In the Clinch (Kira Brightwell, Book 5) – Jacquelyn Smith

In the Clinch (Kira Brightwell, Book 5)

Series: The Kira Brightwell Mysteries

Kira Brightwell never thought it would come to this.

So close! With the origins of the serial abductor known as the Procurer finally unraveled, her nemesis finally seemed within reach…

Until he pulled the rug out from under her.

Her ties to family and friends sacrificed in her obsessive quest for vengeance, Kira finds herself isolated and alone. An easy target for someone like the Procurer—if she chooses to continue to pursue him.

A single question remains.

How much more does she want to lose?

Kira’s search for the Procurer takes an unexpected turn in this gripping fifth novel from the Kira Brightwell mystery series by Jacquelyn Smith.

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This title is also available as part of the Down in the Fifth Kira Brightwell Collection.

Darren Slade had been a model inmate during his time on the inside. Yes, there had been a few incidents toward the beginning of his incarceration. Somehow, word had gotten out about the exact nature of his capture. He suspected a blabbermouth cop had passed the story along to one of the prison guards. Halloween or not, it wasn’t every day someone claimed to have been attacked by a pair of people dressed up as characters from a cartoon from the Eighties. Word of the mystery cheetah woman in particular had spread quickly throughout the prison, which meant Slade had been forced to take certain steps to protect his reputation.

But that had been over four years ago. After securing his place in the pecking order, he had settled down and focused on getting back outside. Now here he was, on the outskirts of downtown Phoenix, fiddling with a rusted lock on the side door to an abandoned commercial garage.

He risked a glance over his shoulder as he worked. This was a rougher part of the city. He wasn’t the only one participating in illicit activity. A thug on the corner in a ball cap and oversized jacket was in close conversation with a younger man in ripped jeans. Both wore furtive expressions. Slade knew if he bothered to keep watching, he would see money and merchandise pass hands.

As the sun began to set behind the urban sprawl of buildings, a few women wandered out onto the sidewalk in cheap finery—short, tight skirts and fishnets, topped by faux fur coats in a riot of color against the approaching chill of the late fall evening. Their cheap perfume wafted toward him on the breeze, not quite masking the steamy concoction of sewer gasses and rotting garbage from a nearby dumpster.

Slade turned his back on them and went back to his work. Yes, this was a rough part of the city, but it also meant it was likely only a matter of time before a cop car cruised by. He found himself turning every time he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. He gave the stubborn lock one last wiggle of his makeshift lock pick and it finally gave way. He slipped inside the windowless metal door and closed it firmly behind him.

The interior of the garage was dark and silent. His hand hovered over the worn metal handle of the knife tucked into the back of his jeans as his eyes and ears adjusted.

Nothing.

He let out a slow breath and straightened.

Time to see whether Frank was blowing smoke up my ass.

Slade reached for the light switch by the door. Nothing happened when he flipped it. He hadn’t really expected it to work. The garage had been out of business for almost a decade and no one had bothered to buy the place. He unslung his canvas knapsack from his shoulder and rummaged through its meager contents. It only took a moment to find what he was looking for. There was a soft click as he turned on his newly acquired flashlight. He used its narrow beam to trace around the large room.

He was in the back of the garage, where the cars would have been repaired. A pair of large garage doors faced the direction of the street to allow vehicles access. The walls were lined with dusty tools. Sets of hydraulic jacks pitted the concrete floor. A narrow hallway across the garage led into the darkness of what he assumed was the office and storefront area.

The truck was right where Frank had said it would be.

The ’98 beige Silverado pickup was covered with grime. His former cellmate had promised him the truck wasn’t hot. The last thing Slade needed was to be pulled over for driving a stolen vehicle. He walked across the garage floor, his footsteps echoing softly against the concrete in the yawning, empty space.

The truck was unlocked.

Slade turned off the flashlight. He hopped into the cab and threw his backpack on the passenger seat with a dull thump. The air inside the truck was dry and stale, smelling faintly of old cigarettes. He reached up and flipped down the sun visor overhead. A set of keys jingled down into his lap. He slipped one of them into the ignition.

It took a moment for the engine to turn, but it eventually rumbled to life. The headlights flooded the garage, making him blink. He checked the glowing display of the fuel gauge. A slow smile spread across his lean face. The tank was still half full. He ran a hand over his slicked back, blond hair.

Everything was going according to plan.

[Copyright © Jacquelyn Smith, 2021]