The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

under red umbrellas, laughing drunkenly behind sunglasses. A Cuban sandwich shop next-door sent smells of meats, onions, and toasty bread into the mix. While Dak had never been much for eating ham, he had to admit the scents wafting out of the sandwich place possessed a siren's call of sorts.

He only allowed the distraction for a second or two before returning his focus to the bar next to the cigar shop.

The joint was a legitimate business—mostly. Dak had been watching the place for the last week since arriving from Portugal. The bar kept a steady flow of traffic in and out, people looking to quench their thirst with fruity alcoholic beverages or crisp beers while watching baseball or soccer. He was tempted to get a better feel of the establishment's layout, but he'd been holding back until today.

He'd seen Carson go by three times in the six days he'd staked out the bar. Each time, Carson looked like he was in a hurry or stressed out, or both. He wore a look of nonchalance on his face, though Dak recognized it as a facade. Based on Carson's previous schedule, it was a good bet he wouldn't be coming in today.

Carson, Dak thought with loathing. The man had changed his name to Baker Tomason. The name change was no surprise, though the choice was certainly interesting. Dak assumed all his ex-teammates were now operating under false identities. Maybe they'd changed them legally, unlike himself. It didn't matter.

Carson, Baker, Vicky, it was all the same to him. When he finished with them, their names would be irrelevant. Dak meant to erase them from existence.

Carson, like the others, hadn't been stupid. Not completely. But he, like most people, had his vices. Dak recalled Carson talking about sports betting more than once during their time together. Usually, he brought it up when they were in the base, killing time. He'd look at the lines for upcoming games and rattle on about how some odds were wrong, the over/unders too high or too low, and other gambling stuff Dak didn't care about.

Even though he had yet to venture into the bar, Dak had a feeling he knew what went on in there. The place was a cover for a sports book. He just needed to get a few more details.

Fortunately, the perfect target was one of the bar's regulars. And today, the guy was right on time.

The man was probably 300 lbs and five feet, nine inches tall. He wore a purple cotton Polo that barely clung to the man's skin by a thread. Khaki shorts and white sneakers with tall white socks completed the ensemble.

His business done, the man carelessly walked out of the bar counting a wad of bills out in the open. Dak folded his paper and tucked it under his arm, carefully checking the pistol on his hip—a weapon he'd purchased through Will's Miami connection.

Dak crossed the street between slow-moving cars and fell in line behind the man as he waddled down the sidewalk. Dak watched him closely, knowing the pasty, hulking man had no clue he was being followed. The guy stuffed the money into his pocket and made a call on his phone.

The conversation provided Dak with everything he needed to justify an interrogation. The gambler bragged to a friend about how much money he made over the weekend and how he was playing with house money.

When the man reached his car around the next corner, parked on a side street two blocks away, he used his key fob to unlock it and reached out for the door handle.

Dak stepped quickly toward him, and as the guy pulled the door open, Dak stopped it with a steady hand.

The man turned his head, fear and anger erupting in his eyes. He swore and reached for his belt.

"No need for that," Dak said, his own weapon already in hand, concealed from view by the car and the wall next to him. He twisted his body slightly to make sure no one passing would notice, though this part of the city block remained nearly vacant except for a few random pedestrians strolling by on the other side of the street every so often.

The man's anger left his face and transformed to pure fear. "What do you want?" he blathered, the loose fat under his chin jiggling as he spoke. "Money? You can have it. Take it? It's yours. Just don't shoot me. Please. I have a family."

"No, you don't," Dak said cooly. "You live alone in an apartment in South Miami, over a bar where you go every night for drinks and to take shots at any lady you deem desperate enough to consider letting you talk to them. You have no wife, no children. And you gamble. From what I can tell, you're pretty good at it."

Confusion filled the man's eyes. His head darted back and forth, a desperate search for someone who could help him.

"What are you, a cop? I haven't broken any laws."

Dak shrugged at the comment. "No. I'm not a cop. And the lawbreaker would be the bookie at the bar, not some lowlife like you. You're just a customer."

"Look, man, I don't know who you are, but please, just let me go. Here, take the money. I have more where that came from." He instantly regretted the confession.

"I don't want your money," Dak said. "I want information."

The gambler's fear eased slightly, his jaw sagging. "Information? About what?"

"I need to know who runs that establishment. What's the bookie's name?"

The man's eyebrows knit together. Deep lines formed on his forehead. "Bert. His name is Bert."

"What does he look like?"

"He's big," the man babbled. "Big Puerto Rican guy. Taller than me."

"He taking new clients?"

More confusion filled the gambler's face. "What?"

"Is he taking new clients?" Dak asked more pointedly, deliberate with every syllable.

"I… I don't know." The man stammered the words. "I guess so. Probably. You want me to introduce you?"

"No. I can introduce myself. I don't want you involved in