Revenge School (A Pay Back Novel Book 1) Read online

  REVENGE SCHOOL

  A Pay Back Novel

  BY MYLES KNAPP

  “Random acts of violent, personal

  enforcement make me feel good.”

  Without the encouragement, support and love of my wife Brooke, this book would never have been written. Thanks, honey for giving me the courage and support to believe. Thanks to the writers, friends and relatives who encouraged me, read the work and ripped me when I needed it, even when my irritable nature and testosterone driven nature made their knowledgeable suggestions dangerous to make. Steven Gore who read the final, final draft and made 350+ important suggestions. Jon Land, who told me I could do it—every time I saw him. Veronica Rossi, New York Times bestselling author, and Al Garrotto who’s patient support was always appreciated. And to Lee Child, Robert Parker, Joe Finder and David Morrell who inspired me, or encouraged me and didn’t laugh when they heard the idea or read portions of the book. Many thanks to the team at Suspense Publishing who tried to teach me how to correctly use a comma.

  And to Bret Knapp, for whom reading a book is normally a several week, less than pleasant process, who said, “I read it in two days and wanted more. As good as any of my favorites like Reacher, Spenser and James Bond.”

  No review will ever be better than that.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Myles Knapp

  Previously published by Suspense Magazine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781503930193

  PRAISE FOR REVENGE SCHOOL

  “‘Revenge School’ announces the birth of a franchise and a made-for-the-big-screen series. There is much to cheer for in this debut, especially Payback, a big-hearted big man, who is much more than just quick fists and fast dialogue. Reading ‘Revenge School’ will keep readers glued to the page until the early hours and finishing it will leave them watching the calendar for the next installment.”

  —Steven Gore, Author of “Night is the Hunter”

  “A fast moving tale in an original, appealing voice.”

  —Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author of “Suspicion”

  “Evokes memories of Andrew Vachss and Lee Child.”

  —Jon Land, USA Today bestselling author of “Strong Darkness”

  “I like Knapp’s Spillane-Cain style.”

  —Neil Russell, Author of “Beverly Hills Is Burning”

  “A hugely thrilling novel with a fresh group of charismatic heroes that will appeal to fans of Jack Reacher, Joe Pike and my own Joe Hunter books.”

  —Matt Hilton, Author of “The Lawless Kind”

  “‘Revenge School’ will appeal to fans of Robert Parker.”

  —David Morrell, New York Times bestselling author of “Murder as a Fine Art”

  This title was previously published by Suspense Magazine; this version has been reproduced from Suspense Magazine archive files.

  REVENGE SCHOOL

  By Myles Knapp

  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

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  The weekend in North Beach was moving at a full drunken lurch. Pay loved his neighborhood’s vibrant nightlife even as he felt bad for a hard partying college kid puking in the gutter.

  Two attractive middle-aged women whose cheap black and gold I ♥ SF sweatshirts clashed with their designer linen shorts, stood giggling and pointing at dildos in a sex shop window. Catching his reflection, they turned toward him and powered up their smiles. He grinned back, wondering if tourists would ever learn to dress for the skin puckering cold of San Francisco’s foggy summers.

  Pay slowed as a group of tonight’s victims-in-waiting hustled by. Businessmen. Wrinkled suits, starched shirts, loosened ties, faces red with booze, ogled a top heavy raven-haired babe—braless nipples standing at rigid attention, wearing nothing but an extra-long man’s dress shirt, six-inch heels and two armfuls of goose-bumped tattoos—and completely missed both punks trailing them. Punks scheming to separate them from their smart phones, watches and cash.

  Pay wondered if he should warn them but decided against it. Too drunk to listen. He shook his head sadly, continuing toward home, but then reversed course and followed.

  Can’t let them get hurt even if they are too stupid for their own good.

  Five feet in front of Pay, the lead punk unfolded a six-inch chrome hunting knife and held it, hidden and low, alongside his thigh. The second asshole pulled a piece of pipe from his backpack.

  Blues, rap and stripper music blared from open club doors. Windows vibrated with the beat. Every Friday night, full moon or not—rare balmy summer evening or freezer-burn cold—the ener
gy level on Broadway was frantic.

  A woman’s scream pierced the chaos. “Rock, get off me. I’m giving you nothing.”

  Fifty-feet up Broadway, underneath Centerfolds’ blue neon sign, Pay spotted a brunette in a plaid ultra-mini, blouse unbuttoned to her navel, upper right arm strangled in the grip of a steroidal brute wearing a tux at least two sizes too small in the waist. Knowing in North Beach cheap tuxes were the standard uniform for strip club security and their stupider, even more violent bouncer sidekicks, Pay figured him for a bouncer.

  The mugger with the knife took a deep breath, nodded at his follower and murmured, “On three.”

  Pay took two quick steps forward, rested his left arm on the lead punk’s shoulder, leaned into his ear, growled, “One,” and slammed him head first into Centerfolds’ brick wall. The knife clanked to the cement and his unconscious body crashed down, quivering alongside the now benign weapon. The second banger dropped his pipe and ran, one look at Pay convincing him it was the only smart move to make.

  Pay swiveled up the street toward the stripper.

  “Rock, let me go!” She swiped at the bouncer’s eyes with her nails.

  Pay admired the girl’s guts. Rock was a beefy six-three; not as tall or built as Pay, but more than twice the little girl’s size.

  Two teenage boys ran forward, smart phones thrust above the gathering crowd hoping to capture a viral worthy video of a stripper’s boobs or a bloody beating.

  Closing on the girl, a rush of adrenaline jolted Pay, followed by a confident grin that didn’t reach his combat ready eyes. Next to teaching victims how to kick the shit out of assholes who tormented them, nothing felt better than taking a deserving prick down. And in Pay’s book, any man beating a woman was more than deserving.

  Rock yanked the brunette’s ponytail, jerking her face toward him, and smacked her with an open handed right. A ripping backhand sent her crashing to the sidewalk, writhing on the ground, blood dripping from her nose, red splotching her white blouse.

  A woman’s voice screamed, “Call 911.”

  Rock dumped her backpack on the sidewalk. Everything fell to the ground. Cell phone, wallet, make-up, loose change, books, a sweater, a thumb drive and dark glasses landed alongside a Porsche idling at the curb. Its driver took one look at Rock’s enraged face and floored it through the red light.

  Rock yanked the cash from her wallet and grabbed the thumb drive.

  She snatched at his hand. “That’s mine. I need it!”

  He laughed and slapped her hand away.

  The girl took a deep breath and hooked a fist at Rock’s balls. Blocking the blow with his thigh, he kneed her in the face. She went woozy, slumping toward the curb.

  Now ten-feet away, it took Pay a nanosecond to evaluate the situation: Two hundred and fifty pounds of enraged asshole who wouldn’t have made it as a bouncer without being a decent fighter. Sure the guy was smaller than Pay and on the doughy side, but he was high. Stupid high. Putting hands on him to take him down with a pressure point hold or an arm lock would be damned dangerous.

  Releasing a steel police baton from the spring-loaded holster in his sport coat sleeve, Pay whipped it open and smashed Rock’s shoulder joint. Bones crunched, as he howled and collapsed.

  Pay’s ferocity warned the other bouncers not to come to Rock’s aid.

  The girl snatched the wad of cash and the thumb drive from Rock’s limp hand, then scooped up the rest of her stuff and crammed it into her pack. She bolted up the street waving at an oncoming taxi.

  Between the shrieking of the crowd and Rock’s wails, Pay barely registered her yelling, “Thank you, Mister,” as she slammed the cab’s door.

  Cradling his broken shoulder, Rock rolled on his back and slammed a double mule kick at Pay’s legs.

  Sidestepping the flying heels, Pay whipped the baton at Rock’s butt, landing a crippling blow on his exposed hipbone. Rock bellowed and went limp.

  The crowd shouted encouragement and screamed for more.

  Pay glared at the pathetic voyeurs and they began to scatter. He didn’t see any new threats, just the faces of women showing fright or gratitude, and the backs of men who’d realized their own cowardice.

  It was time for Pay to get going. In a few minutes, sirens would be screaming toward Centerfolds, and witnesses would be telling the police about the big guy with a club. He didn’t want to hang around for that; it would be a pointless annoyance. Rock wasn’t going to press charges. And if he did, it wouldn’t be the first time the cops came looking for Pay.

  CHAPTER 2

  Across the street from Centerfolds, standing in the entrance of an abandoned nightclub, Morano watched the fight. When Rock slammed the girl to the ground, he smiled. Looks like money well spent.

  But when that asshole Pay got involved and the girl escaped, his pleasure turned to disgust. If Pay didn’t kill that stupid bastard he was gonna tap Rock himself. He hated wasting money on incompetent help.

  Morano tossed his cigar in the gutter and hustled after the girl’s cab, already a block ahead; his size fourteen Nike’s squashed flat with every step, and the jolt of his 457 pounds made his gut fat bounce.

  In less than fifty-yards, sweat streaming into his eyes, heart slamming in his chest, he was cursing the girl and the taxi.

  Fucking Rock. After I kill him I’m gonna shit on his unmarked grave.

  The crush of Friday night traffic kept the cab from moving much faster than a normal-sized man’s walking pace, but Morano was now almost two blocks behind.

  Not in shape for this crap anymore. Running after Rock’s screw-ups is going to give me a fucking heart attack.

  The cab pulled to a stop in front of Starbucks and the girl got out. Morano staggered to a bus shelter bench and collapsed.

  As his pulse slowed, anger turned to calculated thinking. He didn’t care about the girl. She was just another pole slider. But he couldn’t have his operation destroyed by a renegade bitch blackmailing him.

  And Pay. Pay could be a problem.

  Morano flipped open his phone and held down a button. “Get me everything on a guy named Pay Back. Caucasian vigilante asshole in San Francisco.” He snapped the phone closed.

  Rubbing the inside of his right thigh, feeling scar tissue and a golf ball sized hole of missing muscle, Morano remembered blood spurting from his crotch and the bullet that almost killed him. Pay’s bullet.

  If Pay showing up was anything more than a coincidence, his multi-million dollar operation could be destroyed. Worse, if Pay got involved and things got fucked up, the feds would slam him back into Pelican Bay and he’d end up doing laundry for ten cents an hour.

  CHAPTER 3

  Pay had barely gone a block and a half when two police cruisers and an ambulance, blue-red lights acting as a patriotic strobe, accelerated past him toward Centerfolds.

  Seeing no point in making it easy for the cops to find him, he ducked into his favorite neighborhood liquor-store/mini-mart, grabbed a blue plastic basket from the stack, and started filling it. One pound bag of M&M’s. They were out of Wild Turkey, so he grabbed a bottle of Knob Creek. Ice. Soda. He started toward the register, looked at the basket, sighed, and replaced the M&M’s with a bag of low-salt jerky and a snack-sized bag of fat-free baked chips. At the last minute, he tossed in the smallest bag of peanut M&M’s on the rack.

  His Revenge School team was after him to eat better. He knew they were right. But it sucked. The baked chips were like toasted newspaper, and the jerky had all the taste appeal of unsalted rope. Alone they were awful, but they’d be OK with the bourbon.

  Daleep looked up from his position at the register, slid a pair of mangled, duct-taped glasses off his forehead onto his prominent nose, and patted his flat stomach. “Still eating that crap? Thought you’d have given it up by now.”

  In all the years he’d been in the neighborhood, Pay’
d never seen anyone but Daleep working the register. He was there eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. Christmas, New Years, Hanukah—no holiday seemed to matter. “If I was as thin as you, I could eat whatever I want.”

  “Hey, at least you got all that great hair.” Daleep’s scalp was ringed with a thin fringe of grayish-white.

  “Good hair, tall, slender or handsome, most men are lucky to get two out of four. A few get three. Get all four and you’re a movie star.”

  “So when are you heading to Hollywood, big guy?”

  Pay laughed. “You better get new glasses old man. If you don’t, you’re going to have to start putting the prices in braille.”

  Daleep made change and waved him out the door. “Stop eating all that snack food crap. Let my wife make you some good vegetarian curry. That’s what you need. Crazy Americans eat too much meat.”

  Avoiding the scene at Centerfolds, Pay took the long way home. Up the steep cement steps cut into the sidewalk on Romolo Place—more an alley than a street—the angle of incline was so radical that everyone, including the craziest skateboarders walked it.

  In two blocks, Pay had left behind the chaos of Broadway and entered a quiet neighborhood of two and three story multi-family buildings. He turned right and began the steep downhill trudge home. A left took him past Henry’s Hunan Restaurant and its strange paint job—almost, but not quite, army green with burgundy red paint framing the windows—toward his home; a three story, gray cement tilt-up. If he’d known when he moved in that the building would wind up being the Revenge Team’s headquarters, he’d have hired a professional to make it more functional and comfortable.

  Originally a parking structure, most of the ground floor was still a parking lot of sorts with a constantly changing selection of high-performance, nondescript surveillance vehicles. Over the front door the original neon parking sign, now permanently set to “FULL,” provided light and concealed the security camera.