Six of a Kind Pt. 01

"What are you two doing to him?"

I glanced over my shoulder to see the old man across the hall. He had opened his front door just enough to poke his head out. He gave Mike and me a nasty scowl.

"Young fella here just had a few too many," Mike replied cheerfully to my neighbour. "Just helpin' him home."

The old man scowled at us, then slammed his door.

"Think he'll call the cops?" Mike asked as we shuffled down the stairs.

"He has for less," I replied.

"Screw the old codger. We'll be long gone."

One we descended the stairs; I directed Mike to a park bench out the front of my apartment building. Trevor was stirring by the time we lay him down, but he still wasn't conscious.

"Is he gonna be alright?" I asked Mike.

"He'll be right as rain in no time," Mike nodded. "Shouldn't be any brain damage. Although I get the impression he didn't have too many brain cells to begin with."

"Too right," I chuckled.

"Alright then, lad. Get in," Mike nodding towards a car parked in my spot.

A black 1980 Chevy Camaro was parked almost across two spaces, but less how a rich asshole would park and more how someone who pulled in hard and fast. Mike lit another of his cigars before opening the driver's door and stepping in without another word.

I jogged over to the car and peered in through the window. The interior wasn't much to look at. The brown leather seats were worn and faded, and Mike desperately needed to vacuum the floor space and it looked as if he had been sleeping on the back seat.

"Come on," Mike said. "Get in."

I wasn't one to get in a car with strange people, especially ones who seemed as violent and uncaring as this guy was. But if I was being honest with myself, I liked Mike. Plus, I didn't want to be around when Trevor woke up, or when the police arrived.

I opened the creaking door and slumped into the passenger seat. I'd barely had my door closed before the engine roared to life. Mike shifted into reverse and slammed the accelerator. The wheels spun as we rocketed backwards and spun around. A quick shift had us shooting out of the driveway to my apartments and fishtailing on the road, narrowly avoiding another car.

"You can slow down a bit," I said, fumbling at my seatbelt.

"Nah," Mike said. "Where's the fun in that."

The pub that Mike wanted to visit was about a ten-minute drive from my apartment. It was a place I'd visited plenty of times since it was cheap, and I could stumble home afterwards. We made the trip is less than five minutes. Mike swung the Camaro into the parking lot and hit the brakes hard, parking in a 'no stopping' zone beside the back door.

"We can't park here," I said, climbing out of the car.

"I just fuckin' did, didn't I?" Mike replied, taking a pull from a flask he kept in his jacket. "One thing you need to learn in life Richie. I can call you Richie, can't I?"

"No. I fucking hate that name," I replied.

"Fucking too right. It's a shit cunts name and I don't peg you as a shit cunt," Mike grinned. A touch of madness in his eyes. "As I was saying, Rick. You need to learn to take life by the balls and twist the fuck out of it. Only then will you truly be free of the bastard's who will try and control you."

"You're fucking mad," I laughed, shaking my head.

"You'd be surprised how often I hear that," Mike shrugged.

"Hey! Can't you read the sign?!" a man yelled, coming out from the pub. By his clothes I guessed he worked there. "Move your shit box."

"Woah there," Mike said, raising his hands calmly. "No need for the foul language, mate"

"Move your car. You can't park there," the man repeated, a little more respectfully this time.

Mike walked up to the man, and I was half expecting him to knock him out as he had Trevor. Mike came across as explosive and unpredictable. But he simply smiled at the pub employee and reached into his pocket to retrieve a roll of notes. He fished two fifties out and placed them in the employee's front pocket.

"I think that'll cover us for an hour, don't you think?" Mike said in a friendly tone.

"Umm. Yeah, that should be fine," the man replied, obviously shocked. "Yeah, I'll make sure it's okay."

I was as shocked as the employee at Mike's display of generosity. Being so early, there were several empty spots in the parking lot, so it wasn't like we couldn't park in one of them; and his car wasn't in perfect condition so an extra ding or two wouldn't devalue it much. Mike didn't come across as one of those rich, spoilt assholes that threw money around.

"What the hell was that?" I asked Mike as I followed him into the pub through the rear entrance.

"That chap looked like he could use the money," Mike said. "And I'm all about charity."

"Sure you are," I scoffed.

"You think I'm a bit of a cunt, don't ya?" Mike turned to face me, placing a hand against my chest.

"Well, yeah," I replied hesitantly. "You drive like a nut, park wherever you want and when someone confronts you about it you throw money around like some rich asshole. Only, I don't get why. You drive a shit box and dress like a hobo that's down on his luck."

Mike's intense glare made me shift uncomfortably, and for a second I thought I'd gone too far. Then the older man grinned, slapped me on the shoulder, and directed me to the bar.

"Rick, son, you and I are gonna get on just fine," Mike said proudly as he motioned to get the bartenders attention.

"What can I get you two?" the bartender asked. She was a pretty, slim girl with dark hair, pale skin and a pouty, almost bored look on her face.

"Two pints of Guiness, luv," Mike ordered.

Mike paid the girl with a generous tip, and we found a table in the corner to sit and enjoy our beer. The thick, Irish stout wasn't my go-to beer for drinking, but I'd been known to enjoy one every now and then.

"Nothin' better," Mike exclaimed after a long pull form his pint.

So?" I asked after a moment.

"So, what?" Mike asked in returned.

"You gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?" I sighed in frustration. "You show up out of nowhere, knock out one of my friends and take me for a beer like you're my dad trying to make up for a few missed birthdays or some shit."

"Right, business it is," Mike nodded as he fished through his coat for a few seconds before slapping an envelope on the table. "This is for you. You were supposed to get it two days ago, but that knob of a lawyer screwed it up."

"I don't want whatever that is," I said, instinctively pushing back from the table.

"Settle down, lad," Mike said, draining the remainder of his pint before signalling to the bartender for another. "It ain't gonna bite you."

"In my experience, lawyers don't just show up out of the blue with a signed letter when its good news," I replied, eyeing the letter carefully. "Add to that you finding me and I'm properly creeped out."

"You weren't too hard to find, if I'm being honest," Mike shrugged, tipping the bartender once more when she delivered his pint. "You stay away from anything you gotta sign, even paying cash for the shitbox you call a home. But you've been in the system, and the cops seem to have a rock-hard stiffy for you."

"You work with the police?" I asked.

Mike laughed so abruptly that he choked on his mouthful of beer. It was an obnoxious, loud laugh that was sure to set some of the locals against us, if they weren't already.

"My god, fuck no," Mike replied once he finally settled down enough to speak. "I'd rather whack off with a cheese grater than talk to the cunts in blue. No good comes from that lot."

"So, what's all this then?" I said, gesturing to the unopened letter.

"Well fucking open it and find out," Mike said, as if he didn't care one way or the other.

I tentatively reached out as if the paper would strike out and bite me like a pissed off brown snake. The envelope was thick, and felt expensive. A wax seal displaying an unfamiliar coat of arms sealed the envelope like something from Game of Thrones. I turned it over in my hands, examining every inch of it. There was no address printed, no window in the envelope to display information about who the letter was addressed to, and no return address. A singular name was scribed in fancy cursive across the front of the envelope.

Lindholm.

The lettering looked faded, as if it were signed years ago and stashed away. The whole envelope looked aged now that I saw it up close. My hands trembled slightly as I broke the wax seal and carefully retrieved the letter from inside.

The paper inside was equally expensive, feeling more like old parchment. It too was aged, but the condition of the letter was testament to the quality of the paper used as it didn't feel brittle at all.

I let my eyes scan over the letter, noting it was written in the same cursive as the name singed on the front side. Another wax seal marked the bottom of the paper, alongside a fancy signature that I couldn't read. I took a deep breathe, then began from the top.

My Dearest Grandson,

It is with a heavy heart that I write this, knowing that I shall never see you grow into the man you've become. Knowing that you shall never know your mother; my daughter, who I buried only days ago. I don't have much time left myself, even now I am finding the energy to write these letters difficult to muster.

I cannot presume to know how life has fared for you, but know that I have done everything within my power to ensure you have a good life. I may not be there to care for you myself, but I have left your care and future in the hands of my associate and acting CEO, Alexander Pearce. I have entrusted him with the company and your inheritance until your twentieth birthday, ensuring that you are not aware of such an inheritance until you've become a man.

I apologise for such deception, but I have my reasons.

Since I cannot predict two decades from now, I have entrusted the delivery of this letter and further instructions to an old friend. Please listen to whoever hands you this letter; they are there to help and protect you in the coming times. And please, listen to your parents, whomever they may be.

I know this must seem confusing and you will have a lot of questions. Just know that everything will become clear in time.

With love,

Andrew Scott Lindholm,

CEO and Founder of Lindholm International Hotels and Resorts.

I stared at the paper for what must have been twenty minutes, re-reading it again and again, thinking it would change suddenly. I half expected someone to jump out and say I've been pranked. This didn't feel real.

"Alright, what the fuck is this?" I said angrily, slamming the letter down on the table.

"That my Lad, is your future," Mike said, gesturing to the letter. "Whether you like it or not."

"And who are you to me? Why didn't you just say something?" I asked.

"To you? I'm nobody. Just a man hired to do a job," Mike replied. "And I couldn't tell you before you read the letter because I was sworn not to."

"By who?"

"By a lawyer name John Brown," Mike said. "Said his guys couldn't find you, so he entrusted it to me instead since they already lost you once."

"But how do you know what was in the letter?" I asked, unconvinced.

"Because I knew your dear old Grandad. Worked for him for a few years when I got out of the service. Top bloke he was," Mike explained. "I may not be a scientist, but I can put two-and-two together. Plus, you look just like your mum."

"You knew my mother?" I asked, a sudden spike of pain shot through my chest at her mention. I didn't know a single thing about my birth parents. "Are you...my dad?"

"No," Mike shook his head. "I only met your mum in passing when working for your grandad. Never knew her well enough to know who your father was."

"How did she die?" I asked, feeling a little deflated. Deep down I always hoped my parents were out there somewhere, and I'd find them someday.

"Can't say," Mike replied solemnly.

"Can't? or wont?" I accused.

"Won't," Mike said flatly. "Same reason I didn't tell you what was in that letter."

"But why not?" I asked angrily.

"Because, Son. There are bigger wheels in motion here, bigger than you and me and I have to follow the rules, as do you," Mike explained calmly.

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. My hands were still trembling slightly. This didn't seem real. Then I remembered what the letter had said.

"Okay then," I nodded. "What next?"

"Next, we have a plane to catch," Mike grinned.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"The sunny state of Queensland, the Gold Coast."

Chapter 5

"Don't I need a passport or some shit?" I asked Mike as we pulled into the airport parking lot an hour later.

"Not for interstate flights," Mike replied, shutting the engine off. "Haven't you ever been on a plane before?"

"Oh yeah of course I have," I replied sarcastically. "First class for business meetings."

"Don't be a cunt," Mike pointed a finger at me. "Now come one, princess, we have a plane to catch."

I grabbed my backpack from the back seat and slung it over one shoulder. I'd made a quick stop back at my apartment to pack a bag and grab some necessities. Mike had explained that I probably wouldn't be back any time soon, if at all, so I had to make sure I didn't leave anything behind. I didn't exactly have many material possessions that I couldn't carry with me, but I still hadn't wanted to leave stuff I'd work so hard for. XBOX's and TVs weren't cheap for someone like me.

I eventually relented when Mike offered to pay my rent for the next month to reassure me that I wouldn't be losing out on anything if this was all a hoax, which I still suspected it was. A secret inheritance coming out of nowhere sounded like an overused movie plot. Next, they were going to inform me I had an estranged brother or sister out there.

"So, what do you get out of all this?" I asked Mike as we strode through the airport.

"Money, and lots of it," Mike said.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Is that all? Of course it is, mate," Mike scoffed. "I pegged you for someone with some sense. Cunts will say money can't buy happiness, but they're either cunts with too much money, or cunts who are jealous of cunts with money. I plan to be a cunt with loads of money to fix my life's fuck ups and retire before I'm too old to enjoy it myself."

"You say cunt a lot, don't you?" I chuckled.

"That's cos I'm a cunt," Mike smirked.

I hadn't been on a plane before, but I'd spent some time in airports. People who travelled often tended to have plenty of money. It was easy to pick out the ridiculously wealthy among the standard travellers. They usually wore expensive suits and packed relatively light, often in a hurry wherever they went. That was until you reached the millionaire douchebags. They didn't move in a hurry and were regularly sitting in the VIP lounges while awaiting first class or private jets.

Fortunately, airports had so many visitors that I was able to blend in whenever I scoped out a rich target. But their security was far better than most places, making it a tough spot to swipe anything worthwhile. Not to mention the armed police dotted around the terminals ever since the terrorist attacks in the United States.

"Terminals are that way, aren't they?" I asked Mike, pointing over my shoulder.

"Maybe for everybody else," Mike replied without looking back. "Come on, lad. Keep up."

I followed Mike through a secure section of the airport, only it wasn't standard airport security, and no one checked Mike or myself. A few men in khaki pants and black polo shirts nodded to Mike, but none moved to stop him or check identification. Each of the men had an earpiece in, and a pistol holstered on their thigh, and I even saw a couple with rifles. We stepped through a set of double doors next, leading outside. Hard tarmac replaced the smooth, clean tiles as the sun shone overhead. More men dotted the outside area in a wide perimeter, mostly facing outwards.

"What the fuck's going on?" I asked Mike as I jogged to catch up to him.

"It hasn't sunk in yet, has it lad?" Mike grinned.

We stopped at the base of the plane. It was one of those small, personal jets that could seat half a dozen people if you squashed them in. The cabin door was already down, and a young brunette woman stood at the bottom with a wide smile.

"Welcome, please make your way into the cabin and take a seat. We'll begin our departure shortly."

The woman was attractive, but the fake smile she directed my way made my skin itch. No one was that happy.

Once aboard I followed Mike past another woman with a creepy, fake smile on her face, into the main cabin. Four luxurious chairs sat in pairs on either side of the narrow cabin, with a small table between each. Beyond those chairs were a couple of lounges, with a small shelf of bottles and glasses lining a shelf built into the wall at head height.

"Buckle up, sunshine," Mike said, nodding to one of the chairs. "This is home for the next couple hours."

"Whose jet is this?" I asked, picking up one of the expensive whiskey bottles. I didn't even know what was expensive, I just assumed it all was.

"Not a fucking clue. Some rental," Mike replied, shoving past me to pour himself a glass of what smelled like spiced rum. "Want one?"

"So, we're just getting a free ride on a random jet?" I asked. "The letter said you were supposed to know what's going on."

"Look," Mike said with a sigh. "I know where we're going and how we're getting there. But I ain't your nanny or butler. You'll get to ask the next cunt all the questions you want. Now, do you want a fucking drink or not, your highness?"

Mike's shit eating grin and emphasis on 'your highness' told me he was just fucking with me. But I wasn't really in the mood. Even so, I grabbed a glass and held it out for him to pour. Mike smiled widely and slapped me on the back before pouring half a glass of the expensive liquor.

Even though I'd never been on a plane before, I didn't have any fear or problems when it came to take off. The rush of the G-forces from take-off were crazy, but I found myself wanting to feel it again. The feel of being in the air was something i found I enjoyed. Peering out the small windows and seeing the rat-race of Sydney vanish beneath me was freeing and liberating. I'd spent my entire life in that city, with no means to escape it. I had struggled every day of my life and still barely kept my head above water.

"So..." I said, an hour into the flight. "This is legit?"

"It's legit, lad," Mike nodded. "I can't tell you more. But it's legit."

I had somehow inherited something. I wasn't sure if it was straight cash, a business, property or stocks in something. But it was enough of something to warrant a private jet - even if it was a rental - to whisk me away to the Gold Coast. Whatever it was, I'd sell it for whatever I could, and set myself and family up as best I could. Maybe I'd buy a house and see if I could take in my brothers and sisters.

My inheritance letter had been from someone claiming to be my grandfather, and he'd mentioned that my mother, his daughter, had passed away without any further explanation. But he hadn't mentioned anything about my father. I could only assume he was alive and well, somewhere. Was he someone rich and famous and I was on my way to meet him? If so, why had he given me up so easily and left me to the foster care system.

Part of me hoped I was on my way to meet my real father, but the realistic; and pessimistic side of me knew that was a dream. The letter had been written twenty years ago by my dying grandfather. There was a good chance my father was either dead, or didn't know about me.

"You alright, son?" Mike asked.