Layla's Gone (Layla and Lefty Crime Series Book 2)

Book summary

"Layla's Gone" is a gripping thriller by acclaimed author Andy Rausch. After years of a quiet life, hitman Lefty Collins and his daughter Layla are thrust back into a world of danger when a Detroit mob boss kidnaps Layla. Lefty and his former rival Orlando Williams must unite to track down a deadly serial killer, racing against time to save Layla in a high-stakes showdown.

Excerpt from Layla's Gone (Layla and Lefty Crime Series Book 2)

“Has the library given you anymore problems?” Lefty Collins asked his twelve-year-old daughter, Layla. When he said this, he was referring to an incident the previous month when a nosy, busy-body librarian at the public library said she wasn't allowed to check out Chester Himes' Rage in Harlem because it was “too adult.” This had enraged Lefty, and he'd gone to the library to confront the woman.

When he'd asked her where she got off telling his daughter what she could and could not read, the heavyset white woman had done some pearl-clutching. “Why, I, uh…”

“You what?”

“She's not even a teenager yet.”

Lefty raised an eyebrow. “That's none of your business.”

“But she's too young for that kind of material.”

This assessment had made him even angrier. He leaned over the counter, not to be intimidating but to make his point. “Let me ask you a question. Are you her mother?”

The woman stared at him incredulously, her mouth flapping silently. Finally, she whispered, “No, I am not.”

“Well, I am her father,” Lefty snapped. “And I'll have you know that my daughter can read whatever the hell she damn well pleases. She's a smart kid. I assure you, she'll be just fine.”

The woman tried another tack. “Okay then, what do I do if your little girl tries to check out something bawdy, like Tropic of Cancer?”

Lefty grinned. “Then she'll be one Tropic of Cancer-reading twelve-year-old girl.”

The woman looked at him as if he'd slapped her. “Don't you think that's a bit… inappropriate?”

“No, ma'am, I don't. But I'll tell you what I do find inappropriate, and that's you acting like you know what's best for my child. Now, my daughter is out in the car. Here in a moment, she's going to come in and attempt to check out that book again. Now, ma'am, what are you going to do?”

The woman's sagging face turned beet red and she gasped, searching for a response. When she didn't speak, Lefty repeated the question. “Come on, it's not that hard. Now, when she comes in, what are you going to do?”

“Let her check out the book,” she said, looking beaten and deflated.

For the past five years, Lefty had done everything he could to maintain a low-profile. Because of this, they weren't even Lefty and Layla Collins anymore. At least not here, in Oklahoma. Here in Bartlesville, they were Michael and Josslyn Green. But Lefty had broken his vow to keep his head down just this once because he wanted to make a point.

Sitting across the kitchen table, Layla rolled her eyes. “They haven't given me any problems. In fact, the librarian looks at me like she's scared of me. And you've already asked about this half a dozen times.”

“Well, now it's been half a dozen and one,” Lefty said. “I just wanna make sure. If my little girl wants to read Chester Himes, then by God she can read him. She can read whatever the hell she wants. This is America.”

Layla rolled her eyes again. Seeing this, Lefty said, “Just finish your dinner.”

Layla gave him one last look, did a half-shrug, and resumed eating her pizza. Content that the conversation was over, Lefty went back to his food as well. When Layla finished her slice, she looked up. “Daddy?”

“What, Tator Tot?”

Layla flashed him a murderous look. Lefty raised his palms. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I forget.”

Lefty had called her “Tator Tot” since she was a toddler. But now she was a middle schooler—twelve going on twenty-five—and she hated the nickname.

“Anyway,” Lefty said, “what did you need?”

“When can we use our real names again?”

Layla met his gaze with sad eyes, and Lefty understood. The truth was, he was tired of his fake name, too. But they had to use them. It had only been a few years before when Lefty had been a hitman. And a damned good one at that. But he and another hitter named Orlando Williams had left a couple dozen bodies in their wake while on a job in Detroit. Because of this, Lefty, Orlando, and Layla had been forced to assume new identities. They had first tried living in Kansas City, Missouri, but there were too many people there, and too much of a chance they'd be recognized. After that, they'd moved to a small city called Bartlesville, Oklahoma.

So here they were.

Layla looked at him with pleading eyes. “Please, Daddy,” she said, calling him “daddy,” laying it on thick. “I miss being Layla.”

Lefty looked at her sympathetically. “I know. Trust me, I know. I miss being Lefty Collins, too, and I was Lefty Collins a long time before you were anything. But it's too dangerous. There's a video out there of your Uncle Orlando and me doing a bunch of wild shit. If we get caught—”

“You'll go to prison for the rest of your lives,” Layla said knowingly. The video he was referring to was security camera footage of an alley behind an Italian restaurant. In the video, Lefty could be seen walking out of the restaurant, which was filled with dead mobsters. The video also showed him smashing the head of a gangster named Bruno De Lorenzo in a car door. And it showed Orlando shooting a former associate of Lefty's who had attempted to double-cross him. After the police had gotten hold of the footage, someone had leaked it onto the internet. After that, the video had amassed a few million views in a matter of weeks.

The Detroit incident had changed everything for Lefty and Layla. It not only changed their identities and place of residence, but it had forced Lefty and Orlando, who was now Calvin Johnson of Lawrence, Kansas, to ignore their love of Cadillacs. Wanting to avoid doing anything that might remind someone of the men they'd been, they had purchased more common vehicles; Lefty drove an Equinox and Orlando rode a motorcycle.

They'd also changed their appearance. Before all the Detroit shit went down, Lefty had dressed nice, and Orlando had dressed even nicer. But now, Lefty wore t-shirts and jeans, and Orlando had given up pricey tailored suits. Now he wore button-down shirts and slacks. Lefty still wore Nikes, but Orlando had given up his Bruno Maglis in favor of suede slip-ons. Lefty's hair was still short, but now he sported a neatly-trimmed beard. Orlando's head had been shaved bald for decades, but now he had short hair. Also, he stopped wearing glasses and began using contacts. He hated touching his eyeballs, and it had been a hard switch, but he'd managed it.

Life had changed dramatically, and for all intents and purposes, Lefty, Layla, and Orlando were now dead.

“I hate it here,” Layla said.

Lefty looked around. “What? Our house?”

“Oklahoma.”

“Everyone hates Oklahoma, Layla.”

“I wanna go home. Back to Chicago.”

“Tator Tot.”

“What?”

“You were seven when we lived there. You don't even remember Chicago.”

“I do remember Chicago.”

“Maybe you do,” Lefty said. “You know what? I miss Chicago, too. But we can't go back. At least not for a long time.”

Layla looked down at the table, considering this. Then she looked up with fire in her eyes and said, “This is bullshit.”

“Heyyyyyy!” Lefty snapped, surprised to hear her speak to him this way. This was something she'd never done before. “We don't talk that way in this house.”

Layla met his gaze. “You do.”

“Well, you're not me, are you? I'm the adult, not you. But it's not even so much the cursing as the disrespect. You don't talk that way to your elders.”

Layla took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Dad, but…”

“What?”

With tears in her eyes, she said, “You did those things, not me. It's not fair. How come I have to have a different name and live in the middle of nowhere because of something you did? You did it! Not me, you!”

Lefty stared at her. He wasn't angry. He couldn't be, could he? He felt like shit because he knew she was right.

He'd spent all these years feeling guilty that he couldn't tell Layla that she wasn't actually his daughter, that she belonged to a mark he'd been contracted to kill. But now he saw that there was a lot more than that for him to feel bad about.

Looking at her, he said, “I'm sorry, kiddo. You'll understand one day.”

Which was bullshit, because he didn't understand it himself.

Not having any of this, Layla gave him an exaggerated glare to make sure he knew she was angry. She scooted her chair back. “Can I be excused?”

Lefty stared at her, and although he'd already known, he realized more now than ever that Layla was no longer a child. She had grown and matured, and he feared he was losing her. He lied to himself that he'd done the things he'd done for her, so she could have a better life. But that hadn't worked out particularly well.

Now, for the first time, Lefty felt genuinely afraid Layla might grow up to one day hate him as much as he'd hated his father.