Wrong Side of Chaos: The Dominic Wolfe Tales, #3

By Lincoln Chase

There was a time when Dominic Wolfe enjoyed his job as a courier for the dead. But that was before he awakened a horde of bone-crunching giants in the divide. Since then, the entire underworld has fallen into complete chaos. 

Not that things are faring much better topside. Aside from Dominic's usual afflictions—broke with a penchant for Berry Cosmos, and therefore single—a corrupt cop is terrorizing the neighborhood. When Detective Slade calls upon Dominic to help bring the guy down, Dominic seizes the chance to do something right for once. It might be just what he needs to get back on track. 

Then again, it might just cost him everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Design Vault Press, LLC
• Release date: Jul 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386131021

Lincoln Chase

Lincoln Chase is a fiction writer and stay-at-home dad. He loves books, movies, coffee and the occasional cat-video binge on YouTube. In his spare time, he--wait... what the hell is spare time? Okay, if Lincoln had spare time, he would undoubtedly enjoy baking cookies, long walks on a beach and driving a car with more than one hubcap.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

So, who’s the buyer?

No names. You know how it goes.

Detective Caruthers veered off the highway, drawing a sidelong glance from his partner.

Uh, where exactly are we headed?

No worries, just a quick errand.

Detective Slade kept his gaze trained forward and let a hand slide casually to his holster. Caruthers pulled into an EZ-Mart and threw the car into park.

Not the greatest time for a Slurpee stop, is it? Slade had to ask.

Caruthers smiled, but it was all in the mouth. His eyes were cold, maybe even a little angry. Ah, don’t sweat it partner. I’ll be in and out. He disappeared inside. A minute passed, and then another with Slade sweating every second. Abruptly, Caruthers rounded the side of the convenience store and made a beeline for the car. Slade felt the blood drain from his face when he realized his partner wasn’t alone. The man was dragging a Hispanic kid by the shirt.

Oh, shit, Slade breathed.

Caruthers stopped outside the passenger door. Get out, he said.

Slade hesitated with his hand on his holster. Could he draw it fast enough? No, he had to admit. Not with the door handle in the way, confined by his seatbelt.

C’mon, partner. I need your help.

With nerves on fire, Slade complied. What’s Xander doing here? he dared to ask.

Caruthers ignored the question and reached through the open door to pop the trunk. Hauling the kid to the rear of the car, he unholstered his .45.

Whoa, what the hell you doing? Slade demanded, laughing uneasily. We don’t have time for this shit.

His partner of twenty years chuckled merrily. Don’t I know it. Gesturing to the open trunk with the barrel of his gun, he said, Hop in.

Xander’s uncertain glance darted from one detective to the other.

Slade furrowed his brow. Come again?

I said hop in. The pistol was aimed at Slade now. Posthaste, partner. Don’t make me say it again. And you, he barked at fourteen-year-old Xander West, get your ass in the back seat. And buckle up.

What’s going on? Detective Slade demanded with a hand on the butt of his gun.

With a sigh, Caruthers pulled the hammer back on his pistol. It was a double-action semi-automatic, so the hammer pull was purely for dramatic effect. Nevertheless, Slade got the message; he knew now more than ever just how stupid it was to underestimate the man.

Moving his hands skyward, Slade took an awkward step into the trunk, his aging joints popping and creaking, and tried to contort into the confined space. The back door of the Mercedes opened and then closed as Xander got in. Caruthers approached the trunk with a handful of zip ties. He dropped them onto the bumper and reached into the trunk to remove Slade’s service pistol. This, he shoved into his waistband. Then he ran a hand down his partner’s legs, yanking up a pant leg to remove the .380 hidden there.

Listen, buddy, Slade pleaded, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but this is some serious—

Caruthers raised a finger to his lips and grinned. "Shhhh. Don’t say another word. Buddy. It’s naptime."

Wait! Wait…

Yes?

Slade swallowed with difficulty. What gave me away?

Aw, wouldn’t you like to know?

Detective Slade watched the butt of the .45 come rushing down in an arc toward his head. He closed his eyes, knowing there was nothing he could do. In that split second before metal impacted flesh, a terrible thought crossed his mind.

It was all in Dominic Wolfe’s hands now.

Boy, were they screwed.

CHAPTER 1

Three weeks earlier…

I saw you die, Detective Slade hissed from across the table.

I smirked. Did you?

Don’t screw with me, Wolfe. What happened that night, I can’t even begin to understand it. But I sure as hell didn’t imagine it. That guy… The detective paled at the image in his mind. "He… he swallowed his little girl. I mean, Jesus. I’m gonna need therapy for the rest of my life after that shit."

I glanced out the diner window and watched a woman apply eye makeup in the rearview mirror of her car. Turning back to Slade, I glowered. Far cry from how you spun it. Thanks for pinning it all on me, asshole.

The detective shrugged. What the hell was I supposed to do? You think anyone would’ve bought what really happened? Besides, it’s not like I was sending an innocent man to prison; you were friggin’ dead! It was the only play I had.

I had to give him that. So where do we go from here?

However grudgingly, Slade took a deep breath and let it out between his teeth in a thin whistle. As was often the case, his resemblance to Phil Collins dragged up a song from the recesses of my internal playlist. I turned my attention to the half-empty coffee cup in front of me and began to mutter a tune.

So take, take me home… ’Cause I don’t remember. Take, take me home—

I honestly don’t know where we go from here, Wolfe, Slade was saying. "I’m inclined to send you off to the crazy house. All that shit about the underworld… the uh, divide? It’s nuts."

I looked up at him. Sorry, what was that about your nuts?

Wiseass. One thing’s for sure: you gotta keep a low profile. Or better yet, skip town.

I shook my head. Leaving’s not that simple. Believe me, I wish it was.

Why not?

I had my reasons, and principle among them was four-year-old Ellie Jenson. She wasn’t my kid, to clarify; she was the daughter of a deceased client. But I’d taken her in, and over time had come to love her as if she was my own little girl. Now she lived with her sister in nearby Prairie Village. I wouldn’t dream of putting any more distance between us than was absolutely necessary.

To Slade, I merely shrugged.

So what’re you gonna do then? Just carry on like nothing happened?

Precisely that, as a matter of fact. I’d been playing this game for a lot of years by then, after all. I’m not going anywhere, Detective. I folded my arms across my chest. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know. I’m pretty good at laying low, and we can help each other.

What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

It means I have a certain skill set. It’s bound to come in handy once in a while for a guy in your position.

Gulping the dregs of his coffee, Slade tried to wave down the nearest waitress.

Not my section, she snipped.

It was that kind of shitty diner with some seriously shitty coffee—I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want a refill. Then again, Slade struck me as the type who craved caffeine more than coffee. Like any addict, he cared less about quality than quantity.

A certain skill set, he cackled. Like Liam Neeson?

Scowl. "No, he has