The Iron Tiara Read online

  The Iron Tiara

  A Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novel

  Beth Flynn

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

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book. All trademarked names are honored by capitalization and no infringement is intended.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  ISBN-13:978-1548581497

  ISBN-10:1548581496

  RECOMMENDED FOR READERS 18 AND OLDER DUE TO SEXUAL SITUATIONS AND VIOLENCE.

  All Rights Reserved

  * * *

  Edited by Amy Donnelly and Cheryl Desmidt

  Cover Design by Jay Aheer at Simply Defined Art

  Interior Formatting by Amy Donnelly at www.alchemyandwords.com

  Proofreading by Judy Zweifel

  For Joseph L. Blasi

  * * *

  My beloved father and very first superhero

  * * *

  Thank you for instilling in me a love of reading. A passion that eventually encouraged me to spill my imagination onto these pages.

  * * *

  I love you, Dad.

  Contents

  Books By Beth Flynn

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  Bonus From Nine Minutes

  Acknowledgments

  Keep In Touch

  About the Author

  Books By Beth Flynn

  Nine Minutes

  Out of Time

  A Gift of Time

  Prologue

  Naples, Florida 1978

  Anthony Bear fumed as he sat astride the riding mower and gazed across the large expanse that was the Chapman property. Their lavish home sat on several acres in the exclusive community of Land and Sea Estates. He glanced down at his hands that were gripping the mower's steering wheel and realized there was still some blood caked beneath his fingernails from earlier that day. He hardly noticed the roar of the mower as he reflected on the events that had transpired over the last few hours.

  Three Hours Earlier

  When he'd found out that morning from his bookkeeper that a client was in arrears for almost seventy thousand dollars, he had to reel in anger so intense he could almost feel his blood boiling. After willing himself to calm down, he immediately called his second in command, Alexander, who Anthony called X, to find out how this could've happened. He was almost cooled off when the loud pipes from X's motorcycle announced his arrival at Anthony's business, Native Touch Landscape and Design.

  "You know that's Denny's job, Bear. He's the one that collects and squeezes clients when they can't pay," X told him, his blue eyes serious. "And as far as I know, you've never had a problem with Chapman before. He's always paid." X hadn’t been referring to the legitimate customers that used Native Touch Landscape and Design. He was referring to the ones that Anthony had other business with: the ones who needed drugs or loans to finance their gambling, drug or other expensive habits.

  According to Anthony's bookkeeper, X's observation had been true up until three months ago. Denny either wasn't doing his job or he was doing his job and keeping the money for himself. There was only one way to find out.

  "Get Denny over to the camp. I'll meet you there," Anthony said in a quiet, but menacing voice from behind his desk.

  Camp Sawgrass was a children’s camp abandoned in the sixties. It was situated in the Florida Everglades, just southwest of the entrance to Alligator Alley, the long stretch of highway that connected the Florida coasts. It was where Anthony conducted all his darker and more distasteful business.

  “He said he’d pay. He’s always paid you, boss.” Denny gasped for air and added, “They always pay—even when I let them slide!” Denny was sitting in a chair, his hands cuffed behind his back. Blood trickled from his nose and a cut on his forehead.

  “Them? Are you saying that you’ve extended credit before and not just to Van Chapman but others as well?” Anthony asked. He spoke with deadly calm, and his voice was so low, X barely heard him. X stood back watching with his arms crossed. An interrogation like this was something he normally would’ve handled, but it was obvious Anthony wanted to deal with Denny personally. Seventy thousand dollars was a lot of money.

  Denny looked like a deer caught in the headlights. His expression told Anthony it was true, spurring another solid blow to Denny’s cheek.

  “How much of a kickback do you get from clients for letting them slide on their dues?” he asked the trembling man.

  When Denny told him the amount, Anthony punched him in the mouth, breaking off his front tooth.

  “That’s my money. Not yours,” Anthony said. His voice carried an ominous tone. “I’m going to let you go, give you an hour to meet up with Van and bring me back my money. I want Van to get a good look at what I've done to your face.”

  Denny started to cry. “I can’t get your money in an hour, boss. Van went out of town and didn’t say where he was going. He told me he’d be back in a few days to settle up with you and everybody else he owes. He’s always paid,” he sobbed. “He’s always paid.”

  “You let a client who owes me seventy thousand dollars skip town?” Anthony asked, his eyes blazing with fury and his voice now a growl. “A client who owes not just me, but other sharks?”

  “Seventy thousand?” Denny asked, tears, blood and snot dripping down his face.

  “Are you telling me he doesn’t owe me seventy thousand?” Anthony was certain that was the figure his bookkeeper had told him.

  “I thought it was seventy-five thousand, but maybe I’m wrong,” Denny answered, and then spit a blood-stained ball of phlegm on the floor.

  Anthony stiffened when he realized that his bookkeeper had possibly been skimming too. The guy was an accountant for a large corporation who moonlighted by keeping Anthony’s books. Was he so hard up for money that he took the ch
ance of mentioning Van Chapman’s outstanding loan to Anthony? Or was Denny wrong? Either way, Anthony blamed himself. He’d become too complacent, believing that he’d established himself as a force too powerful to be reckoned with. No one had ever dared to cross him before. But they were obviously doing it now. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

  "Uncuff him," Anthony demanded.

  Less than ten minutes later, X was left with a mess to clean up and a body to dispose of.

  "He's dead," X announced after checking Denny’s pulse. Even after Anthony inflicted more pain during his nonstop interrogation, Denny never gave up Van’s whereabouts. He probably didn’t know. Poor slob, X thought.

  "That's unfortunate," came Anthony’s sardonic reply as he headed for the sink.

  "What do you wanna do now?" X stood and stared down at Denny's lifeless body. He inhaled the sharp metallic stench of fresh blood and shook his head.

  "I'm getting a lawn crew and heading to Chapman's house," Anthony called over his shoulder as he washed up and stared out the window. He gazed out over the camp yard and let his brain mull over his next course of action. The roar of two motorcycles rolling in interrupted his thoughts. "I saw on this week's schedule that they're not due at his house for two more days, but Chapman moved himself up the work roster." It was to Anthony’s advantage that Chapman happened to employ Native Touch to take care of his lawn.

  After drying his hands and putting the shirt back on that he'd removed for Denny's questioning, he walked over to where he'd thrown his machete. He picked it up and used Denny's body to wipe it clean. "When you're finished here, make some calls. Put some feelers out. See if you can find Van discreetly." He turned to look at X. "We have no way of knowing if what Denny told us about Van being out of town is true. If other sharks are looking for him, I don't need to tell you that I want to make sure we find him first."

  X nodded.

  Anthony then looked at what he'd left lying on the floor beside Denny. "Toss that on the grill. It’ll be a reminder to the crew what happens to anybody that steals from me," he said as he strode out the door and slammed it behind him.

  If it was true that Van was gone, Anthony would use the time to learn more than the little he already knew about the man and his family. If there were weaknesses or vulnerabilities, Anthony wanted to know what they were now so they could be used against Chapman later. His anger at himself started to intensify, but he tamped it down. He'd already blown off enough steam. It was time to get to work.

  The smell of fresh cut grass drifted through the air, and Anthony inhaled deeply as Denny's beating and death already became a distant memory. He didn't make a habit of working with his landscaping crews, but he wanted to use the time at Chapman's house to observe. Besides, he didn't consider riding the lawnmower work. If anything, he enjoyed the solitary chore as it gave him time to think.

  An annoying fly now interrupted those thoughts. He swatted it away, and then quickly used the rubber band on his wrist to secure his long black hair off his shoulders. Returning both hands to the mower, he went back to mulling over the current situation.

  Anthony had met Van once, and only as a formality to let him know who he would be dealing with. A lot of loan sharks tried to hide behind their front men. Not Anthony. He wanted people to see who would be coming after them if they didn't pay. Showing them the man behind the money had always been a useful tool. Until now. And he could almost see why Denny fell into a comfortable relationship with Van. After one brief face-to-face, Anthony knew Van was a typical car salesman. His expensive silk business suits and smooth talking had helped Van move up the corporate ladder and into the bed of a wealthy heiress. Anthony wasn't at all surprised that Van had been able to swindle Denny as well.

  Anthony swung the mower around again and gripped the wheel tighter as his knuckles whitened, determined that he would get what was owed to him regardless of the cost. He was in the money business, not the mercy business, and Anthony had no intention of showing mercy to a slimeball like Chapman.

  His thoughts were disrupted when he noticed a red convertible Corvette slowly creeping up the long drive. He couldn't tell from that distance who was behind the wheel; all he saw was blonde hair. He purposely steered his mower to the car's obvious destination. He watched the auto curl around the circular driveway, pass the ridiculously large front entry doors and come to a stop on the other side of the ugliest fountain Anthony had ever seen.

  As he got closer, he saw a petite, curvy, fair-haired female get out of the car and approach one of his men who'd been weeding along the stone pavers. Anthony brought the mower to a halt, climbed off and walked toward them. The woman's back was to him, and he clenched his jaw when he recognized her body language. He'd mowed enough lawns as a kid on the other coast to know exactly what kind of broad his employee, Lester, was dealing with. She radiated an air of misplaced superiority. Another privileged princess. His jaw was still tightly clenched when Lester stood and laughed at something the woman said. As Lester looked past her, his smile faded when he saw Anthony's expression.

  "Sorry, boss. Miss Christy here was just telling me something I found amusing," the man said with a worried smile and a Southern accent. Lester was an older man, a Vietnam veteran and alcoholic transient who'd found his way to Florida from Georgia. Anthony had given him a chance, and he’d proven to be a reliable employee. He showed up every morning, the stench of whatever he drank the night before almost dripping from his pores, but Lester showed up, on time, which is all Anthony was concerned about.

  The blonde turned around to see who Lester was talking to and her smile faded. With her hands on her hips, her posture stiffened as she stared at Anthony, her lips thin and her expression unreadable. She slowly perused Anthony from head to toe and raised her chin up just enough for him to notice.

  "You must be new." The disdain in her voice was as thick as molasses.

  There it was. The attitude. The one he knew to expect. Yet her bright blue eyes caught Anthony off guard. He'd never once remembered seeing someone whose eyes rivaled the sky. Not even Alexander's. X's eyes reminded Anthony of ice. Hers, combined with her chin-length straight blonde hair and obvious haughty arrogance, brought back sour memories. Memories of the over privileged and spoiled wives and daughters that used to flaunt their bodies and their fortunes to a young and impressionable Anthony as he worked his first job in Miami on a landscaping crew.

  "You live here?" he asked, without responding to her comment. He wouldn't let his eyes travel down her body. He was more than a foot taller than her and could tell without directly looking that she had full breasts that hadn't moved or jiggled when she turned around. Definitely implants. Her nipples were protruding from beneath the flimsy tank top she wore despite the heat. Her white shorts contrasted against her tan skin. Of course she has a nice tan, he mused. It's probably the only thing she does all day. Lie in the sun, lunch at the club and go to back-to-back appointments with masseuses, manicurists and cosmetic surgeons.

  "Not anymore," she replied with a dismissive tone.

  His hands balled into fists.

  Turning her back to Anthony she returned to her convertible and grabbed what looked like a beach bag out of the passenger seat.

  "It was nice to see you, Lester," she said as she walked past the man who'd returned to his kneeling position and was back to pulling weeds from a flowerbed that bordered the driveway. "And thanks for the heads-up!"

  Pulling a key from the pocket of her shorts, she opened the front door and went inside, closing it behind her. Anthony heard the click of the deadbolt sliding into place. He returned his gaze to Lester who stood up again and nervously started wiping his hands on his jeans. He knew his boss would want an explanation. Before Anthony could ask, he answered him.

  "She's the Chapmans’ daughter. Miss Christy doesn't live here anymore, but she likes to come to the house when she knows they won't be around."

  Anthony looked hard at Lester, his eyes full of suspicion. "
How did she know they weren't here?"

  Lester, realizing that what he'd been doing for Christy may not sit well with his boss, started to fidget anxiously. Then looked away. Anthony was six foot six inches tall, muscular and extremely intimidating. Lester knew from some of the other crew members that even though Anthony ran what appeared to be a legit landscaping business, it was rumored that it was only a front for his illegal activities. Lester had heard Anthony was the leader of what could only be described as a vicious, take no prisoners motorcycle club. They had a reputation for terrorizing the west coast of Florida and for some reason that Lester couldn't fathom, getting away with it. Most of the time.

  He gulped and avoided looking into Anthony's penetrating dark eyes. "Whenever we come out here, I page Christy and tell her if her parents aren’t home."

  Anthony gazed out over the property, taking his time before he asked without looking at Lester, "How do you page her? There isn't a pay phone for miles."