Choked Up Read online

  Choked Up

  Up to Trouble Book Four

  Hank Edwards

  Startled Monkeys Media

  Contents

  Summary

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  About the Author

  Also by Hank Edwards

  Summary

  Mark Beecher is still recovering from his abduction on Barbados. He and his boyfriend, FBI Special Agent Aaron Pearce, have a lot to process due to those traumatic events, and in the months since, both have experienced accomplishments and setbacks.

  When a case in Detroit calls Pearce back to the city where the two met, he grudgingly leaves Mark on his own. The case involves the murders of four gay men, all strangled, and all with a note in one hand. These notes contain clues that point to a case from Pearce's past, and proves what he already fears: Robert Morgan, terrorist mole within the FBI and Pearce's former lover, has invited Pearce back to Detroit to finish things between them.

  With Pearce gone, Mark focuses on his recovery, a process that accelerates once he sees a news report from Detroit and realizes the toll this new case is taking on Pearce. Mark decides it's time to stop letting fear control his life. He will join Pearce in Detroit, and together they will stop Morgan once and for all.

  Copyright

  Choked Up: Up to Trouble Book Four by Hank Edwards

  Copyright © 2016 by Hank Edwards

  Cover art by Startled Monkeys Media

  Edited by Jason Bradley

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Choked Up: Up to Trouble Book Four is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictionalized. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  Big thanks to Bonnie for never giving up on Pearce and Mark.

  1

  A loud crash from behind Mark made him jump, and he just managed to hold in a startled shout. Tension made his neck crackle like bubble wrap as he snapped his head around. An elderly woman stood a dozen feet away along the grocery aisle, staring at the floor and the mess she had created when she dropped a jar of pickles.

  "Oh shit and hellfire," the woman muttered and looked over at him. "My arthritis is flaring up again."

  Mark was afraid if he tried to say anything he'd only scream. He pressed his lips tight together and simply nodded before turning away. He squeezed his eyes shut and clasped the plastic handle of his shopping cart as he took slow, measured breaths.

  A store employee approached the elderly woman, and their conversation faded to a distant drone as he breathed. In and out, in and out, in and out, easing his breathing and heart rate back to normal. As he worked on his breathing, Mark thought the words that had become a kind of mantra for him: You're safe, you're well, and they cannot harm you.

  When he had managed to calm himself, Mark looked over his shoulder again. A young man wearing a store-branded shirt was holding a mop handle and pushing a bucket on wheels down the aisle toward him. The elderly woman had moved on, leaving behind scattered pickles, broken glass, and the sharp odor of brine and garlic.

  A greasy film of sweat had broken out over the length of Mark's body. Memories stormed the walls he had spent months constructing. Most were held back, but a few slipped through his defenses and put him right back on the island of Barbados in that dangerous situation that had almost cost him his freedom and, most likely, his life.

  As always, the first memory to slip through his defenses was when he had walked around the corner of the bar. Without a second thought, he'd called out to the men who stood in an ominous group around a young girl. He should have left without saying a word, just gone right to the police to report the attack. But he had reacted without thinking, as usual, and he had suffered for it. He and Pearce both had suffered.

  Mark realized he was scratching at the tiny scar in the crook of his left elbow, the remnant of a drug-delivering IV needle, and forced himself to stop. He gripped the handle of the shopping cart again, drew in another deep breath, and took that most difficult first step to put himself back in motion. He needed to finish his shopping and then get himself back to the apartment and start on dinner. Pearce would be home soon, and Mark liked to have dinner waiting when he arrived. He figured it was the least he could do since he hadn't been able to work for the last several months.

  He was still a little distracted as he pushed his cart up and down aisles for the last few items on his list. When he reached for things, he noticed a slight tremor in his hand. His nerves felt as if they jittered just beneath the surface of his skin, and his senses had all sharpened to the point of distraction. Conversations and the noise of people coughing from other aisles sounded intrusive, and the lighting seemed brighter. But Mark forged ahead, wending his cart through the other shoppers and gritting his teeth to hold back a scream made up of equal parts rage and terror.

  It was just another day.

  With everything he needed finally in the buggy, he approached the registers. Anxious to be home with the doors locked and shades drawn, he got into the shortest line even though he stood behind the elderly woman who had dropped the jar of pickles. She turned to peer at him through her glasses, the lenses of which were smudged with fingerprints. Mark considered that maybe if she cleaned her glasses she might not have dropped the jar of pickles and triggered his panic attack, but then regretted the thought.

  "Are you the chef in the family?" the woman asked.

  Mark tried a smile, and thought he made it work, a little, even as the muscles in his belly trembled. "Yep. I decide what it'll be, buy it, and cook it."

  "Do they make you clean up after, too?"

  "No," Mark replied. "That he does himself."

  The woman tipped her head to the side. "He?"

  Mark hadn't realized he'd said it, and now his belly seemed to shrink to half its size. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  It was a new era, after all. He and Pearce could get married if they decided to go that route, so he wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and said, "My partner, Aaron. I cook the meals, and he cleans up afterward."

  "Oh. Well, that's nice of him." She started to place her items on the conveyor belt, and Mark ran the mantra through his mind again as he looked around at the impulse buys on display near the registers. His gaze fell on a display in the main aisle behind him, which stopped him cold. Large bags of candy piled hig
h underneath cartoon cutouts of Halloween monsters. The skin across his scalp tingled as a sudden realization stole the breath from his lungs. Halloween? Already? He pulled out his phone and checked the date. Monday, October 18. October was more than half over.

  Mark turned away from the candy display and stared at the back of the elderly woman's green coat in front of him. His mind tipped and spun as he tried to think back over the months and find one bright spot, one good memory. They had returned from Barbados at the end of May. Mark had seen a doctor and then started therapy to deal with the mental fallout of his ordeal.

  The weeks had bled together, becoming one long bad dream. The last several months he had talked about his abduction in Barbados so much it started to feel like a story he had heard secondhand, which happened to someone else. But the dreams always felt real, and the symptoms had never really cleared up. Post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD in doctor speak—was the gift that just kept giving.

  And now, the summer was gone, and he seemed to have just awakened and realized Halloween was coming up fast. It would be his first Halloween here in Washington, DC. Back home, he and Calvin would most likely dress in costume and hit the bars. He wasn't sure what Halloween here in DC would be like. Hell, he didn't even know if Pearce liked Halloween. And how long had it been since Mark had spoken to Calvin?

  With a sudden flash of clarity, Mark realized he needed to make a change. He wasn't working; he wasn't going out unless it was for groceries or therapy. In all manner of thinking, he wasn't truly living. All he did was stay inside the apartment and rearrange his belongings. How the hell had he let things be this bad for this long?

  "Aaron sounds like a keeper."

  Mark blinked at the elderly woman in front of him, surprised she had spoken to him again after he'd told her he was gay.

  "Pardon?"

  "Your partner, Aaron," the woman said. "He sounds like a keeper."

  Mark smiled, and this time it felt more true and honest on his lips. "Yeah, he is."

  She returned his smile and turned away to collect her change from the cashier. As she sorted the paper money and coins into her wallet, she said, "Make sure he knows that then. Years ago, I let one slip away that I still kick myself over to this day. Hold onto him, make sure he knows he's special to you."

  The sting of tears surprised Mark, but he nodded and said, "I will."

  She gave a single firm nod before walking off, Mark staring after her in stunned silence.

  It wasn't until later, when he parked in the lot behind their apartment that Mark realized something. Despite his panic attack in the store, this had been the first time since they returned from Barbados that he hadn't nervously watched the rearview mirror on his way home. He sat in the car and thought about his trip to the market. His reaction to the broken jar of pickles had not been as severe as what it would have been just a few weeks ago. Was all of his work in therapy sessions and on his own finally paying off?

  No, it wasn't that simple. He had spent weeks, months, working through the trauma he had experienced. Right then, just that day, he felt as if he stood on the threshold of a fresh start. He might not be ready to rush out and get a job and conquer the world, but he was able to see the image of himself out in the world, willfully interacting with people.

  He wasn't over it—he couldn't imagine ever being "over" what had happened to him—but today he was able to entertain the possibility that at some point in the near future, he wouldn't be acting like a shut in.

  A car pulled into the parking space beside his, startling Mark out of his contemplation. His pulse quickened, and he grabbed hold of the steering wheel as he pressed his feet against the floorboard. His muscles tightened as he turned to stare at the driver. His mind ticked through self-defense moves he'd learned in a class they'd taken over the summer, and avenues for escape flickered through his mind. The new arrival was a stocky man with curly hair worn a little long, someone Mark had seen around the building since he had moved in, and he relaxed a little. Mark gave the man a brief nod and quick smile before looking down at his phone as if reading a message, though he simply sat and stared at the time on the lock screen. He waited until the man had let himself in the building before he put his head back and released the breath he'd been holding.

  So, he had made some progress today, but he still had a ways to go. Mark took a few deep breaths before getting out of the car. He grabbed the bags from the backseat, tried to resist looking around the parking lot, but finally broke down and paused to sweep his gaze over the few cars in the lot. He could discern no visible threat, so he walked at a brisk pace to the door. His keys were already in hand, and he had the door open and stepped through within seconds.

  The hallway closed around him, smaller, familiar, easier to deal with, and Mark licked his dry lips as he headed for the steps. His anxiety lessened as he climbed the steps to the third floor, and by the time he’d let himself into the apartment, the sweat on his palms and down the length of his back was already starting to dry. He checked the time and fought back a twitch of anxiety. He had put off the trip to the grocery store too long, nervous about leaving the apartment, and because of that he was behind on dinner preparations. Making dinner was the least he could do for Pearce, who protected him. Well, hell, it was more than that. Pearce had saved his fucking life more than once, and all Mark had done was move in and disrupt Pearce's life.

  "Stop it," Mark scolded himself. "Focus on the positive. Put aside the negative."

  He unpacked the grocery items and set to work, keeping an eye on the clock so he could shower before Pearce got home. He didn't want the stale stink of fear sweat on him.

  2

  FBI Special Agent Aaron Pearce squinted at the man sitting before him. "Do you expect me to believe that bullshit?"

  The perp shrugged. "Believe it or not, it's the fucking truth, man."

  Pearce pushed up from his chair and walked, circling the table, moving slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "Come on, Roger, you gotta give me something, man, you know? I mean, I need something more from you if we're going to be able to work out a deal."

  Roger threw his hands up and spun in his chair to look at him. "I'm telling you the truth, man. I didn't know anything about a bank robbery or a getaway driver or nothing. Bill asked to borrow my car, and I told him sure, he could borrow it, but he needed to put gas in it 'cause it was almost empty, you know?"

  "Makes sense," Pearce said as he moved back in front of Roger. "But you didn't offer to drive it to the gas station for him? And, maybe, throw in anything about stopping at the bank on the way so you could rob it, maybe?"

  "What? No! I never said nothing about robbing a bank, honest to God!"

  "Honest to God?" Pearce repeated.

  "Swear, man," Roger said and crossed his heart, his blue eyes shining with fear and, maybe, something else.

  "So you did do it?" Pearce asked.

  "No, you're not listening to me! I didn't do it!"

  Pearce leaned on the table to stare into Roger's eyes. "What about the gas? Did Bill fill the tank?"

  "Oh. The gas?" Roger looked away. "I guess so."

  "He would have had to, wouldn't he?" Pearce asked. "I mean, if it was almost on empty."

  Roger kept his gaze averted and, in a quieter, less certain tone, said, "Yeah. He probably filled the tank then."

  "Makes sense." Pearce pushed up from the table and walked to the mirrored glass, staring into the reflection of his own brown eyes. "I mean, if you're going to go rob a bank, you want to make sure your getaway car has a full tank of gas, right?"

  "Yeah, yeah," Roger agreed. "Sure you would."

  "Funny thing is," Pearce said and faced Roger once again. "We've got a credit card transaction in your name." Pearce moved behind Roger and leaned down to whisper in his ear. "And guess what it's for?"

  Roger held very still, and Pearce was barely able to hear his response: "Chips and beer?"

  "Gasoline." Pearce moved to stand in front of Roger agai
n. "A whole shitload of it. Enough to fill the tank of that boat you drive around town. It's dated the same day as the robbery, and the station is right on the route from your place to the bank."

  Roger paled. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it once more, then closed it again. Finally, he shouted, "Bill stole it!"

  Pearce frowned. "He asked to borrow your car but went into the zip-top baggie you use as a wallet and stole your credit card?"

  "Yeah!"

  "Okay, I'll go run that by Bill and see what he says." Pearce reached for the door and looked over his shoulder. Roger's face was more than pale; it was white as copier paper. Sweat glistened across his features, and a sudden image of Mark looking just as distressed after waking from a nightmare flashed through Pearce's mind. He turned away, opened the door, and stepped into the hall, leaving Roger to stew in his fear and lies.

  Special Agent Isabelle Raker stepped out of the observation room's door and intercepted him as he strode past.

  "Nice job in there," Izzie said, her dark hair pulled back and brown eyes flashing with humor. "But did something happen at the end there?"

  Pearce didn't meet her gaze. "What do you mean? I've got him pinned down in a lie. What could have happened?"

  "I don't know. I saw an expression on your face just a few seconds before you left the room."

  Pearce stopped in mid-stride and turned to face Izzie. "You been watching Law & Order marathons on the weekend again?" He heard the edge to his voice but couldn't help it. When he had the time, and fortitude, to do a bit of soul-searching about what Mark was going through, all he came up with, every time, was it made Pearce feel helpless and scared. And Pearce really, really hated feeling helpless and scared.

  To keep the balance, he knew he was lashing out at those around him, Mark included, but he just didn't know what the fuck else he could do to help Mark find his way through this. And the helplessness wasn't something he could control, either. It snuck up on him, like that shitty little cat owned by one of his housemates in college. The damn thing slinked around in the shadows and waited until Pearce was good and relaxed before it attacked his feet, digging in with its needle claws and tiny dagger teeth. These feelings of helplessness and aggravation were just like that cat, pouncing on him when he least expected it.