized the distinctive sound of a GMC Suburban and followed its murmur as it drove around back. His thoughts flashed back to 3 a.m. that morning, when he had entered the ten-by-ten rental room at Naples Storage Units, where he kept $1 million in cash, a med kit, several passports, prepaid cell phones, three SIG SAUER P226 handguns, two AR-15 automatic rifles, three M4A1 automatic rifles, ten boxes of ammo, and several Daniel Winkler knives. He had removed a P226, an AR-15, a knife, and $50,000. He cradled the frame of the black, hard-anodized aluminum pistol, which sat in a holster at his lower back. Designed for the US Army and carried by Navy SEALs, Texas Rangers, and many other elite military and law enforcement professionals, the P226 had earned its place among the highest-regarded production pistols. He moved his hand to its black polymer grip. What made him think he would find sanctuary in Naples? The place had too many fucking memories. He had taken what was necessary for survival from the storage unit. It was time to move the fuck on. “Yes, a man fitting that description is in the restaurant,” Murphy said to the men who had entered through the back door and now occupied the kitchen area. Jake put down his coffee cup and slid out of the booth. He turned to face the restaurant’s front windows, his eyes sweeping the parking lot. Dressed in black military combat trousers and a gray sweatshirt, he looked down at the running shoes he was wearing and thought of the LALO Shadow tactical boots in his truck. “Fuck,” he whispered, wishing he had changed into them. They would have given him the comfort of a stealthy approach. His running shoes would make a noise on the parking lot’s gravel. I’ll have to get my head in gear if I’m going to survive, he thought. Moments later, standing outside Jack’s front door, he took off his running shoes and lifted the P226 from its holster. He passed the first and second car at an even pace and then ducked behind a Honda SUV before sprinting to the fourth vehicle.