Frenzied - A Suspense Thriller Page 8

  “Your heart’s a lot more than that thing beating in your chest, son,” Pops said. Extending his long arm, he poked Deacon in the chest with his gnarled index finger. “That right there, it’s just muscle, blood, tissue, whatever.” Pop clenched his hand into a trembling fist. “Grit ain’t just what’s in your chest. It’s in the spirit, the soul. I should know.”

  Indeed, Pops would know, Deacon thought. His father had served in the Marine Corps during the Vietnam War, had been awarded the Silver Star Medal for gallantry. Upon returning home, he had been an Atlanta cop, just like Deacon, and had retired from the force after a long, historic career.

  “You can do this,” Pops said. “Stop whining and get your ass out there and do what you do. Damn, you’re starting to embarrass me.”

  “What about you?” Deacon said. “You really could leave. I could make arrangements for you to get to Aunt Carol’s.”

  “I was only kidding about leaving. I don’t retreat, ever.” Pops paused. “But I need my piece.”

  A helicopter thumped past. Deacon heard the craft but couldn’t see it from where he sat. He surmised it was either a news media chopper, or the police were rolling out the war machines. Neither was a welcome development.

  His father stared at the sky, squinting. “Shit’s getting real, son. You ready for it?”

  “Born ready.”

  “That’s my boy. Now take me back inside and give me my goddamn gun.”

  He rolled his father back inside. Deacon reluctantly took the Smith & Wesson .38 out of his gun safe and handed it over to his dad. He didn’t know when he would return, and if Pops insisted on staying home, he deserved the ability to defend himself.

  “I’ll keep in touch,” Deacon said.

  “Don’t worry about me. Go out there and get on the grind. You’re wasting time.”

  “Good talk, Pops.” Deacon bent and kissed a shiny bald spot on his father’s head. “I’m on it.”

  Chapter 10

  Alex followed the assassin’s blood trail.

  The droplets of blood led out of his house via the French door that opened onto their deck. The hitman had left a comma of blood on the doorknob; the doors were partly open, admitting waves of the day’s relentless heat.

  Beretta drawn, Alex stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.

  He heard the warble of an ambulance in the distance. The sound brought to mind his wife. Help was coming for someone, but it would have come too late for her. She’d never had a chance.

  Can’t think about that right now.

  He studied the wooden planks underneath his feet. Blood droplets trailed across the pine wood deck and led into the recently trimmed Bermuda grass.

  They didn’t have a fence. The perimeter of their backyard was delineated by a row of shoulder-height, wintergreen boxwood shrubs. Other residences stood on all sides of his house.

  Alex moved to the shrubs directly across from the deck. In one section, the boxwood had been tamped down, branches snapped, and some of the small oval leaves glistened with crimson.

  He briefly considered ending his hunt. Judging by the quantity of blood loss, the assassin was badly wounded, and might bleed out in due time. Alex could cease his search and let the man die, wherever he had wound up.

  The new Alex, the responsible business owner and devoted husband, would have dropped it, would have shied away from any additional bloodshed. But the old Alex, who had spent almost his entire adult life performing cartel dirty work, never would have left such a job incomplete, no matter how unpleasant.

  In his time, he had done far worse than execute a hired killer. Twenty years ago, there had been the old man in Mexicali, a retired cop who had taken it upon himself to disrupt the cartel’s operations in the Mexicali plaza. Alex had personally managed the man’s immersion in a seething vat of sodium hydroxide, while his crew filmed video of the act as a warning for any self-appointed heroes. Sometimes, in the dead of night, Alex still heard the old man’s garbled screams.

  He tightened his grip of the Beretta, his lips drawing into a firm line.

  Old Alex was needed here, as this was all about settling cartel business.

  He threaded his way through the shrubs, which put him in his neighbor’s spacious backyard. His neighbors had a large wooden deck attached to their home, a gas grill sitting on the deck, sunlight shimmering on the stainless steel surface.

  They also had a huge children’s tower playset, fashioned from wood and plastic, standing in the middle of their yard. It stood about fifteen feet high, and the dominant feature was the castle-style tower that included a small elevated clubhouse, the tower capped with a red peaked roof. A green slide stretched from the clubhouse to the grass. A set of monkey bars, a couple of swings, and a fireman pole completed the playset.

  An almost crippling spasm of grief ripped through Alex. He and Melissa had talked of one day purchasing a similar set for their own children. They’d had so many plans for their future. He found it difficult to accept that all of it had been wiped away in a matter of minutes.

  The clubhouse was empty, but Alex’s gaze was drawn to the shadowed niche at the base of the tower. It was a space large enough to accommodate a man.

  Alex noticed a few more droplets of blood on the grass, but he no longer needed to follow them. He crossed the lawn to the playset.

  He found the Bloodhound huddled in the darkness of the tower base. He was still alive. Sitting on the grass, long, thick legs splayed in front of him, he had torn away part of his shirt, and pressed a knot of the fabric against his left eye. The material was mostly soaked through with blood. Copious rivulets of blood streamed from his wounded ear.

  The hitman merely sighed at Alex’s arrival, as if he welcomed the inevitable outcome, an end to his suffering.

  “Your wife . . . blinded me,” he said in a ragged voice. He indicated his ear. “Terrible damage . . . she is . . . la monstruo.”

  Alex could not disagree with the assassin calling his wife a monster. He didn’t understand what had become of her. This day would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  “Have others been dispatched?” Alex asked. “Or is it only you?”

  The hitman grinned at him through his pain, blood on his teeth. Forever defiant.

  “Su destino está en manos de Dios,” Alex said.

  He shot the Bloodhound twice in the head.

  ***

  Alex returned to his dead wife. He knelt next to the sofa on which he had laid her body, dug underneath the blanket covering her, and found her hands. He clasped them, lowering his head.

  Her flesh still retained some warmth, but the cooling process had begun.

  Speaking in a whisper, he prayed. He had been raised Catholic, and though he had forsaken his faith for many years and hadn’t returned to it even after he had left the organization—perhaps he had been too ashamed—he beseeched God with a fervor that he hadn’t known since his youth.

  Guide my footsteps, oh Lord, he prayed. Order my hands to execute your will.

  After some time, alerted by a noise, Alex lifted his head. Rising, he wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He hurried to the door.

  Outside, someone was shooting.

  Chapter 11

  It was a gorgeous day to be out boating on Lake Lanier, but Dr. Hannah Bailey wished she were anywhere but there.

  Early that Friday afternoon, she was stuck on a rented pontoon boat with three of her friends. Well, two of them were her friends. The third guy was her date for the afternoon, a real winner named Craig.

  They had a cooler full of beer and bottled water, and another cooler packed with sandwiches and snacks. A Bluetooth speaker blasted out pop music hits. Right then, a Bruno Mars song was playing, “That’s What I Like.”

  “Call me a traditional kind of guy if you must, okay, but I’ve always believed a woman’s place is in the home,” Craig said. Leaning against the boat rail, he took a swig of his Corona, his third beer in less than an hour. �
��I make enough money as a tax lawyer to comfortably support a wife and a few rug rats. I do quite well, honestly, quite well.” He paused, the lip of the bottle balanced on the edge of his cleft chin. “The truth is, any wife of mine would be happy to stay home, pop out the kids, and take care of my castle.”

  “Pop out the kids, huh?” Hannah asked. “Sort of like a toaster.”

  Craig grinned. He was a physically attractive guy, tall and handsome and well-built. It saddened her, because she knew some unfortunate woman was going to consider his looks, and his career, and eagerly take his bait, in spite of his outdated views on the roles of women.

  “I think we’re really clicking here,” Craig said. “I’m surprised by that, really I am. When Tom told me that his wife had a single friend who was a doctor, I was convinced you’d be smart, but probably butt ugly. Smart chicks are usually homely as hell, and fat.”

  Hannah only stared at him.

  “But you aren’t ugly, and you aren’t fat,” Craig said. He burped, and assessed her from head to toe as if she were a vehicle he was considering for purchase. Hannah wore a green halter top and Bermuda shorts, but in front of this man, she felt as if she were wearing nothing at all. “You’re actually really hot, a total babe. You’ve got a cute face, and your body is like, wow. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Kerry Washington, that black chick from that show, Scandal?”

  That black chick? Seriously?

  “I’ve heard it mentioned before,” Hannah said.

  “You work out a lot, too, I can tell, you’ve got good muscle tone.” Gazing at her bare arms, he nodded. “I approve of that. Any wife of mine would have to stay in shape. It’s mandatory. I don’t care how many babies you have, you’d better stay fit, or it’s out the door you go. But I bet that wouldn’t be a problem with you.”

  “I have career ambitions,” Hannah said. “That’s a serious knock against me, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yeah, you’d have to quit your job, for sure.” He chuckled. “But women don’t really enjoy working anyway. I mean, you guys do it for a while because it’s sort of expected, but deep down, you want a man to take care of you so you can stay home and have babies. It’s in your genes. Admit it!”

  “You understand women so well,” Hannah said. “It’s truly amazing.”

  “Isn’t it?” He laughed. “Wow, we’re really connecting here. This is awesome.”

  “Excuse me.” Hannah caught the eye of her girlfriend on the other side of the boat. “I’ll be back.”

  As she walked away, Craig whistled. Jesus, what a creep. Hannah tapped Ashley’s shoulder and peeled her friend away from Tom.

  “Girl talk time,” Hannah said with a sweet smile. Tom shrugged and ambled over to Craig.

  Once Tom and Craig were out of earshot, Hannah’s smile faded away.

  “Uh oh,” Ashley said. “I know that look.”

  “How soon until we dock?” Hannah said. “Because every molecule in my body wants to strangle this guy.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Ashley asked. “Tom said he was a good guy. He seems decent.”

  “Where do I start? He’s offended me so many times I don’t know where to begin. He did say I’d have to quit my job when I marry him because apparently women don’t actually want to work.”

  “Gosh, I’m so sorry.” Ashley’s face reddened, and she glanced at her iPhone. “We’ve got another hour or so before we have to turn the boat in.”

  “Ash, I’d rather get a colonoscopy than speak to him again.”

  “Ouch. Sounds like I totally blew this one.”

  “At least it’s a nice day to be out on the water.” Hannah gazed at the sun rays reflected off the rippling lake. “I seriously needed some R&R.”

  Hannah was employed as an Epidemic Intelligence Services Officer for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Or, as people in her role were commonly known in popular culture: a “disease detective.” It was a two-year fellowship, and she was nearing the end of her second year in the program. Her responsibility was to literally serve on the front lines of investigating a potential public health crisis. During her fellowship, her work had taken her across the globe: Brazil, Ethiopia, Nigeria, and Mexico were just a few of the spots she had visited.

  It was exciting, vitally important work, but she had to keep her bag packed virtually at all times. At a moment’s notice, she could be summoned to travel halfway across the globe. Needless to say, her career left no time for a full social life.

  “All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl,” Ashley said. “That’s what my mom used to tell me, anyway.”

  “Mine, too, in so many words. I’m about three years behind in my duty to deliver her some grand babies.”

  Hannah was thirty-three years old. Her dad didn’t want her to rush into marriage and children, wanted her to wait until she was in a place where she was ready for those life-changing decisions, but her mom, a die-hard traditionalist, kept pressing her to “move on to the next stage” of her life. It was tough to convince her mom that she actually loved her current stage and was in no hurry to move on to anything else.

  She had only agreed to meet this Craig character because some of her longtime college friends, like Ashley, insisted on hooking her up with men. She was in no rush to find a husband, or even a committed boyfriend. She didn’t mind having companions—guys to occasionally meet for dinner, a movie, or some other interesting activity—but in her mother’s opinion, such behavior would invariably lead to Hannah’s becoming an old childless spinster, living out the balance of her days in misery with a houseful of cats.

  Hannah glanced at Craig. He was drawing yet another beer out of the cooler. He winked at her.

  Ugh, she thought. Lord, rescue me, please.

  On cue, her cell phone—her work cell phone—chirped in her purse.

  Hannah’s heart rate accelerated. If someone was calling on her day off, that meant something important was going on.

  “Is that your job?” Ashley asked, lips puckered in a sour expression.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” Hannah pulled the phone out of her purse.

  It was her boss, CDC Director Dr. Ross Klein. His voice was grim, as always.

  “Hannah, we have a situation.”

  Chapter 12

  Drawn by the sound of gunfire, Alex carefully moved outside his house.

  Someone else, a safety-minded resident with a family to protect, might have remained inside their home, closed the blinds and hunkered down to avoid notice. But Alex’s wife was dead, ravaged by some bizarre sickness, and he had just killed a man with two shots to the head.

  He had no reason to play it safe.

  He had nothing at all to live for any more. His meticulously prepared Escape Plan was meaningless without Melissa at his side. Why not wade into whatever mess was going on, mix it up and get his hands dirty? Perhaps he’d be fortunate and get killed in the fracas—and spare himself the agony of trying to figure out what to do next with his life.

  It didn’t really matter anymore.

  Beretta at his side, he crept behind the shrubbery in their flower bed. Concealed in cover, he surveyed the street.

  A black Ford F-150 was angled across the middle of the road. A leathery-faced man that Alex didn’t recognize had taken shelter on the side of the truck, shoulder leaning against the front tire. He wore a black cowboy hat adorned with a red feather. He appeared to be holding a rifle.

  One of the truck’s rear tires was flat, Alex noticed. He wondered if the flat had anything to do with the shots he’d heard.

  Another burst of gunfire rang out and pinged against the pickup’s side panel. Alex looked back and forth along the street, and spotted the source of the gunshots: another man, perhaps in his forties, dressed in military fatigues. The soldier walked along the middle of the road. He carried a rifle, too.

  “Al Qaeda . . . fuckin’ insurgents . . . kill!” the soldier shouted. “All . . . kill ‘em!”

 
What the hell is going on? Alex wondered. Has everyone here lost their minds?

  He felt as though he had dropped acid and spun away on a bad trip, and it had started with the Bloodhound appearing in his yogurt shop. Nothing that had happened since then had made any sense whatsoever, and he wanted to know when he would awaken back into his predictably normal life.

  “Insurgents . . . go get ‘em, boys!” the soldier screamed. “Ah yeah!”

  Alex couldn’t know for sure who was the aggressor in this situation, the cowboy sheltered behind the truck or the soldier, but his money was on the soldier. The guy’s incoherent shouts brought to mind Melissa’s nonsensical rant about dirty hair.

  The soldier fired again, and the pickup’s passenger-side window shattered. Glass tinkled to the pavement with a sound like discordant music.

  “Smell insurgents!” the soldier said. “Smell ‘em!”

  Alex estimated that the soldier was within twenty feet of the truck. The cowboy remained hunkered down in cover, waiting for something, maybe for the guy to deplete his ammo, or for the opportunity to take him by surprise.

  Alex’s heart knocked. What he was about to do was reckless. But his nerves jangled with anticipation.

  He holstered his gun.

  He sucked in a breath, and burst from behind the shrubs and ran pell-mell toward the soldier.

  As he drew closer to the man, he saw the inflammation around his eyes, the swollen lesions marring his face. Those were the same symptoms that had marked his wife, and in the back of his mind, Alex realized there was a bigger problem roaring through their community, but he’d seen no one there to help, just ordinary people out here killing one another, and it was up to people like him to take matters into their own hands to restore order.

  The guy was focused on his quarry hiding behind the pickup truck, and he didn’t notice Alex in his peripheral vision until Alex was upon him.

  Leading with his shoulder, Alex smashed into the soldier at full speed, and to an onlooker, it would have looked like a football game in which the quarterback was blindsided by a crafty defensive end. The hit lifted the soldier off his feet, his head snapping back from the force of the impact. A soft “uhhh” escaped him. The rifle popped out of his grasp.