Misunderstood Miracles Read online

  Misunderstood Miracles Copyright © 2014 Norma Jeanne Karlsson

  Published by It’s Publishing

  Edited by Progressive Edits

  Cover Design and Layout by

  It’s Formatting

  Cover Photo © olly / Dollar Photo Club

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To Amanda. This wouldn’t have happened without you. Thank you for believing in me.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Coming Soon

  Stay Tuned

  Abouth the Author

  The crunch of gravel beneath my feet as I race toward the building is the only sound whispering through the frigid night air. My lungs burn as I heave labored breathes, and my eyes sting, forming tears as I pick up my pace. Only three more blocks.

  I love the rush of a good chase. But the surge of adrenaline pulsing through me as I hunt is even more thrilling. Every cell in my body is on fire as I close the distance, the end finally in sight.

  I’ve been after this guy for three hours now. That’s about two hours and forty-five minutes longer than I typically need to complete a job. Most people would find this frustrating. I find it invigorating. This game of cat and mouse that consists of two worthy opponents, each certain they have the other beat. It’s time to find out who the victor will be. My money’s on me.

  I ease the creaky, rusted metal door open with my shoulder, pointing my 1911 through the crack until my body can slip through. This building has long ago been abandoned, and only the moon shining through the windows allows any light in the massive space.

  Squatters have made this their home from time to time based on the charred barrels and garbage strewn about the concrete floors. Metal beams support the roof thirty feet over my head. There’s rubble from the crumbling brick walls, but other than that, not a lot of places to hide.

  He runs out from behind a beam, firing rapidly in my direction as I stalk toward him. I don’t shield myself as I return fire. I don’t have to. The man stumbles and falls into a pile of bricks as I close the distance between us.

  Panicking that he’s been caught, and his time is coming to an end, he holds his hands up in surrender. That’s no longer an option for him.

  One in the head, two in the heart.

  His limp body falls forward onto the bricks, causing a tinkling sound to echo through the silent space. I shove my weapon in the back of my jeans, spin around and leave the way I came in.

  “It’s done,” I clip roughly in the phone before popping the battery out and smashing the rest beneath my heel as I trudge down the sidewalk.

  The three-hour chase through the Fairfax Industrial District was exhausting. And now that I’ve finished my job, my body’s crying out for rest. I walk through the innocuous building where my evening began, stepping over bodies as I move. There were only supposed to be six guys to take out, so when lucky number seven ran, I was still putting down the original targets. Targets for what? I don’t know. I don’t ask. I get a job. I do what’s required. I get paid in cash. And I go on until the next job.

  I hop up into my truck and take off toward my house. It’s not listed in my name. Nothing about me is in any government system. I have identification. Not fake identification. It’s real. The people who lived the lives that now bear my face are dead, and the government is none the wiser.

  If I get pulled over and asked for my license and registration, I won’t panic. I’ll slide the officer Drake Worthington’s information and wait politely. If I need to leave the country quickly, I’ll book a ticket in Anton Gurov’s name and use that passport. If I want people to quake with fear, I’ll simply introduce myself as Kane. A face few know, but a name that instills terror for anyone associated with the O’Donnell Clan, a crime family that runs both Chicago and Kansas City.

  Not an easy feat, but one they’ve managed to accomplish through years of eliminating any other Irish outfit in the two cities. Helped along by their secretive enforcer who’s never present unless he’s taking your life.

  I don’t go to sit-downs. I don’t discuss business decisions. I don’t hang around the pub and enjoy a pint with the crew. I don’t guard Caelan O’Donnell here in Kansas City, and I have little to no contact with his brother, Dolan, in Chicago.

  My life is my own, not the O’Donnell’s. They didn’t like that in the beginning. They wanted my skin inked with their family crest. They wanted me in the fold. They wanted an enforcer who would lead others and bring order to their young organization.

  I’m not that man. I wasn’t that man twelve years ago, and I’m not him today. I’ll never be that man.

  I pull into the garage of my place and climb out of my truck. The weathered red brick façade is an unassuming old mechanic’s shop. I bought it with cash a few months after I joined the O’Donnell’s. The neighborhood was nothing but abandoned and rundown when I moved here. Unfortunately, Kansas City decided to revitalize the Crossroads District, and I now have neighbors and restaurants all around me. But my home remains the same shell it was the day I bought it.

  Ascending the metal staircase that leads to my loft, I crack my neck side to side to relieve some tension. I flip the lights on in the completely open space and head to the kitchen. The only walls in here are around the bathroom. Otherwise, you can see from end to end without interruption.

  The wall at the front of the building is the same brick of the exterior. Dark almost black hardwood floors throughout stretch all the way to the back wall which is covered in glass. I can open the entire wall that flows out onto a roof terrace to watch the Kansas City skyline if I want.

  The rest of the space is black. Furniture, cabinets, countertops, paint, bedding, everything is black. It’s not because I like black, or I’m some ultra-modern hipster. It’s because it was the simplest thing to do other than all white. I considered it, but I wanted something that reminded me of home.

  I drain a few beers before peeling out of my clothes and collapsing in bed naked, my gun shoved under the pillow.

  Dreamless sleep finds me quickly.

  It always does.

  Chann knocks before walking into the garage and climbing the stairs as I start eating lunch. His messy boyish blond hair does nothing to help him look his age. Neither does his thin frame or his baby face. Even his pale blue eyes hold a glimmer of naïveté.

  “Please tell me you got me somethin’ from the deli,” he groans as he spies my soup and sandwich.

  I nod at the bag on the table. He rips the brown paper up to his fac
e and inhales deeply before sighing gratefully.

  “I’ve been cravin’ this all fuckin’ week.”

  “There’s this process where you get in your car, drive toward the restaurant, park, enter the deli, order your desired meal and then enjoy it,” I snark around my sandwich.

  He flips me off while dropping into the chair across from me and digs in. Maybe he’s not twenty-eight. He looks like he’s fifteen, and he acts like it, licking his lips and chomping loudly. I know how old he is though. He’s worked for me since the first day I joined the O’Donnell’s.

  I walked into their pub and was greeted by a sixteen-year-old Chann. He informed me Caelan didn’t take unannounced guests, and I informed him I shouldn’t have to announce myself.

  I was cocky as an eighteen-year-old. I wasn’t stupid, just cocky. Not much has changed since then. I’m cocky. I’m confident. I’m motivated. I’m smart. I’m calculating. I’m an asset.

  I told Caelan basically the same thing with a gun trained at my head. Then I took down the two men that held me at gunpoint and handed their weapons to Caelan. I got a job that day along with the man’s respect.

  I also got Chann.

  He’s the only person I talk to in the organization other than Caelan. If he needs me to do a job, he sends Chann to tell me. On a rare occasion, we communicate through encrypted email which I check at the library. It’s easier to do things face to face though. I don’t have a phone. I don’t have a computer. I don’t have cable. I’m untraceable.

  “That was awesome,” Chann mumbles through a lazy stretch. “I gotta find a woman who can cook.”

  “Gotta find a woman first,” I scoff.

  “I find one almost every night,” he lies.

  “I didn’t know your right hand was female.”

  He flips me off again, smirking.

  I snort and clasp my fingers behind my head, studying my friend. Growing up in this life hasn’t fazed him. His mom married into it, so it’s been his life since he was born. His old man was part of another family in Kansas City that the O’Donnell’s merged with right off the bat when they started taking over. Chann’s dad died in a scuffle with another family a few years later.

  Chann took it on the chin. He doesn’t have the skills to be in the O’Donnell Clan. He’s not muscle like me. He’s not calculating like other men. He’s not savvy with numbers. But he’s fucking loyal down to the marrow in his bones and a whiz with computers. So Caelan gave him to me when I said I needed a go-between.

  It’s the best part of this job.

  Chann drops a thick manila envelope on the table before saying, “Caelan added another ten.”

  I nod my understanding. Another ten thousand for another body. It should be twenty for the amount of time it took me to get the guy, but that’s my fault for letting him run.

  “Got another job for you tonight. West Bottoms. These four,” Chann says, sliding another envelope with pictures toward me.

  I check the address and scan the faces. I’ll memorize them and then burn everything before I go work.

  “This is one of our buildings,” I mutter.

  I don’t recognize the faces of the men, but I know this address is a warehouse the O’Donnell Clan uses to move drugs and guns.

  “We’re havin’ an internal problem,” Chann responds with a shrug. “Time to clean house.”

  “Right,” I grunt.

  Internal work is messier. Emotions are involved, and the likelihood that they’ll know I’m coming is higher. After my excursion last night, I’m tempted to refuse the job. But I never refuse. I’m always available.

  “Thanks for lunch, man. I’ll get outta your hair so you can get to it. Caelan wants a meet this week. I’ll let you know when,” he says climbing to his feet with his fist extended for a bump.

  After our knuckles brush, he saunters away with a brief wave.

  Time to get to work.

  I clean all of my weapons first. There are a lot of guns that I enjoy, but I’ve always been partial to the 1911. I carry two at all times. I keep knives on me too. Various military and tactical blades, depending on my mood as I prepare for the day.

  Once I’m done cleaning, memorizing and burning, I head down to the garage. Where the mechanics’ offices used to be, I now have an extensive gym. I spend a good six hours training my body every day. Without a social life, entertainment or much else to occupy myself when I’m not working, the gym is how I make the hours move.

  I jump on the treadmill first and get in a ten-mile run. Music is the one thing I allow myself. I always start with metal and ease myself into rap. Beats, lyrics, shredding, screaming, I take it all in as I imagine pouring with sweat.

  Run done, I do my floor work. Pushups, crunches, leg lifts and chair dips, before moving to dead hangs.

  When my muscles are burning, I move to the heavy bag. I often wonder what it would feel like to wrap my hands. Would the hits feel any differently? Would the bag crunch less? I’ll never know because I’ve never done it and won’t ever have to. But sometimes I have moments where I’d like to look down and see my knuckles cracked and bleeding, visual evidence of my power.

  That will never happen because my skin is impenetrable. I can’t be poked, cut, shot, scraped, nothing can harm my skin. I’ve tried. Especially as a child when I was trying to figure out why I was a freak. Something I did my best to keep to myself. It was pretty easy considering how I grew up. I still fell like any other child, but my knees were never scraped. I didn’t have scabby knees or scratches on my face.

  I get bruises, but they’re rare and require a lot of trauma. I can be knocked unconscious, but it’s the same as the bruising, I have to be hit extremely hard before I go down. No person’s ever been able to do it. A bullet to the forehead at point blank range did the trick once. I was twenty and still didn’t quite understand my body. I do now.

  So while I don’t hide when I’m on a job, walking right into a firefight without guarding myself, I do have to make sure I put down anyone before they get too close to me. I’m extremely skilled at that.

  I don’t know why I’m like this. Sorcha, the woman who raised me, told me the night I was born she put a spell on me to guard me from any harm. She’s a little nuts. I don’t know if you’d call her a hippie or what, but she’s out there. An Irish nymph living in the real world. That’s her description. Mine would tend to be more like an eccentric Irish-American woman with a flair for the dramatic.

  We only ate the food we grew. She homeschooled me. I never went to a doctor or a dentist. The one time I got sick, Sorcha gave me some weird concoction she brewed. I didn’t die so I guess it worked or my immune system was able to fight back for me.

  The day I turned sixteen I was in a car accident. I ended up in the hospital and about thirty minutes later some men in suits showed up. I didn’t give them the chance to talk to me before I snuck out the ambulance bay, stole a bike and rode home.

  That’s when Sorcha told me it was a good idea that I learned how to protect myself and my gift. Her lover—a term a child should never have to associate with their parental figure—Bert, taught me how to use guns, knives and other weapons along with hand to hand combat. He’s a Vietnam vet with a few screws loose. Sorcha and he make an interesting couple. He’s convinced the government is doing testing on war vets and want him as their main subject. Sorcha believes the government has always been after her for her powers. Again, crazy talk. From both of them. No one wants Bert to test on. He’s good with weapons, but that’s about it. He’s not the answer to any military questions.

  Sorcha doesn’t have powers. I watched her try to make water boil with a spell for six hours one night. We ended up eating salad when it didn’t work. We had a bad summer drought one year. She danced around outside naked for weeks trying to bring the rains. Her bright red wavy hair bounced around as her pale Irish skin cooked under the sun. It finally rained when she stopped trying because she stepped on a snake and got a nasty bite.

  Her hom
e brew didn’t work on that wound, and she almost lost her foot to infection.

  I love her, but Sorcha doesn’t have powers. No one does. She raised me after she found me on her front porch with my umbilical cord still attached along with a note saying my mother was dead, and I would be too if anyone found out about me.

  Crazy Sorcha took that shit seriously. So I stay off the radar. I always have, and I always will. Because even though Sorcha didn’t put a spell on me, I’m still different. And I know that difference is something people want. They came for me in the hospital, and they’ll come again if given the chance.

  They won’t get that chance.

  Sitting in my truck next to the warehouse I’m about to invade, I glance at my face in the rearview mirror.

  Black Irish.

  That’s what Sorcha always said I was. Caelan said the same thing the first time he saw me. I have black hair with bright green eyes. Pale skin that doesn’t tan or burn no matter how long I spend in the sun. My cheekbones are high and wide, matching my squared off jaw. I guess my nose is normal, straight and never been broken.

  Women seem to like my mouth the best. My lips are full and broad, slightly pink. It’s just a mouth, but I get compliments about it. I’m rarely with women. When I need to fuck one, I use one of the hookers the clan has. It’s simple. I get off. They get off. And I don’t have to answer questions, deal with emotions, manage expectations or any of the other shit that comes along with relationships.

  No one knows about Sorcha. Not even Chann. Having ties to people you care about is a weakness in this business. She says she’s not my mother. She’s always been clear about that. But she is in my eyes. She raised me, took care of me, kept me safe and loved me. Sorcha’s my mother whether her crazy brain calls herself that or not.

  Bert’s like a combination of my father and my friend. And I know he’d do anything for me if I ever asked. I wouldn’t, but I could.

  The last guy I’m waiting for slips into the side entrance to the warehouse, and I shut my mind down. A blank mind is a focused one in my case. Climbing out of my truck, I rack the slide on both my guns, shoving my secondary in the back of my jeans as I hold the other at the ready.