Prairie Fire: Overdrive: Book Three

By Adam Knight

Fans of JIM BUTCHER and JOHN CONROE agree, ADAM KNIGHT's Urban Fantasy "Overdrive Series" is a hit. Full of action, drama, relatable problems, pop culture goodness and enough humour to satisfy readers of all genres.

During the harshest winter in recent history, the City of Winnipeg is ravaged by an onslaught of uncontrollable fires. Properties are being destroyed in all areas of town without explanation or motive and people are scared. While local authorities and the RCMP are struggling to keep up with these arsons a new criminal element is taking a foothold in the City's underworld, out muscling the smaller gangs and appealing to a higher dollar clientele.

The local media are asking all the right questions but no one seems to have any answers. But one important question remains to some.

Where is Joe?

"Prairie Fire" is the third book in the "Overdrive" series. Set in the City of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. It is an Urban Fantasy tale including violence, adult language and graphic imagery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Knight
• Release date: Jan 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005330767

Adam Knight

About Me?Father. Son. Pro Wrestler. Smart Ass. Lover of life. WannaBe TV Show Runner / Actor.But first: A Story Teller and Writer.I hope you enjoy my words as much as I enjoy putting them out into the world.

Book preview

Prologue

More coffee, Miss Greenburg?

Started, Cathy looked up from her scattered notes and blinked rapidly. In front of her was the diminutive, dark skinned barista carrying yet another steaming pot of Columbian Goodness that seemed to be at least half her size. It took a second of mental collection before she nodded towards her mug with a weary smile.

Please. Thank you, Phoebe. And again, ‘Cathy’ is fine.

The barista smiled back impishly while she topped up the mug, tucking a stray strand of crimson dyed hair behind her ear and glasses. She expertly completed a one handed pour fearless of the rising steam on her bare hand. Sorry. Bad habits.

I wouldn’t call proper manners ‘bad’ precisely. I’m fairly certain my old grammar and style instructor would take issue with that.

Phoebe cocked her head, once again fussing with that stubborn red lock. Are you talking about Mr. Perry at Red River?

Cathy blinked again, giving the barista an inquisitive look with the freshly filled mug halfway to her perfectly painted lips to blow on it. I didn’t know you took Communications at Red River College. Though it does explain your interest in current events.

Phoebe shook her head with a sad sigh and rested the coffee carafe on the table. "No, I was in Graphic Design for one semester. Mr. Perry taught his professional communication process class to all the creative disciplines for some reason."

Oh. Cathy responded before taking a sip. Her free hand absently tapped a well chewed pen against the table with a slight clacking sound in time with the soft, Top Forty track playing over the speakers. I didn’t know that. She gathered her scattered papers together (much like her thoughts) and absently continued the small talk. Only one semester?

It was Phoebe who fidgeted now, though it was with her coffee pot.

Yeah. I guess it wasn’t for me.

Cathy glanced up sympathetically and smiled again. Those are tough courses at Red River. They’re not for everyone.

Another slight shrug and hair fidget as Phoebe mumbled something non-committal while looking uncomfortable.

Not everything needs to be investigated, Cathy admonished herself firmly. Let the girl keep her dignity.

Well, she said warmly. Education aside, Mr. Perry could be awfully petty which is never fun for anyone. Cathy returned her mug to the table and applied cream generously, bringing the liquid to a golden delight. So let’s focus on the things we should be worried about. Like the ridiculous winter temperatures we’re going through. Minus forty-five with the wind chill overnight, are you kidding me?

Phoebe’s impish smile returned. "And still the college girls in mini skirts just have to save five bucks on coat check while they wait outside the clubs, freezing their butts off."

Cathy snorted as memories of wilder nights spent going out with Max and bypassing nightclub lines altogether came to mind. Laughing as they shook their heads at the crazy kids braving pneumonia to save themselves the price of one cocktail.

God, that’s hilarious.

I know right?

I can’t remember the last time I was out to a club. It must have been…

Cathy’s voice trailed off, her eyes drifting as fun memories transitioned to one that filled her nightmares.

Violence. Screaming. Gunshots. Blood.

So much blood.

Miss Greenburg? Phoebe’s voice broke the sudden silence. Cathy? Are you okay?

Cathy blinked, forcing aside the image of her friend laying in a heap on the sidewalk.

What? Yes, I’m fine. Just... Cathy took a moment to remember her therapists’ lessons. Take a moment, breathe and find her voice again. Sorry. I just remembered something.

The tiny barista managed to appear even smaller as her body language shifted slightly in on itself. I’m guessing it wasn’t a nice something.

Cathy sipped coffee to cover her expression. No. Not really. Her gaze slipped down to her notes and she grimaced. Been a lot of not-nice-somethings going in Winnipeg lately.

Phoebe changed position, trying to get a not-so-subtle glimpse at Cathy’s notes. Is that about the arsons you’ve been covering on the news?

Cathy nodded, thankful for the distraction even though there was a tiny part of her brain that berated herself for talking about a story in progress. Yes. Though there’s nothing I should say until I can confirm my sources’ information.

The barista took the hint, stepping away and glancing around the coffee shop to the other patrons. None of whom seemed to be listening or in the need of a refill. Sorry. I just find the story fascinating. Crazy to think about massive fires happening in the middle of winter, you know?

That’s not the only crazy thing, Cathy said with a frown as she organized her notes for seemingly the millionth time. Nothing about this makes any sense.

Oh?

In spite of herself, words tumbled from Cathy’s lips. Trying to find a common thread amongst the mess. No common area of town. No common building type. None of the dates are concurrent from one week to the next. Look, this one started inside the conference room of a century old heritage building down in the Exchange District. It burned so hot that the very stone foundations began to warp before firefighters got to it. Cathy shuffled a page, skimming over her scribbling. Here. A house in the new developments along Peguis Street was set ablaze from the outside until the whole building collapsed in upon itself. Every piece burned practically to ash despite the howling snowstorm.

That sounds crazy, Phoebe remarked, shuffling her feet.

Cathy flipped through her notes with exasperation. "It is so crazy. None of this makes any sense. There’s no correlation between sites. No apparent motive. No sudden insurance claims raising any alarms... She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, trying to will away the stress headache that started to form. The only thing these arsons have in common is that the Fire Marshalls can’t figure out how they got started."

That’s intense.

Tell me about it.

The door chimed behind Cathy. Phoebe perked her head up and retrieved the coffee pot. Duty calls. Do you want anything?

Cathy shook her head slightly while making a faint shooing motion with her notes. Go work. I’ll be up all night if I have another cup.

Phoebe’s eyes turned wicked as she pranced away. I’ll save that cup for when the Jets come back from the road. Maybe give you that extra energy for when your man comes home.

Cathy laughed politely as conflicting emotions swirled in her chest. She took another sip of coffee to cover her expression and tried to concentrate on her notes.

No such luck.

As usual of late, when she wasn’t consumed with her work Cathy found herself thinking about her relationship with Winnipeg Jets team captain Max Poulin. More specifically how it was affecting her status in the community, even more than her job as the co anchor for CTV’s evening news did. Which also led to a round of self recrimination, realizing what a first world and egotistical problem this was to have.

And yet, even here in The Beanstalk it was impossible to completely ignore the quiet conversations other people were having and how they kept coming back to the same things. Which in a hockey-crazed city like Winnipeg, it only made sense that they would be talking about the home team. And how their struggles might be affected by outside influences.

For example;

Man, I know the Jets are struggling right now but at least Big Dustin’s playing like a beast out there. Crushing fools all over the ice.

Yeah, no doubts. Too bad his contract is coming up though. The way he’s playing I doubt we’ll be able to resign him. Other teams are going to wanna open the vault for a guy like him.

You’re not kidding. Well, maybe he’ll stick around. He and Captain Poulin seem to have a good rapport with the community and the team.

Poulin. Ugh, now there’s a guy we gotta get rid of.

What?

Honestly. He’s totally overpaid. We’ve been near the bottom of the Central Division for years, and his production has only gotten worse in that time.

He’s the team’s leading scorer.

If he didn’t have Big Dustin out there he’d never get the puck. I swear he might be a decent guy, but he’s been no good for at least a year.

Dude. Maybe you should chill.

For real. Ever since he shacked up with that hot TV anchor his head hasn’t been in the game.

Dude! Shut it.

What are you… Oh…

Cathy sighed behind her mug, continuing to pretend like she didn’t notice.

Ignoring that kind of chatter was difficult. Not as difficult as ignoring the catty stares from other women who came upon Max and herself in public, even though that that type of animosity was patently idiotic. A childish, spiteful jealousy that didn’t dip below the surface into a real emotion.

Even still, it hurt.

But getting away from the hockey talk was impossible in this city. Whether it was conversations from coffee shop experts who could and would say terrible things about her professional hockey player boyfriend, people in doctor’s offices, online or even at the sports desk in her own studio. Everyone seemed to passing judgement on him and by proxy on her.

Which was also something Cathy should be used to. She’d been on Winnipeg’s number one newscast for several years, starting at the weather desk before working her way up to the investigative reporting group. For her whole career she’d been hearing whispers about how talented she was or wasn’t depending on who was doing the talking. Or how closely the comments section was monitored online.

How she was good at her job. How she sucked. How she likely did suck, which is how she got that job in the first place. She should go away. She should get more air time. She’s only got the job to funnel information from her boyfriend to the guys at the sports desk.

That last one always made Cathy grimace sourly. At the very thought of it she found herself reaching for her smartphone and had half begun punching in a number before she realized what her fingers were doing.

She dropped the phone on her stack of notes in disgust.

You know he’s not going to answer. By now the team’s just finishing their post lunch meeting in Anaheim and he’ll be trying to get in his pre-game nap.

Cathy rubbed at the bridge of her nose again. The absolute worst part of being Captain Max Poulin’s Girlfriend (capital G) was the lack of accessibility to him when she most needed someone to talk to. Even if just to blow off steam and get her thoughts in order.

It sucked having someone in your life that was almost never there.

Maybe I need more friends, Cathy thought sourly.

Which inevitably made her think of the other person she trusted to vent to.

Dammit, Joe. Where are you? You should be working with me on the I-Team instead of wasting time doing… Whatever it is you’re doing while trying to find yourself.

The door chimed again behind her, icy winter air slipping into her favorite coffee shop and sending a shiver up her spine. Cathy reached for the sweater she’d rested on the empty chair next to her and draped it over her shoulders.

Excuse me, said a gravelly voice said from just behind her head. Is this seat taken?

Suddenly humbled at the prospect of not being recognized while also flattered to know she was still of interest to the deep toned businessmen of Winnipeg, Cathy turned in her chair to make a polite refusal when the words caught in her throat. Her heart rate quickened as a sudden urge to leap to her feet and run nearly took over.

A tall Aboriginal man stood there. He was dressed more professionally than he had the last time she’d seen him. Dark slacks and what looked like an Under Armour turtleneck beneath his leather winter coat along with a fine pair of boots. What hadn’t changed was the grim cast to his scarred lips or the dangerous look in his dark eyes.

The Native Posse member she only knew as Shawn stared down at her calmly, waiting for a response.

Cathy managed to find her voice.

What are you doing here?

Shawn smirked faintly. Coffee’s good here.

"Never figured The Beanstalk would be your kind of place."

Why, because I’m an Indian?

No, because you’re a gang leader.

Silence fell. All the nearby hushed conversations went silent. One couple quietly got up from their seats, left some change on the table and quickly made their way out the door.

Winter air hit Cathy once again. Her eyes never left Shawn’s though now she was shivering for a different reason.

He motioned faintly towards a chair, expression revealing nothing.

Cathy’s mind whirled in tandem with her pulse. It’s daytime downtown. There’re plenty of witnesses. I am just around the corner from work. Police officers roam the street regularly. Nothing will happen here that you can’t walk away from.

Self-reassured Cathy pursed her lips firmly and gave a faint nod.

His expression never changed as he pulled out the chair across from her and sat.

The hushed silence nearby faded back to the hum of a coffee shop, though it was impossible not to notice the way the remaining people kept glancing at their table. Phoebe patrolled the shop off in the background, not so subtly keeping an eye on Cathy from a safe distance. Clearly in tune with the temperature change in her workplace and showing that she was paying attention to call for help if needed.

Cathy re-settled into her seat, forced her hands to remain tremble free and took a slow sip from her mug.

Shawn remained silent.

Well, Cathy said sharply. What can I do for you?

Oddly his expression changed, from stoic confidence to one of hesitation. Possibly even chagrin. When he spoke his gravelly voice was barely audible.

I need a favour.

*

"Mark, I understand that you’re having trouble adjusting to your new job. I truly do. But when you say you’re going to be here for dinner I kind of planned to have you here for dinner."

"I was available when I spoke to you at three. But that was before my boss told me to stick around and help him with the upcoming post -layoff staffing plan."

I just... Well, we haven’t seen each other much lately. And Mark we really have a lot of things to figure out.

Mark’s sigh grated in Tamara’s ear as she hobbled across her tiny, University Area apartment towards the kitchenette where her Safeway brand lasagna was rapidly overcooking. She tried to keep the sudden rush of frustration from affecting her tone of voice, though she hadn’t been the best judge of how she sounded to others even before she got pregnant. Now with a little person stretching her belly out and putting all that new strain on her lower back and hips, plus the unpredictable hormones rampaging through her system...

Let’s just say that Mark’s heavy, woe-is-me sigh would have been enough to set Mother Teresa off under similar circumstances.

Why do you think I am doing this? Mark asked, his voice clearly strained and tired. Do you think I want to be working all these extra hours? But now that Christmas is done and the baby is coming close I’ve got to make sure that I’ll be able to support you.

Tamara shut the oven off, leaned back against the kitchenette counter and stretched as much as her tiny, swollen frame would allow. I get that. Of course I get that. But support is more than just money. It’s also… God, I don’t know. Her free hand rubbed absently over her belly, soothing herself as much as the kicking infant. I just... You couldn’t call?

Mark gave another world weary sigh. Tamara’s teeth ached from gritting them together.

I did call. Right now. This is me, calling.

Tamara rubbed a little more quickly even as her expression saddened. That’s not the same. You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.

And I couldn’t call a half an hour ago. Or even an hour before that. I work in a factory now, babe. I am constantly monitoring my staff for the unsafe use of their cellphones so I can’t be using mine and punishing them at the same time, right?

So you’re saying you didn’t even have a five minute gap in time for you to...

Tamara, I’m doing the best I can.

She found herself fighting back tears for what seemed like the millionth time that day. Deep breaths were only able to do so much.

Mark. We can’t keep going on like this.

His sigh was less aggravated.

I know, babe. I know.

Tamara wiped at her eyes, trying to keep her voice level. We have things to talk about. Plans we need to make.

We’ll get there. I know we will.

When? The baby is due in weeks. Doctor McCarthy said an early delivery isn’t out of the question given how far along I am.

I just… Wait, hold on Tamara. Mark’s voice got all muffled, the receiver tucked away as he spoke to someone else. Yeah... I... Okay, yeah I’ll be right there.

This time Tamara’s sighed. Let me guess. Back to work?

These fucking guys. All I need is... Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got to go. Andy needs me to...

It’s fine. Go.

I’ll text you later when I’m off. Maybe if it’s not too late...

It’s too late.

Sure. Text me.

Silence.

You mad?

Yes.

No.

You sure?

I’m sure. Go work. I’ll be here.

Okay. Well... Yeah. Okay. Talk to you later.

Tamara hung up and put the phone down, resting her tired body heavily against the counter.

She wanted to scream. To vent. To cry. To rage at the heavens. To call for help.

She did none of those things.

With a forced calm and an agitated infant swirling inside, Tamara removed the dry and overcooked lasagna from the oven and left it on the elements to cool. Without groaning too much she hobbled over to her tiny dining table to sit gingerly on a hard wooden chair.

Too many thoughts swirled in her brain. Worries. Anxiety. The post traumatic stress sessions with the police and doctor-recommended specialists were helping her learn hot to focus on the positives and manage the negatives.

At least they were willing to listen to her vent about her current real world issues and not just focus on her psychotic super powered sociopath induced trauma from the summer. Not that she could properly describe what that was like, not without the authorities wanting to send her to more intense therapy in a more padded-wall hospital.

Both hands caressed her belly as she closed her eyes. Trying to breathe deeply and work on the things she’d been taught. Focusing past the worries. Past the bills that were beginning to pile up. Past the stress of knowing her baby was due sooner than she was ready for.

Past the loneliness. Past the sense of violation.

And the feeling of abandonment.

She looked down at her phone but left it there on the table.

She was tired of leaving him messages. Either of them, really. But mostly him.

She refused to let the tears fall.

She refused.

One deep breath followed another. Then she pushed herself off the uncomfortable chair to try and organize her life.

*

The Thursday night crowd at Peeler’s Burlesque Palace was a bit down from the weeks leading into Christmas, which was hardly a surprise. With all the holiday stress and staff parties in full swing Shelby’s establishment was a good place for people to come in and blow off steam. But now that Santa had retreated to the North Pole reality was settling in and those pesky credit card bills were starting to arrive. So it wasn’t shocking to see such a diminished crowd. Most people would barely brave the coldest winter in a decade to fill up their cars, never mind going out to watch women get naked for their amusement. I mean, that’s what the internet is for most days.

But down didn’t mean quiet. The deejay had no trouble working the alcohol fueled men and women in attendance into a frenzy as the night wore on.

They were an eclectic bunch. Business types over in one corner with ties loosened as much as their wallets. Blue collar fellas fresh from whatever snow clearing gang they were part of, all still wearing their yellow and orange protective gear as they hooted at the girls and pounded beer.

There were other groups and a few solitary individuals lurking about. There always were.

Usually this type of crowd wasn’t anything to worry about.

Sadly her new bouncer was starting to kill the mood.

Some people just shouldn’t work in a strip club, Shelby grumbled to herself from behind the main bar sourly.

Normally she didn’t hire the guards herself, that was what her perpetually absent head of security was for. But after her University football team linebacker Dave had to quit because he was falling behind on his grades and needed to keep his meager scholarship, Shelby had been forced to dig into the pile of resumes in Joe’s folder and make a few phone calls.

Tyler seemed like a good fit. Big, but not imposing. Well spoken. Well mannered. Full of previous experience working security at live events, concerts and on the night shift for corporate buildings.

Sadly, he wasn’t much of a people person. He patrolled the floor endlessly with a sour expression and an aggressive air. His eyes seemed to challenge everyone he came upon.

Shelby rubbed one red lacquered finger over her temple in frustration. She watched as Tyler passed by the main bar, giving her a tight nod before continuing on his way. Shelby noted the patrons glancing at him uncomfortably as he brushed past and sighed.

Bridget? she called over her shoulder, getting the attention of her buxom young waitress. Keep an eye on the bar for a while? I need to work in the office for a bit.

Oh, thank God. Bridget exclaimed as she minced behind the bar in her stilettos and dropped her serving tray with relief while rubbing at one shoulder. Honestly, I don’t know how you manage in these hooker heels all day. My calves and ass are killing me.

Shelby winked conspiratorially as she squeezed past. Those heels are better than all the squats in the world for that butt of yours. Trust me. Give me about half an hour. I’ll be back to set up Valerie before her shift starts.

Bridget nodded before turning a sultry smile on the next blue collar to sidle up and place an order.

Shelby strode across her bar, smiling politely and making small talk with regulars as she passed. The dancer on stage made a show of getting her attention, making some sort of flirtatious comment that she had no chance of hearing over the music thumping through the speakers. Shelby gave her a naughty wink and smile in response, making the dancer laugh as she went back to the pole.

She breathed a sigh of relief after making it to the main lobby and escaping into the comparative quiet. It wasn’t that long ago that Shelby herself was working the stage, driving people crazy with her body and the power of her presence in order to provide for her son and pay for her business education. Though now that she was off the poles as it were, she often wondered how she managed under those lights and speakers for as long as she had.

Shelby shook her head to clear the memories and adjusted her inappropriate for the weather Peeler’s crop top, before nodding to Hal at the front desk and making her way up the stairs to her office.

Which itself was a bit of a misnomer. The building was technically listed as a hotel according to the City’s property department, though no one really ever booked a room to stay there save for some of the dancers passing through town. Or an occasional staff member needing a place to crash in between apartments or life partners. As such there were plenty of rooms available for an easy conversion.

Shelby’s office was on the second floor. The bed and dresser had been moved into storage in favor of a long banquet table that held her landline, desktop computer and all in one scanner-printer combo. It wasn’t fancy, but it suited her needs.

Slipping out of her heels was a relief no matter what she told Bridget, but the five inches of height she lost in the process was a bit disorienting. Sitting primly in her old fashioned office chair she straightened her tight lower back and contemplated for the thousandth time getting her implants reduced to a less spinal stressing size.

As always she smirked at the thought and dismissed it. I still got it, she murmured proudly with a laugh and reached for the pile of bouncer resumes sitting on the far corner of her table and began to flip through them.

She sighed softly.

What a collection of meatheads.

It wasn’t a long read. A number of one page sheets from either young men looking for a thrill and the prospect of an easy gig or from career bouncers with unsavoury reputations and a minimal background of doing anything else with their lives. A few morons even added pictures of themselves, as if they were auditioning for a play or something.

Shelby rubbed at her temple again, feeling the headache swell. She glanced at her appointment book, confirming that Joe was supposed to be back in town tomorrow. Once home he’d be able to go over this list and find someone who wasn’t awful with any luck.

A frantic knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Shelby, are you in there?

She rose to her feet, ignoring the ego