Blind Luck: The Technicians, #3

Blind Luck

The Technicians- Book 3

OLIVIA GAINES

Davonshire House Publishing

PO Box 9716 

Augusta, GA 30916 

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely a coincidence.

© 2019 Olivia Gaines, Cheryl Aaron Corbin

Copy Editor: Teri Thompson Blackwell

Cover: Corbin Media

Olivia Gaines Make Up and Photograph by Latasla Gardner Photography

ASIN:  B0763BK8DP

ISBN-13: 9781096788898

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All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever.  For information address, Davonshire House Publishing, PO Box 9716, Augusta, GA 30916.

Printed in the United States of America

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First Davonshire House Publishing April 2019

DEDICATION

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This book is dedicated to all the readers who need to sit down and escape from the day to day hustle of living. I invite to turn the page and sit down in the possibility of hope. It springs eternal. This book is for you.

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"Easy reading is damn hard writing."

-  Nathaniel Hawthorne

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To all the fans, friends and supporters of the dream as well as the Facebook community of writers who keep me focused, inspired and moving forward.

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Write On!

Also by Olivia Gaines

The Slice of Life Series

The Perfect Man

Friends with Benefits

A Letter to My Mother

The Basement of Mr. McGee

A New Mommy for Christmas

The Slivers of Love Series

The Cost to  Play

Thursday in Savannah

Girl's Weekend

Beneath the Well of Dawn

Santa’s Big Helper

The Davonshire Series

Courting Guinevere

Loving Words

Vanity's Pleasure

The Blakemore Files

Being Mrs. Blakemore

Shopping with Mrs. Blakemore

Dancing with Mr. Blakemore

Cruising with the Blakemores

Dinner with the Blakemores

Loving the Czar

The Value of a Man Series

My Mail Order Wife

A Weekend with the Cromwell’s

Other Novellas

North to Alaska

The Brute & The Blogger

A Better Night in Vegas

Other Books

A Menu for Loving

Turning the Page

The Zelda Dairies

Table of Contents

Chapter One - Dammit...

Chapter Two – What in the hell

Chapter Three – My Name is Brody

Chapter Five – On the Road Again

Chapter Six – Call me Millie

Chapter Seven – Wait, what...Hell No!

Chapter Eight – Do you...Not Really.

Chapter Nine – For this...I am thankful.

Chapter Ten – Hmm...Waffles, is that what you call this?

Epilogue – You want me to do what?

Walking the Dawg

Chapter One – Gone Now, Git

A Hero For Hire

Chapter One - A Dumb Idea

Chapter Two- Oh Hell No, Hero!

Chapter Three- Rings, Roses, and Romance

About the Author

Chapter One - Dammit...

His leg throbbed like a son of a bitch and the oatmeal Judy had given him for breakfast was gone. His stomach ached as if he’d been punched in it with a large hammer, making the internal bag of goop processor feel as if someone had drained the sack of all its juices.  Even his bile craved a thing or two to digest. He could taste the bitterness of an empty stomach in his mouth reminding him of the gnawing hunger for food.

Hunger can make a man do dumb things, and he was about to do the dumbest – have a meal at 3 am in the morning in a Waffle House off a lone stretch of interstate in the middle of nowhere Missouri. A single yellow sign stood out against the black sky. The ebony letters, half faded from spending too much time in the mid-day sun, making the trademark sign of the Southern fried food establishment spell Waf le Ho se, if read from left to right, since the other letters in the name had washed-out.  He didn’t care.  A hot cup of coffee, a bowl of grits, and maybe a couple of crisp strips of bacon would tide him over until his next stop on the way home, but tonight he would take the chance to sooth his belly.

Mr. Yield maneuvered his Ford F-150 to the exit ramp, making the left, and driving across the interstate bridge, pulling reluctantly into the parking lot. Only three cars remained in the half-empty asphalt car park. One, he assumed, belonged to the night manager, the other to the waitress who was going to have entirely too much attitude for this time of the morning, and the third to a solitary, lonely customer.

Dammit, he mumbled as his phone began to vibrate. A call at 3 am is never right for him or the person on the other end. Grumbling and cursing under his breath, he answer the phone.

Yield, he said into the line. He knew it was Beauty Kurtzwilde just from the ring tone of the William Tell Overture and he didn’t want to talk to her.

Good morning; where are you? She asked in a hurried tone.

Waffle House, just outside of St. Louis, Yield mumbled, adjusting the aching leg with the haphazardly sewn up bullet hole courtesy of Mr. Stop. He planned to go back once he healed and kick that fucker in his nuts for shooting him although it was a clear shot, through and through. Now, to go along with the aching in his leg, he had to deal with the shit of hearing Beauty put an ache in his ear. Sighing, he waited for the normal pushy voice on the other end to bark orders at him.

Did you retrieve the package from Caleb Morrow’s widow?

Yep, burned it, he lied. Judy, the widow of Caleb Morrow didn’t have the package, or at least that’s what Mr. Stop had told him. He believed the technician sent to take care of Morrow although the woman struck him as being a little on the left side of shady. Mr. Stop was going to have his hands full with the woman and child. Yield saw no reason to out the man to Beauty on his change in life situation, especially since he’d done him a solid and only shot him in the leg versus killing him. Yield still planned to put his size 12 boot in his man bags when he saw Mr. Stop again, just to make himself feel better about his current circumstance.

Beauty asked, are you ready for another?

Another what?

A young man by the name of Luther Pennington has taken a watch that belongs to his grandfather, Beauty said. He lives nearby in Wentzville. Are you close to that location?

Yield looked at his GPS. He actually sat in the parking lot of the Waffle House in Wentzville. The thought of getting a hotel room for the night boded well with him, which would give him a chance to put the leg up while he slept. The dull throb from Stop digging the bullet out of his muscle and sewing him back up hurt like a moferker.

I’ll look into, he told her. Send a photo.

No bloodshed if you can help it. The contract only requires the return of the item, Beauty said. The originator wants help for the grandson, not death.

Duly noted, Yield mumbled, ending the call.  In a few moments, an image of the young man would come through on his cell and, in the morning, he would begin his skip trace. At this moment, his belly demanded a couple of those crisp strips of bacon, a hot cup of black coffee, and a bowl of grits with cheddar cheese on top.

He cut the engine of the truck and climbed out slowly, ensuring he had his piece in his jacket pocket along with a new knife. The one he’d used to cut Stop had fallen in the snow. The blade didn’t mean enough to him to go back and look for it. In his line of work, he had plenty of knives, guns, and surveillance equipment to last him a lifetime. Killing wasn’t his specialty. Finding things that people had taken and returning them to the rightful owner was his job. He was good at it and lucky like that. Moving slowly towards the old building, dull on the outside which match the washed out signage, the bell on the glass door jangled when he opened it and stepped inside to the warmth of the heated road side slop house and inhaled the grease-filled air.

Morning, a pretty young woman called from behind the counter. Large brown eyes focused on his face. He knew the scar emblazoned across his left eye and down his cheek was a turn off to a lot of women. Others found it to be a turn on as if the scar gave him an edgy look which made him seem suspect. However, her eyes went from his face to the man at the end of the far counter, seated in a corner with his head down.

Yield turned slowly, looking at the man who sat silently, his right leg bouncing up and down like a junkie in need of a fix. He knew that angst. The shaky fella was in need of a injection and probably intended to try and rob the place. Dammit.

Coffee, black and hot. Bacon and a bowl of grits with some cheese on top, he said, dragging the leg a bit as he went to find a seat facing the door. Wanting the last booth in the row of three, he went to sit but found the position occupied by a small, sleeping, little person. Yield frowned at seeing the boy, adding more of a menacing look to his appearance.

Sorry about that, the waitress said. Her nametag said Millicent. Chad is asleep down there. Babysitters are so hard to come by nowadays. My friend won’t watch him while I work, and the late shift ain’t got many customers. It works out.

He said nothing. His eyes went from the shifty character to the child. A moment of envy went through him as he thought about Stop being at the raggedy homemade house with Judy and the kid. A family. He wanted a family, but it would be just his dumb luck to marry a crazy bitch that liked to fight all the time then fuck him for the rest of the night before waking up the next morning and cussing him up the scar on his face and down his back making a new groove into his skin. The last crazy woman he enjoyed fucking all night gave him the ugly scar across his face.

The not so fond memory was interrupted by a ping from his pocket indicating Beauty had sent the photo for his next assignment. Noises around him ensued as the greasy joint prepared his order. He just wanted a plate of goddamn food, a bed, and when his leg healed, a willing woman under his well-managed thrusts to make him feel as if he were the Roman god of lust incarnate.

Pull one bacon, the waitress yelled as a man, big around the middle, waddled from the back. The swinging door complained of his girth as he walked over to the fridge. Grubby hands reach for the handle to pull out three strips of bacon.

Hey, wash your hands before you touch my food, Yield said aloud.

The heat from the grill will kill any germs, the cook grumbled.

Either way, I would rather not have the germs from your ass on my meal, Yield said, looking down at the photo.

This was the part of the job he hated most. The images people sent of the targets were usually pics before the subject went bad. A good-looking kid with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an award-winning smile looked back at him from the screen of his phone. Yield was fairly certain the kid didn’t look like this now. If he were using hard drugs, more than likely, he would look more like the kid at the end of the counter. Used up.

Here’s your coffee, Mister, the young woman said, sitting the cup down. Let me get your grits. I made them myself. Just a little bit of milk, a bit of sugar, and heavy cream. Makes them grits really smooth when you stir’em up.

He watched her firm backside, young supple skin, and pert breasts as she leaned over the table to place the bowl in front of him. Her lips moved slowly so he could understand her words. He’s scaring me.

Yield mouthed back, call the cops.

She pressed her lips together, shaking her head no. Her eyes went to the child then back to him. There was a story in that glance that he had no time