Rogue, Renegade And Rebel (In Her Paranormal Majesty’s Secret Service Book 1) Read online

  Rogue, Renegade & Rebel

  In Her Paranormal Majesty’s Secret Service™ Book One

  Michael Anderle

  The Rogue, Renegade & Rebel Team

  Thanks to the Beta Readers

  James Caplan, Larry Omans, John Ashmore, Kelly O’Donnell, Mary Morris

  Thanks to the JIT Readers

  Dave Hicks

  Deb Mader

  Debi Sateren

  Dorothy Lloyd

  Jackey Hankard-Brodie

  Jeff Eaton

  Jeff Goode

  Larry Omans

  Lori Hendricks

  Micky Cocker

  Paul Westman

  Peter Manis

  If I’ve missed anyone, please let me know!

  Editor

  The Skyhunter Editing Team

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael Anderle

  Cover by Mihaela Voicu http://www.mihaelavoicu.com/

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US Edition, December 2019

  ebook ISBN 978-1-64202-672-6

  Print ISBN 978-1-64202-673-3

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Epilogue

  Author Notes Michael Anderle

  Books By Michael Anderle

  Connect with The Author

  Genevieve King’s

  UK to US Travel Guide

  An insight into how the Americans butcher the queen’s English

  UK (Correct) — US (Wrong)

  Aluminium (ah-luh-min-ee-um) — Aluminum (ah-loo-min-uhm…WHAT?)

  American Football — Football

  Bathroom / Toilet / Loo — Restroom

  Biscuit — Cookie

  Bonnet (Car) — Hood

  Broadsheet — Newspaper

  Car Park — Parking Lot

  Chips — French Fries

  Crisps — Potato Chips

  Dual carriageway — Highway, freeway

  Dummy — Pacifier

  Duvet — Blanket (yes there are duvets, but not in this story)

  Extension lead — Extension cord

  Flat — Apartment

  Football — Soccer

  Garden — Yard

  Holiday — Vacation

  Ice lolly — Popsicle

  Jumper — Sweater

  Knickers — Panties

  Lift — Elevator

  Lorry — Truck

  Mad — Insane / Crazy

  Motorway — Highway

  Mummy — Mommy

  Nappy — Diaper

  Number Plate — License Plate

  Oregano (or-i-gah-no) — Oregano (or-eh-ga-no…I mean, come on!)

  Pants — Underwear

  Pavement — Sidewalk

  Peckish — Hungry

  Police / Bobbies / Pigs / Boys in Blue — Cops / Police

  Potato (poh-tah-to) — Potato (pah-tay-to)

  Rubbish — Trash

  Shop — Store

  Sofa — Couch

  Sweets — Candy

  Torch — Flashlight

  Tomato (toh-mah-to) — Tomato (tah-may-to)

  Trainers — Sneakers

  Trollied — Drunk/plastered

  Trousers — Pants

  Tube — Subway

  Waistcoat — Vest

  Wardrobe — Closet

  Windscreen — Windshield

  Prologue

  Brussels, Belgium, 1955

  Vinnie Romano sat between the pair of hooded young women in the back of the black Jaguar. Its engine purred, the only sound since the sun had long gone to sleep and the moon was high in the sky.

  A thin layer of mist floated along the ground. There was a chill in the air as Marco pulled onto the street and cut the engine.

  Vinnie grunted. “This the place?”

  “Of course.” Marco clicked his tongue and exited the vehicle, revealing a small flash of the pistol holstered to his hip as the moon’s light caught the body of the weapon.

  “Fine.” Vinnie opened the rear door and gave the first girl a shove, sending her out of the car and sprawling onto the ground. He laughed, grabbed the other’s arm, and pulled her along with him, ignoring the muffled moans from beneath the hessian sack over her head.

  Marco was busy helping the first girl to her feet. “Careful with the merchandise. They don’t like them when they’re bruised. It knocks the asking price.”

  What’s a couple of hundred lire to the Messino brothers? Vinnie thought, but he held his tongue.

  Marco led the way, strolling up to the front door of the rundown apartment complex. Five stories high, number eighty-two was the only building that showed any si
gns of life at this time of night. A faint flicker of candlelight shone from several of the windows above them.

  The door opened, just an inch.

  “Yo, Tony, it’s Marco. We’ve got the boss’ package. You gonna let us in, or are we gonna have to shout from the streets and wake the fucking neighbors?”

  The door opened another fraction. A head the size of a beachball poked out, the face stony as a gargoyle. He examined the four figures standing on his doorstep, his eyes lingering a little too long on the white-stained dresses of the two girls, before grunting his approval and removing the latch.

  Marco thanked Tony as he walked on by. Vinnie couldn’t help but notice the gigantic gargoyle of a man lick his lips as they passed into the apartment and headed toward the stairs.

  The air was smoky and stank of cigarettes. All along the corridor, there were men stationed, each resting with their back and the sole of a foot against the wall. Many wore white shirts, black suspenders striping their tops and their brows hidden by fedoras. All had a gun at their hip—a precautionary measure enforced by the brothers at the top.

  Vinnie spotted filthy mattresses on the floors through several of the doorways they passed. Most of the rooms were a state, with stains on the floors, yellow wallpaper that curled like hangnails, and empty bottles all over.

  Vinnie’s heart rate quickened. He was excited about this. Nervous, but excited. Being a lowly grunt in the whole operation, he had been surprised to have been selected as part of the force that would be sent out to ensure that the deed was done for the brothers.

  This is your moment, Vinnie Boy. Time to make it big, earn that top cash, and show them what you’re made of. Don’t fuck it up.

  They passed the third floor, then the fourth. They nodded return acknowledgments to members of the gang, although some ignored them entirely—jealousy, most likely. Everyone wanted a piece of the action that night—the clincher of the deal that had been months in the making.

  When they reached the final flight of stairs, Vinnie was certain he could hear the grunts of people in the next room doing the dirty—“making luuuurve,” as his wife would say. He cocked an ear, a grin on his face, not paying attention as the girl in front of him slipped and fell forward.

  She moaned as her face whacked the stairs.

  “Fuck’s sake, Vinnie, what did I tell you?” Marco pulled the girl to her feet. Her sobs were stifled by the material over her head, which had begun to blossom with blood.

  “Oh, they’re going to love this,” Marco snapped. A nearby grunt sniggered. “And you can shut your fucking mouth, too.” He squared up to the grunt. “Unless you want me to tell them that the little virgin they paid a pretty price for was actually deflowered in the car by a prospective member of their gang?”

  The grunt instantly shut up, the color draining from his face.

  “That’s what I thought.” Marco patted the girl down like a mother ironing out the creases to get her child ready for her first day at school. He took the hood off, revealing a disheveled young girl no older than seventeen, her face a mask of blood. Her dark hair clung to her sweaty forehead, and there was a terrified look on her face. “Keep still.”

  Marco produced a tissue from his pockets and cleaned her up, getting rid of as much of the blood as possible. He was gentle, cooing over the girl even though she hissed at the touch of the tissue on her nose. It stopped bleeding pretty quickly, which helped him a lot.

  When he was done, he held her shoulders and took a good look. “There. Good as new.”

  He grinned.

  She did not return the smile.

  “Lucky for me, I’ve brought spares,” Marco told Vinnie. He pulled out another hood, which he placed delicately over her head.

  Vinnie grew impatient. “Can we go now?”

  “Sure thing, pal.” There was a hint of sarcasm in Marco’s voice. “Maybe this time don’t damage the goods, and we can get this done sometime before sunup. How about that?”

  Vinnie’s face grew red.

  They knocked three times on the uppermost door, and a shout from the room gave them permission to enter. Marco grinned back at Vinnie and muttered, “Are you ready for the big leagues, worm?”

  Vinnie simply swallowed and followed him inside.

  Compared to the other rooms that he had passed, this one was actually hospitable.

  There was a four-poster in the far corner. The furniture looked brand-new. Through the smoky haze of the brothers’ cigarettes, he saw a number of comfortable plush chairs dotted around the room, two of which were occupied by the Messino Brothers.

  Eugenio and Carmelo sat back in their chairs, cigars clamped between their teeth. They looked near enough identical with their crisp suits, hair slicked back, and their eyes fixed on the girls. They each sported the kind of chubbiness in their faces that came with the comforts of being well-provided for. The pair hardly needed more cash, but what was life if not for the pleasure of coin and sex?

  Carmelo rose from his chair and stretched out his arms, walking over to Marco and embracing him. He placed a kiss on both his cheeks, then crossed to Vinnie.

  “I knew you could do it, new blood.” Carmelo’s grin was broad. He turned back to his brother. “Didn’t I tell you, Eugenio? Didn’t I tell you I could see his potential?” He wrapped his arm around Vinnie’s shoulder. “This one here, he’s gonna go far, I tell you. He delivers.”

  “Show them to me,” Eugenio ordered flatly, clearly not prepared to share his brother’s enthusiasm until the deed was done.

  Carmelo roughly grabbed Vinnie’s cheeks and kissed the left, then right before sitting down again cheerfully. He crossed his legs and stared greedily at the girls.

  Marco caught Vinnie’s eye, took a breath, and ripped off the girls’ hoods.

  They were pretty, like china dolls plucked straight from a shelf and granted the same wish that had made Pinocchio a real boy. They were near-enough identical, with piercing blue eyes that stood out on their paper-white faces like sapphires on snow.

  Carmelo clapped loudly. “Oh, bravo. Bravo.”

  Vinnie breathed a sigh of relief, his entire body softening. He had feared that the fall on the stairs would screw everything up and risk his chances of making it into the inner circle, but it looked like they hadn’t—

  “Wait.” Eugenio’s voice punctuated the room. His eyes narrowed as he peeled himself out of his seat and crossed to the pair. He scrutinized both girls through slitted eyes, his nostrils widening as he inhaled their scent. He ran a finger across their cheeks, and they shivered beneath his touch. He circled them, taking in every centimeter of their being before returning to the front once more.

  Vinnie and Marco held their breath.

  Eugenio leaned forward and touched his stubby, nicotine-stained fingers to the girl’s nose. He withdrew and examined the small dark drop of blood on his fingertip. “What’s this?”

  His voice was deep, the low growl of a lion.

  Vinnie looked at Marco for help. Marco rolled his eyes. “A minor hiccup, Eugenio. The girl is clumsy; she fell before we could catch her—”

  Before he could finish, Eugenio lashed out and sent a large fist into his cheek.

  Eugenio rocked on his heels, moved over to Vinnie, and delivered a similar blow with his left.

  Pain exploded in Vinnie’s mouth. He tasted copper and felt a tooth come free. His hand found his cheek, and he stayed crouched for fear of a second blow.

  “Perfect condition,” Eugenio uttered, his voice already level. “I asked for perfect condition. Do you know who these two are? They’re the daughters of one of the wealthiest families in all of France. They’ll fetch a price on the market that you could only dream of. Enough cash to make you go blind. You think I can risk this trade by having you break their nose and clot their nostrils with blood?”

  Carmelo leaned forward, unfazed by his brother’s reaction. “In all fairness, brother, her nose doesn’t look broken.”

  Eugenio cocked his head
and held the girl’s cheeks in his hands. He stared at her for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said at last. “You’re right. Still…” He pulled out his gun and aimed it at Vinnie’s chest. “You only get one chance with the Messino brothers, and you fucked it up, new blood.”

  The report was loud, echoing around the apartment like a thunderclap. Vinnie’s hands moved automatically to his chest, a girlish scream coming from his mouth as his eyes screwed shut. He waited for the pain to explode in his chest…

  But no pain came.

  He opened his eyes. Eugenio and Carmelo were now on their feet, alert and listening.

  “What the fuck was that?” Eugenio asked. “I thought you said all our men were armed with silenced pistols?”

  “They are,” Carmelo replied, though he suddenly seemed uncertain. “Every one of them since the East Polar docks in ’52.”