Page 58 of Forgotten Deeds

“Uh, I live in this city, in case you forgot.”

“What are you doing at this gym?”

“I started working out,” she tells me. “Boxing with a trainer. My friend recommended this place—she loves it.”

“Since when do you work out?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

“Since I got back from our trip and realized how freaking out of shape I am! Those damn hills nearly killed me. And you’ll be happy to learn I’ve quit smoking, so you can get off my back about that.” She points at me. “But I’m not giving up chips, I don’t give a fuck what anyone says.”

“Let me inside,” I command. “I got a tip about a guy who fits John Davis’ description.”

“Jesus, you’re going to get me blacklisted on my first freakin’ day!”

I shrug.

She hands me her key card. “Keep it. I’ll tell them I lost my card and get another one. But seriously, don’t get me blacklisted.”

I grunt, making no promises.

“Tell Lily and Iris I said hi.”

“Will do,” I tell her. “Now get the hell out of here.”

I hang back in the alley as a few other gym-goers exit. Glancing at my watch, I wait until one minute before the posted closing time. Strolling to the front door, I scan Kat’s card. The door beeps green, and I pocket the card as I step inside the empty gym.

“Hey man, can I help you?” A guy around my age sticks his head out of an office to my left. He’s short and stocky; not my target.

“Hey there, what’s your name?” I ask.

“I’m Russell Jackson. This is my club. What’s your name?” he asks in a friendly tone.

“John Davis,” I fish.

Either the man’s a professional poker player, or John Davis uses an alias around this gym, because Russell doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “Nice to meet you. Are you looking for a boxing club?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome. You look pretty fit. You already work out?” he asks.

“Yeah, I do my own thing, but I’m looking to get into a more structured routine,” I tell him.

“I hear you. I was just about to close up for the evening, but let me give you a quick tour,” he suggests.

“Excellent.”

“Training rings. Bags. Weights in the corner.” Russell points everything out.

“Nice,” I comment, following him to the back.

He holds open a door. “Men’s locker room.” Glancing to the end of the hall, there’s a closed door with a hand-sensor entry system; so that’s where I need to be. We step inside the locker room, and he continues with the tour. “Lockers. I recommend you supply your own lock.”

“Good to know,” I say.

“Right this way to the showers and sauna.” He holds open another door for me, and I step inside first. I glance in the mirror above the sinks to watch my back—a good thing, because Russell’s pulling a 9MM from his waistband.

Adrenaline floods my body as I grab my own pistol from my waistband—spinning around and pulling the trigger as I dive to the floor. The sound of gunfire reverberates in my ears, and it takes me a second to realize I’ve been shot. That motherfucker. It appears to be just a graze on my left tricep, but my body’s too keyed up to feel any pain.

Pulling myself up off the floor, I walk over to Russell’s lifeless body. There’s a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, but I add another for good measure.

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