The Kill Club

By James Glass

Welcome to The Kill Club—an informal men's club is set in a luxurious hunting lodge located on twenty-thousand acres of Pensacola, Florida woodlands. The members gather to hunt the homeless, streetwalkers, and others deemed lowlifes.
After serving in the military, Navy SEAL Nick Sparrow decides to start a new career in his hometown of Pensacola. A freak winter storm pummels the area and he crashes his muscle car. Forced to hitchhike, he crosses paths with a member of the Kill Club who mistakenly thinks Nick is a vagrant.
Nick left a life of danger in Afghanistan only to be hunted by men from his own country. Swept up in the battle of his life, he will need to use all his skills to survive both the Kill Club and the freezing weather.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Glass
• Release date: Jul 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005645793

James Glass

James Glass retired from the United States Navy after 22 years of service. After retiring, he exchanged his rifle for a pen. He and his family moved back to the Florida Panhandle. He’s married and has two children. James is also the President of the Panhandle Writer's Group.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Wednesday

I hadn’t visited New Orleans since before my parents were murdered. That was almost seven years ago. Hard to believe in all that time nothing had changed around the Big Easy.

Foot traffic increased in downtown as evening fell. The soused hordes of pedestrians spilling onto the streets and roadsides in packs. Some people were over-dressed, others hardly dressed at all.

I had to stop, turn around and move around many of the cross streets which had been closed to accommodate the partying masses. Took multiple attempts to find a road to a hotel, or at least one that still had rooms to rent. And not by the hour.

After booking a room that cost more than my monthly rent had been in San Diego, I took a quick shower, changed into fresh clothes, and headed out.

The clogged bowels of Bourbon Street were packed, shoulder-to-shoulder and nut-to-butt as people danced and bumped or high-fived one another. A cacophony of shouting emanated from all directions. And the air smelled of weed and piss, and beer. Several nearby clubs sported half-naked women who gyrated behind pane-glass windows. Rubberneckers watched with glutton-lustful delight. Not the kind of club I was looking for. 

A gray-haired man with dreads sold whippets from a bicycle adorned in glowsticks. A small team of fundamentalist Christians congressed into the streets with bullhorns to revile and picket, proclaiming themselves as martyrs against the hub of human fifth and carnal sin. Several drunken passersby argued with them and soon a shoving match ensued.

Police officers rode horses through a crowd who instinctively knew to clear the way. One of the drunken men slapped a horse on the backside and bolted. Several cops quickly cornered him, hopped off their saddles and proceeded to beat him with their batons. A gaggle of spectators watched, hooting, and hollering.

This is insanity, someone shouted from the crowd.

Someone else responded, Welcome to Bourbon Street.

I edged my way around the ever-increasing gawkers and entered a club at the end the street. The place was packed and booming with dubstep. A trio of college girls swerved ahead of me and edged between people of every color, class and distinction. Half-dressed cocktail waitresses strutted table to table, placing cylindrical tubes of bottom shelf liquor between their breasts and charging twenty bucks for the face full. A bouncer the size of bigfoot was dragging a vomiting man toward my direction, so I sidestepped away from the front door and made my way toward the bar to order my first beer of many.

A horde of men crowded the bartender, a youthful woman in her mid to late twenties. Her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, swayed effortlessly with every movement. Tattoos covered both arms. Her pale skin enhanced the various bright colors of the ink. Many of the guys called out various drink orders, which to my surprise she kept up without missing a beat. Several of the walking testosterone flirted with her, but she gave as good as she got.

I always found a woman who could serve alcohol and dull out good humor to be very sexy. I saw an opening between two barstools and made my way through the ever-growing crowd. Although the place didn’t sport a dance floor, music rained down from speakers somewhere overhead as men and women danced wherever they could find space.

She glanced in my direction several times. I had that effect on women. Then again, I could be wrong, and she was looking past me.

Some douchebag bumped into me. He yelled something which I couldn’t hear over the beat of some techno song. Then said asshole pushed me. I moved closer to show him the error of his ways when Little-Miss Sunshine from behind the bar shoved a night stick in the man’s chest. He held up both hands in surrender and disappeared into the crowd. She pointed the club at me.

You’re my hero, I mouthed. The words would’ve been drowned out by the music if I’d yelled. No sense in looking silly.

She stared at me with deep-blue eyes for a long moment, then moved further down the bar to take orders.

Ten agonizing minutes later I managed to get her attention, this time without the help of some drunk asshole bumping into me. I ordered six beers.

She eyed me wearily.

I moved in closer and said, Saves time to think ahead, right?

She didn’t laugh at my humor but did get my drinks.

A barstool came available and I made a beeline for it. Some woman in a tube dress or whatever it’s called stood next to me. The red fabric hugged her athletic body. She stared at me for a while, as if prompting me to buy her a round. Maybe next time, honey.

A moment later, she ordered a strawberry daiquiri, then turned to me, batting her green eyes. Or was she having a seizure. I couldn’t tell. If she flopped on the floor, I’d know for sure. That’s how a seizure works, right?

I’m Sherri, with an i, she said. What’s your name?

Johnny, with a y. I lied. I had no clue who she was or what her motive might be. Then again, maybe she’d get me drunk, take me back to my room and take advantage of me. A guy can dream.

What do you do for a living, Johnny with a y?

I kill people.

This is my standard answer to this question. You’d be surprised how many times a conversation begins with, what do you do for a living? So why not spice it up a bit. She produced a crooked smile, probably thinking this was my pickup line. I don’t do pickup lines. They’re a waste of time.

I’m not really a killer. I mean I’ve killed people, but they deserved to die or at least that’s what Uncle Sam told me.

Her daiquiri arrived. She raised her glass. To the assassin. The song ended as the words escaped her lips. Several people looked our way. I clinked my beer against her glass. To the assassin, I said.

She laughed, then sipped some of her daiquiri through a straw.

The woman was coming onto me way too easy. Unless she had an ulterior motive, which was a possibility in this town.

Either, way, I’d know soon enough.

Chapter 2

Thursday

I awoke. Sunlight spilled into the room, forcing me to blink several times. My eyes were gummy and itchy. When the world came into focus, empty beer bottles littered the floor. Guess last night had been one hell of a night. I couldn’t remember how I managed to make it back to my hotel … sheer miracle I’d even made it back to my room, or at least I think this was my room.

Something slithered along my backside in the bed next to me. Awake, and now more alert, I twisted my head to investigate … my heart racing. I’m not one to wig out, but when you check into a hotel room by yourself, you expect to wake up alone. Right?

A black-haired beauty lay with her back to me under the sheets. How did that happen? Strike that. What did happen?

She rolled over and that’s when I remembered her. The tattooed bartender from the night before. I blinked several times trying to kick start my brain. Everything appeared hazy. I recalled how she had come around the bar to ward off the asshole who bumped into me. I also remembered drinking with blondie. Could this all be a dream? Probably not. My head pounded. Hangover’s suck.

She sat up, her back against the headboard.

What the hell happened last night? I managed to say through clenched teeth.

She reached for a pack of smokes from the end table. The sheet fell, exposing her left breast. Small and perky. She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, the end turning cherry.

You happened, she said.

What does that even mean?

You really don’t remember?

I shook my head.

She took another drag then blew smoke rings. The puffy white circles floated in the air. You cost me my job last night.

Okay, you lost me … I raised a brow, hoping her name would come to me.

I’m Julie. Julie Sykes.

Julie, what do you mean I cost you your job. How?

Don’t worry about it. It was a crappy job anyway.

I stood too quickly from the bed and my stomach lurched. It wouldn’t be very manly of me to upchuck in front of her.

You got a really nice ass, Nick Sparrow.

I waved my thanks and slowly made my way into the bathroom. The cool water from the faucet eased the nausea.

How did you get the scars on your shoulder and side? I heard her ask. She had the kind of husky, velvety, sexy voice that reminded me a lot of Stevie Nicks.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The scars were a reminder of the atrocity’s men can inflict on each other on opposing sides. In war, hate can be a powerful enemy.

Cut myself shaving.

She laughed so hard she snorted. Guess my corny joke caught her off guard. Most women I’ve seen performing the pig laugh, look silly, but she made it look sexy.

Ten seconds later when she caught her breath she said, Must be like the blind leading the blind.

Talking hurt, so I didn’t reply. I needed a Bloody Mary and several aspirin. These two always eased my hangover. Maybe the bar downstairs would be open. If not, maybe Julie could whip one up. After all she’s a bartender. And a sexy one to boot.

Her footsteps echoed on the tiled floor as she approached the doorway to the bathroom. Besides the ink on her arms, tattoos were drawn, if that’s the right word, covered the outline of her breasts and circled her belly. I’ve never been attracted to tattoos, but looking—okay—ogling at her in the doorway, I could see how some men liked the body art.

Like what you see? she teased.

My face felt flush. I could blame the sudden redness of my cheeks on the hangover, but we both knew this was sheer embarrassment. To try and conceal anymore embarrassment, I washed my face with more cold water.

Want to get a shower with me? she asked walking by me. Her naked body rubbed against my butt. Even with the killer migraine my manhood still reacted to her touch.

She twisted the spigot and a moment later, the room began to fill with steam. She turned back, looked at me, then stepped into the shower.

Never miss an opportunity, she said grinning. Then she closed the curtain. Especially if you don’t remember last night.

Chapter 3

After toweling off from our long, hot shower, we crashed naked onto the bed. I regarded, okay, gawked at the tattoo on her hip. The intricate pattern resembled a sunflower colored in green and red. Vines snaked up her side. Several branched off at various points, the green turned into leaves, red into hearts.

I’ve never been attracted to tattoos, but on her, the painted ink was both sexual and sensual.

Are you still in the Navy?

Her question caught me by surprise.

I stared into her green eyes.

A drop of water fell from her jet-black hair and streaked down the side of her soft, angular face. I couldn’t seem to draw my attention away from the woman lying next to me. I blinked a few times to escape her hypnotic spell. Why do you ask?

Her gaze shifted to the nightstand. I saw your military ID.

Answer mine, first. How did I cost you your job?

Julie traced the scar on my shoulder with a finger. Her touch sparked an electrical charge which shot down my spine. My butt twitched from the sensation.

You remember the guy who bumped into you last night?

Numbnuts with no brains? I asked.

She laughed at my sarcasm, which is always a plus.

Julie gently raked her fingernails across my chest. Goosebumps weren’t the only thing to pop into action. Her mischievous smile betrayed any innocence.

Little Miss Thing sitting at the bar with you was his girlfriend. Turns out he sent her there to get you drunk. Maybe Ass Clown thought it would be easier to kick Mister Nick Sparrow’s butt if he had a few too many.

Ass Clown. You’re a wordsmith.

I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or not. Sarcasm works best when I’m using it. Not the other way around, but I let it go.

I guess you intervened? I asked.

"Something like that. He and two of his goons approached. He accused you of hitting on his girlfriend. The three of them circled you. In their minds they probably thought they appeared menacing. In their drunken stupor, they resembled three staggering buffoons playing Ring Around the Rosie, but they didn’t fall down."

I smiled. This girl had jokes. And, what, you observed all of this from behind the bar?

I’ve seen enough testosterone to know when guys are up to no good.

Watching the guys circle me seemed obvious they were up to no good, but I decided to see what she said. How do you know?

They turn into fourteen-year-old girls who’ve gone hormonal.

A guttural laugh exploded from my diaphragm. A cramp crawled up my side, killing the laughter.

I walked over with my Billy club and told the boys to disperse.

You actually said disperse? I asked, massaging the kink.

I may have used a stronger word. One not so politically correct.

Julie propped her head on her arm. Her emerald-green eyes locked onto mine, rendering me … I needed to stay focused on the subject, which was … oh, right, Ass Clown and his goonies. What happened next?

One of his buddies threw a drink in my face.

I bet that pissed you off.

She raised a brow. You think?

Right, dumb question.

You broke your beer bottle over his head. He fell to the floor, unconscious. The other friend took a swing at you, but you grabbed his hand, bending it in an unnatural position. I heard bones snap.

The memory of last night started to return. Instead of letting Julie know my memory was coming back, I let her continue.

Ass Clown bum-rushed you, but I tripped him. His hands reached for anything to grab a hold of, to keep from falling. He latched onto a well-endowed woman.

I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. This couldn’t be the end of the story.

What happened next?

Her shirt ripped exposing one of her … um … assets. She kicked him in the johnson and he crumpled to the floor, next to his unconscious buddy.

This still didn’t answer my original question. How did I get you fired?

My manager witnessed the entire show.

Okay, I said drawing out the word. Where does me getting you fired come into play?

Turns out Ass Clown’s the manager’s brother.

But you were trying to stop a fight, not start one.

She shrugged. Doesn’t matter. I hated working there anyway. She jabbed her finger into my chest. You still in the Navy?

For a few more weeks.

What did you do in the Navy?

You sure ask a lot of question.

She grinned. I like to know who I’m sleeping with.

Touché. I was a SEAL.

She eyed me for a moment as if sizing me up or questioning my answer. Not that it mattered to me, I wasn’t here to impress her. Okay, maybe a little.

What does SEAL stand for?

Sea, Air, Land.

She scrunched her nose. Really?

I raised two fingers. Scout’s honor. I wasn’t sure if two fingers were correct, but took a chance.

Okay Mister, Sea, Air, Land, why are you here?

I opted to avoid telling her the truth and decided to have a little fun with her question. See where the answer led. Hopefully with me getting laid, again.

What I’m about to tell you is Top Secret.

She nestled closer to me. Her smile widened. Pray tell, Secret Agent Man.

Wrong job description but who was I to tell her otherwise. I’m on a special government mission—one I may not survive. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. It’s my own fault for going off script. I coughed in my fist to stall.

The only thing I can tell you is right here, right now, with you, I’m guaranteed.

Julie rolled her eyes. I thought you were being serious.

But I’m guaranteed.

She sighed. Okay, I’ll bite. Guaranteed what?

If you have sex with me, I’m guaranteed not to die a virgin.

Julie leaned in close, her moist lips nuzzled my ear. Guess you die a virgin.

She laughed so hard she slid off me. Her breasts moved in harmony with each laugh.

I moved a hand toward her breasts, but she thwarted my attempt by turning away. Nope, she said in between breaths.

Why not? I asked. I thought you would want to take advantage of me.

I’m sure you would let me, too.

Not now. You ruined the moment.

Julie straddled me.

I love reverse psychology. Well, only when it works to my advantage. Score one for the home team—me.

She arched her back. I’ll give into your demands, manly man. I won’t let you or the government down—do my part so you don’t die a virgin. After all national security is at stake here.

I shook my head. No, ma’am. All of humanity is at stake here.

Chapter 4

We both lay back on the bed, exhausted. A musty aroma filled the room. I can’t describe what sex smells like other than it reminds me of mushrooms. Weird, I know, but that’s all I got.

In less than twenty-four hours, I’d met the perfect woman with a killer body, who happened to be a bartender.

Can I get a massage? I asked.

Julie rested her head on my chest. Her face felt cool against my skin. Her fingers circled my belly button. Is your name really Nick Sparrow?

How did we skip the subject so fast? Did she not hear me? Where’s my massage?

I stroked her silky, smooth hair. Yes. My name is Nick Sparrow. Why?

Sounds like a comic book hero.

I don’t have any superpowers, unless you consider the power of persuasion. Now quit stalling and knead away. I wondered if she got the point.

She gently punched me in the side. I’m not persuaded. Guess you’re not a superhero.

Okay, almost the perfect woman.

She turned her head and looked up at me with those penetrating green eyes. What are we going to do today?

We?

Since you got me fired, I don’t see the need to stick around this town.

You’re not from here?

She softly flicked my nose. I’m a New York girl. I came down in ’06. Been here ever since.

You don’t have a New York accent.

Very perceptive, Sherlock.

I ignored the sarcasm. Checkout is at 11. Then I saw the clock and realized eleven had come and gone. Guess I’d be staying another night.

Then where to?

Do you always ask so many questions?

She flashed a smile. I want to know where we’re headed.

Wait, what? I asked a bit confused. When did we move from a one-night-stand to potential relationship? That’s right, when I decided she was the perfect, well almost perfect woman. She needed to give me a massage to pass muster. Besides, how did I owe her? She got herself fired. Okay, I may have played a minor role.

She traced my lips with her index finger. Can we order breakfast?

Julie seemed to be an expert at changing the subject. Maybe she had attention deficit disorder or whatever it’s called. Then again, don’t we all to some degree?

Stop trying to analyze her and enjoy the moment.

Why not.

Julie propped her head on a hand. What should we order?

I leaned over and grabbed my seven-day pack from the floor and set it on the bed. I hadn’t unpacked anything since checking in the day before.

I still had about two grand left from my savings.

I unzipped one of the pouches and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.