Dangerous Business

  Blue Moon Boston - Book 8

  Justin Herzog , Steve Higgs

  Text Copyright © 2026 Justin Herzog & Steven J Higgs

  Publisher: Steve Higgs

  The right of Justin Herzog and Steve Higgs to be identified as authors of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved.

  The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ‘Dangerous Business’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Social Civility. Tuesday, August 4th 1700hrs.

  2. The Enchanted Grove. Wednesday, August 5th 2010hrs.

  3. Home Sweet Home. Wednesday, August 5th 2355hrs.

  4. Where the Ring Wraiths Roam. Thursday, August 6th 0645hrs.

  5. Closer than You Know. Thursday, August 6th 0730hrs.

  6. Road to Winthrop. Thursday, August 6th 0755hrs.

  7. Afflicted. Thursday, August 6th 0830hrs.

  8. The Shooter. Thursday, August 6th 0835hrs.

  9. The Doctor Will See You Now. Thursday, August 6th 0940hrs.

  10. A Man of War. Thursday, August 6th 1115hrs.

  11. A Love of All That Is Shiny. Thursday, August 6th 1227hrs.

  12. Flight to the Charles. Thursday, August 6th 1305hrs.

  13. Sailing Away. Thursday, August 6th 1332hrs.

  14. The All-Seeing Eye. Thursday, August 6th 1400hrs.

  15. The Esoteric Literary Order of Cthulhu. Thursday, August 6th 1430hrs.

  16. The Path Ahead. Thursday, August 6th 1500hrs.

  17. Friends in Low Places. Thursday, August 6th 1845hrs.

  18. Legal Obligations. Thursday, August 6th 2130hrs.

  19. The Plan. Thursday, August 6th 2145hrs.

  20. The Arnold Arboretum. Friday, August 7th 0415hrs.

  21. The White Oak. Friday, August 7th 0705hrs.

  22. Retreat and Regroup. Friday, August 7th 0930hrs.

  23. Countdown to Zero. Friday, August 7th 1040hrs.

  24. Secrets Among Friends. Friday, August 7th 2100hrs.

  25. Road to The Door. Friday, August 7th 2145hrs.

  26. Into The Tower. Saturday, August 8th 0029hrs.

  27. Ascending the Tower. Saturday, August 8th 0048hrs.

  28. Traitor to the Cause. Saturday, August 8th 0112hrs.

  29. The Top of the Tower. Saturday, August 8th 0127hrs.

  30. Journey’s End. Sunday, August 9th 0800hrs.

  31. Author’s Note

  32. What's Next in the Series?

  33. Free Books and More

  Social Civility. Tuesday, August 4th 1700hrs.

  If there was one thing Wilhelm Weaver couldn’t abide, it was uninvited guests.

  He was a firm believer in social civility, a fierce defender of the accords governing behavior between hosts and visitors. Better to arrive late than early, to leave too soon rather than too late, and under no circumstances to appear unannounced.

  A quick glance back through the rear-view mirror revealed the dark sedan following in the distance. It was far enough back that he couldn’t make out the driver, nor any distinguishing feature of the vehicle, save for the minute tilt in the passenger’s side headlight.

  It was a slight defect, something that would have gone unnoticed by the majority of the population, but not by him. Wilhelm had always possessed a keen eye for symmetry and detail.

  As a child, he’d warred furiously with his parents regarding their living room décor. No sooner would they turn their backs than he would begin rearranging the furniture, adjusting for the angles and trying desperately to tear down the rose-colored drapes that clashed so sharply with the rest of the room.

  Their battles were, for the most part, silent affairs, although on more than one occasion his parents had returned from dinner or the theater to find the entire house rearranged. Rather than be grateful, however, they’d rebuked him with their tight-lipped expressions before ordering the nannies to see him to bed. Come morning, Wilhelm would emerge to find all his beautiful work undone, the rooms returned to their former disarray. It was enough to drive a young man mad.

  Several years into their conflict, he’d succumbed to a particularly violent impulse and taken the scissors to the drapes, convinced that his parents would have no choice but to replace them once they lay in ruins. Rather than concede defeat, however, they’d sent him away to a mosquito-filled summer camp run by neanderthals and ne’er-do-wells.

  A miserable twelve weeks followed, but he’d endured, bolstered by the knowledge that his parents, for all their silent rage, now had no choice but to accept the demise of those awful drapes. His victory was bittersweet, however, when he returned to find the drapes reborn, hanging smugly from the same rods he’d ripped free of the drywall.

  It was a shattering blow, to be sure, but he’d consoled himself with the knowledge that they were not the original drapes, merely imposters brought in to take their place. It proved a hollow point, for the faux drapes burned his eyes with every glance as surely as their original counterparts.

  If his parents hoped the threat of another summer camp, or even boarding school, would cause Wilhelm to relent, then they were sorely mistaken. He’d pulled himself from his melancholy and redoubled his efforts, sacrificing sleep and study to sneak downstairs during the night to rearrange their belongings. He’d begun with the furniture, and when his parents failed to make mention of the changes, he’d moved on to the kitchen, followed by the pantry. Afterward, he’d begun curating their collections of books and magazines, a task that proved more time consuming than expected, especially after he’d stumbled upon his father’s private collection.

  Whatever minor curiosity he’d harbored toward the opposite sex had died then and there, swiftly tossed into the street along with said collection. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have bagged them and ensured they disappeared quietly along with the rest of the trash he deemed unsuitable. Alas, he was a young man, still given to impulse, and his revulsion was such that he needed them out of the house that very instant.

  To say his father was angry would have been an understatement. Both his parents wavered between mortified and enraged, especially after learning that some of the early risers within the neighborhood had seen fit to help themselves to the more valuable or alluring pieces within his collection. Wilhelm had nearly caught his death in the aftermath, his father’s temper leaving him bruised from head to toe. Once his rage cooled, however, his father’s spirit lay shattered, and he’d swiftly abandoned their conflict, his unconditional surrender leaving his mother with no choice but to follow suit.

  From that day on, Wilhelm became the true master of the house. Entrusted entirely with the interior furnishings, not a single item passed through the doors or remained for long that he did not find pleasing. He curated every room to his liking, neglecting neither the artwork nor the meager flower garden outside. Even the menus presented by the private chefs his father employed did not escape his scrutiny.

  Having at last achieved supremacy, Wilhelm discovered that he could not tolerate the presence of any unknown persons inside the house. Particularly those who might accidentally spill their coffee atop his chairs or casually dust crumbs from their fingers onto his rugs. To his mind, only those of the highest acumen, men and women of such significant achievements and intellect that their conversation would allow him to overlook such slights, were to be permitted. And should his parents lack acquaintance with such, then there were to be no guests at all, a notion which did not disturb Wilhelm in the least.

  As the years passed, his grip on their household tightened. In recompense for his father’s submission, he allowed him a single safe in his office for his personal items. His mother, however, was afforded no such luxuries. He mercilessly curtailed her shoes, clothing, and jewelry, sparing not a single item regardless of sentimental value.

  At first, he simply sought to throw away those belongings that did not meet his standards, convinced that their absence would serve as payment enough, but his mother convinced him to allow her to sell them. He agreed, provided she did so swiftly and kept them hidden from sight in the time between sale and shipping. And, of course, that she agreed to place half the revenue into an account in his name, designed to cover the educational expenses he would one day incur.

  It had seemed, at the time of his acceptance into Harvard, an adequate sum if not a grand one, but times had changed, and the rising costs of living had far outpaced that of his university salary, until the difference eventually forced him into the very role that he so loathed.

  That of an uninvited guest.

  The turnoff came quicker than he expected, appe
aring as a rough-cut dirt road hardly worth the name. He was miles outside the city. Far too many. The distance burned in his chest.

  Tiny rocks lay scattered across the dirt road’s surface, catching hold of the tires and hurling themselves up to ricochet against the underside of his vehicle. Had he owned the car in question, their pinging procession would have proved too much for him to continue. Thankfully, the car was a rental, a necessity since he’d long since forgone ownership of such a luxury. Automobiles were considered redundant since all he needed in life could easily be found within the city proper.

  Despite the lack of ownership, the rock’s metallic chorus set his teeth on edge as he rounded the bend, coming within sight of the three-story colonial house sitting atop a low-rise hill surrounded by half an acre of neatly manicured lawn.

  The house was pale cream with white columns in the front and olive-green shingles atop the roof. Had it been located within the city, it would have commanded a fetching price. Out here though, far from civilization, it had been purchased for little more than a pittance, or so he told himself. The fact that he could no more have afforded such a house, regardless of whether it was located across the New Hampshire state line or within the city of Boston, did not once enter Wilhelm’s mind.

  A wrought-iron fence painted the same shade as the roof stood at the property’s entrance, its arms open wide to the world. Wilhelm considered swerving, imagined running the edge of the vehicle alongside the iron edge, causing mutual harm to both, but it was a fleeting impulse and quickly squashed. Like it or not, there were rules to be observed. Rules regarding decency and decorum of guests and hosts. Even uninvited ones, such as him.

  He rounded the circular driveway and parked near the front door before exiting the vehicle and making his way up the narrow, paved path. He rang the doorbell, then hastily wiped his hand on his vest, keenly aware of the dust staining the tip of his finger. Several long seconds passed before the lock turned, and the door swung open to reveal a woman with soft brown hair and light blue eyes the color of a spring sky.

  “Hello, June,” Wilhelm said, forcing his mouth apart into a smile.

  “Wilhelm.” June Greenhill was twenty years younger than her husband, still lovely as she approached the end of her forties. “What an unexpected surprise.”

  Unexpected, and not necessarily welcome, Wilhelm thought, but didn’t say aloud. “Is Cyprus home?”

  He thought she hesitated, a brief premonition of the doom soon to befall them flashing across her eyes, but it must have been his imagination, because her smile never wavered as she motioned him inside. “Of course. He’s in his study. It’s right this way.”

  She closed and locked the door before motioning him to follow. “We were just speaking about you the other day.”

  Wilhelm raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Of course. About all our university friends. Cyprus might not admit it, but I can tell he misses it. The students, as well as the faculty.”

  Wilhelm made an acknowledging sound, keenly aware that he and Cyprus had been, at best, acquaintances, and certainly never friends.

  To further the point, Wilhelm had not seen his predecessor since the night of his retirement ceremony, when all the heads of the various university departments had gathered together and raised their glasses in salute to his predecessor’s career. Wilhelm had toasted alongside the others, although he’d disposed of the cheap champagne they’d provided, and filled his own glass with pilfered Veuve Clicquot from France, a much finer vintage worthy of a special occasion.

  June led them through the foyer and along the outskirts of the kitchen, where Wilhelm found his senses suddenly assaulted. The smells coming from the stove were of such a base, pedestrian nature that they soured his stomach immediately.

  The prospect of one day fleeing the city and living out here, absent such luxuries as shaved alba white truffles for his eggs, fattened goose liver pâté for his lunch, and soft cut strips of Iberico ham washed down with a glass of Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon, made him want to scream and tear the hair from his head. The sudden urge to turn around and make a beeline toward the front door came fast and strong, but he clenched his jaw and forced his feet to continue on.

  June drew to a halt outside a closed door, and this time there was no mistaking her hesitation. Some unseen force whispered a warning in her ear, but she was a woman unaccustomed to danger or violence and couldn’t recognize the language in which it spoke.

  “Right through there,” she said at last. “I’ll leave you two alone to catch up. I was just getting supper going, but can I offer you a coffee?”

  Wilhelm would have rather drunk rat piss straight from the source, but he kept his fake smile plastered as he reluctantly declined. “I shouldn’t bother him for long. Just a small matter in which I hoped to seek his opinion.”

  June nodded and offered a small, sickly smile before turning and retreating back down the hallway. Wilhelm watched her go, then turned and entered the room without knocking.

  Cyprus Greenhill sat at his desk, surrounded by shelves of leather-bound books and a lifetime’s worth of collectibles. Framed degrees hung from the wall, along with a couple of artworks from the early eighteen hundreds that, if Wilhelm was forced to admit under duress, he wouldn’t have minded having for his own.

  “Wilhelm,” he said, and started to rise. “Isn’t this a—”

  “Shove it, you stuffy old troll.” Wilhelm caught him by the shoulder, then forced him back into the chair. “You’re no happier to see me than I am to be here. So don’t pretend otherwise.”

  “I-I don’t understand,” Cyprus said. “What do you—?”

  Wilhelm seized a second chair and dragged it across the hardwood so he could sit facing Cyprus. “We both know why I’m here. I’ve let you play your little game, but time is up. Give it to me.”

  Cyprus blanched and licked his lips. “Wilhelm, this is most unbecoming of a man of your position. Why not take a moment to reconsider? Let’s talk about this.”

  “I’ve sat through enough of your convoluted lectures for one lifetime. Give it to me.”

  “Wilhelm, listen to yourself. Can’t you see? It’s just a story. That’s all it ever was. A silly little game we played among ourselves.” His shoulders dropped. “We never meant for you to feel left out. I suppose we should have been more considerate, but back then—”

  Wilhelm stood suddenly, seized the desk lamp, and yanked its cord from the wall. As far as melee weapons went, it left much to be desired, but for his purposes, he was confident it would suffice. “You were saying?”

  Cyprus froze, and then his eyes flashed left. Wilhelm turned and followed his gaze into the closet, noting the fireproof safe. It was roughly the size of a microwave, and Wilhelm ventured he could have carried it out if need be. An alarming realization, considering what he knew lay inside.

  “Open it.”

  “I don’t have the code.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. I’ll swear it on the Bible.”

  “You’ll swear it on your life,” Wilhelm said.

  “Please—”

  “Open it, or I will smash your kneecaps into powder.” Wilhelm brought the lamp up, touching the tip to Cyprus’s legs. “First one, then the other. Then I’ll make my way into the kitchen and do the same to June.”

  “Wilhelm—”

  “Afterward, I’ll drag her inside this room, and from there, I’ll let you use your imagination.”

  Cyprus stared at him, fear and anger causing his lips to quiver. He looked as if he wished to say more, but the expression on Wilhelm’s face must have convinced him that any argument he might offer up would only be ignored. Trembling, he rose and made his way to the safe, punching in the numbers before hesitating.

  “You have to understand, this isn’t—”

  Wilhelm struck him high up on the side of the head, the corner of the lamp impacting against his skull with a wet thud. Blood splattered along the far wall and across Wilhelm’s face, the warm droplets stinging his skin as Cyprus collapsed. Wilhelm waited a moment to see if he would rise, but when he didn’t, he kicked his feet aside and stepped over to the safe.

  Wilhelm had made a study of Cyprus, and he liked to think he knew, if not everything about the man, enough to anticipate his actions. He was also intimately familiar with his closest family, including his nephew, whose date of birth coincided with the first four digits of the safe code. He inputted the final two numbers and was rewarded with a flash of green before the safe door clicked open.