Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  “Glove box.”

  The semi was still hovering below ten miles per hour. Inside the glove compartment was a 9mm Glock with a fully loaded magazine next to it. Brooke loaded the gun and pushed the door open. She aimed the Glock at the two men, who quickly fired at her before she could squeeze a round off.

  Brooke ducked back inside the truck’s cabin. After a lull in gunfire, she swung her torso out and fired six shots. Bullets peppered the sand in front of the two men chasing after them, and they quickly backed off. Brooke slammed the door shut.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” Brooke asked.

  “It’s not a stock car!”

  Gunshots rang out behind them. Bullets thumped into the metal tank, leaking fuel onto the road. The side mirror shattered into jagged shards as the bullets continued to rain down on them. Brooke could still see the figures running after them through the remaining broken glass on the mirror.

  Brooke opened the door again and fired a few more rounds. The wind and sand whipped her face now that the tanker was gaining speed. She pulled the trigger until the thundering boom of gunshots was replaced by the quiet click of the firing pin. She pulled the door shut again. The force caused the rest of the mirror to fall to the ground, and Brooke set the emptied clip and gun on the floorboard.

  “Holy shit!” the trucker said.

  The trucker’s door suddenly opened, and one of the hijackers grabbed him. The hijacker aimed his gun, and Brooke leapt across the seat to intercept him. She grabbed hold of the man’s wrist, shoving the pistol into the ceiling and slamming the hijacker’s hand in the process.

  In the struggle, the trucker’s foot came off the gas, and the semi slowed. Brooke continued to slam the hijacker’s hand into the ceiling until his grip went limp on the pistol. It dropped to the seat, and the moment Brooke aimed it at the hijacker, he jumped from the cabin.

  The trucker slammed his door shut and slammed his foot back on the gas. Brooke checked outside her door and saw the same men from before regaining their ground. She took aim and squeezed the trigger, narrowly missing one of them, and again they backed off.

  “You clear on your side?” Brooke asked, still scanning her side of the tanker.

  “Yeah, I-I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  The trucker nodded, panting. Brooke could see his arms shaking, his knuckles turned white from his tight grip on the steering wheel.

  Brooke clicked the safety back on the pistol she had stolen from the hijacker, and her chest rose and fell as she drew in deep breaths. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. The rapid beats started to slow in pace with her steady breathing. Her skin was coated in a sheen of sweat.

  “Thanks, lady,” the trucker said.

  The tanker made the rest of the trip without incident, although it did take a little longer than expected because they had to take back roads, away from the interstate. A leaking fuel tanker heading down the road was bound to raise some concerns, and Brooke couldn’t risk getting caught by the police.

  Eric, John, and Emily waved enthusiastically as the tanker made its way onto the old desert road they were stuck on. The desert terrain was slowly turning into dried, rocky dirt, which allowed the tanker to make the journey. Brooke stepped down from the semi’s cab and wrapped Emily and John in a hug.

  “Wow, when you get gas. You. Get. Gas,” Eric said, admiring the tanker. When he noticed the shattered side mirror and bullet-sized holes leaking fuel, he raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Brooke said.

  The trucker hooked up the fuel line from the tanker to the cruiser and started pumping. After a few minutes, the pump clicked off, signaling a full tank. Brooke walked over, extending the rest of the cash and the wedding ring. The trucker waved her off.

  “On the house,” the trucker said.

  Brooke stuffed the money back into her pocket and put her ring back on. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Besides, I can just say that all the fuel leaked out on my way to the station,” the trucker said, winking.

  The trucker climbed back into the cabin and returned to his journey to the highway. Brooke, Eric, John, and Emily piled into the cruiser. Brooke checked the map, her finger cutting a path from their location outside of Dallas to north Louisiana.

  Chapter 3

  Beth set her phone down and drew a small X over a town in Pennsylvania. It joined a cluster of other Xs that covered the northeast. A pop sounded in the corner of the room, followed by some light chewing. A few strands of blond hair had escaped Beth’s tight bun, and she rubbed her temples.

  Beth turned back to her computer for the next listing of factory spaces for sale and clicked on a property in Maine. Another pop sounded. Beth winced. She clicked the link, and it expanded into details of the amenities and size of the land. It was big enough but too close to local police authorities. Another pop.

  “Will you stop that?”

  Dr. Carlson was leaned back in a chair with his feet propped up on an ottoman. He peeled away the pink piece of bubblegum that was plastered to his left cheek and stuffed it back into his mouth.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Their small hotel room was starting to feel cramped. Beth didn’t like the fact that she couldn’t go home, and it was compounded by the fact that she was stuck with Dr. Carlson, whose personal habits had given her a strong dislike of the man.

  “Find anything?” Dr. Carlson asked.

  “No,” Beth answered.

  She’d been at it for hours, calling, researching, and trying to find any piece of property that met Dr. Carlson’s needs to continue his work. It seemed the only factories that would have worked had already been seized by the authorities, and each of those places had the familiar fingerprints of Jones all over them.

  “Why don’t we broaden our search?” Dr. Carlson asked.

  “To where? The Northeast is the only place left with any type of solid infrastructure.”

  “What about Canada?”

  “Canada dislikes us almost as much as Mexico right now. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to declare war.”

  “I’m serious. I have some colleagues in Halifax who could help. And I’m sure they’d be more than interested in learning about my designs.”

  “Can you trust them?”

  “Of course. They’re scientists, not politicians.”

  “I’ll bring it up with Smith. Speaking of which, I have to go and meet with him.”

  Beth gathered the papers on the desk and piled them into her briefcase. Before she reached the door, she turned back to Dr. Carlson. “Call your friends. See if they’d be willing to help. Make sure you do it on the cell I gave you. Jake will be by this evening to check on you.” She had one foot out the door before she turned back again. “And I counted the liquor bottles in the minibar.”

  “Thanks, Warden,” Dr. Carlson replied.

  ***

  The cell block buzzed, and Smith’s door opened. He stepped out, a ring of sweat around the collar of his state-issued orange jumpsuit. The correctional officer chained his wrists and ankles. Smith shuffled forward, struggling to keep up with the officer’s pace and tripping a few times. The physical restriction was what made prison the worst. The food was terrible, the crowd was a rough sort, but the limited mobility trumped everything else.

  Fellow inmates, degenerates charged with murder and rape, watched Smith parade down the cellblock. The rumors had spread about the congressman charged with treason, a man from the body of government responsible for writing the very laws each of them were charged with. There wasn’t a single face that Smith passed that wasn’t smiling.

  The correctional officer hit the buzzer. The iron gate rolled along its tracks and opened on a false pretense of freedom into the visitor’s area. Smith’s thoughts had been jumbled over the past twenty-four hours. But earlier this morning, he had finally managed to find his own light at the end of the tunnel. It gave him something to steady himself i
n the raging storm bellowing within. He found it comforting that the shape the light took was Jones.

  Beth was already waiting for him when the officer dragged him into the tiny conference room reserved for inmates and their legal advisors. Smith landed in his chair with a forceful thud from the officer escorting him.

  “That’ll be all, officer,” Beth said.

  While the correctional officer’s grimace was different than those of his orange-jumpsuited peers, that was where the differences ended. Both inmates and guards offered their own unique form of cruelty. The door clicked shut as the officer left. Beth grabbed Smith’s hand.

  “Treason doesn’t make you a lot of friends on either side of the aisle here,” Smith said.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine. Where do we stand?”

  “I found out today that the attorney general will be handling the prosecution himself.”

  “Jones’s doing, no doubt.”

  “It’s a long shot for the charges to stick. I think Jones is just trying to focus attention elsewhere to distract people from the war and exile, and you happen to be a big news story right now.”

  Beth opened one of the manila folders containing the map she had used earlier. Smith flipped the paper over and took in each red X. The map looked like it was bleeding.

  “No luck with finding a suitable location?” Smith asked.

  “No. Any property that would work has already been seized by local authorities. Jones knows we’ll be looking for another spot. He’s giving us the full-court press.”

  Smith slammed his fists against the table. Beth jumped. “Then we press back!” Smith felt like he could pull the chains around his wrists apart. Smokescreens, misdirection, and lies had tangled him in a web, thwarting any action he could take.

  “David, there is another option,” Beth said. “Dr. Carlson mentioned to me that he has colleagues in Canada who would be willing to help.”

  “You want us to take him across the border?”

  “I know it’s a long shot, but I have tried searching for anything that would work, and there is nothing here. We don’t have a lot of other options.”

  Smith closed his eyes. He searched for that light he had found earlier in the day, but his mind was so fogged and cluttered that he didn’t think it was there anymore. He could feel the icy grip of panic. He kept thinking, trying to push forward. What could he do?

  “Where do we stand with Mexico?” Smith asked.

  “The president will be asking for a declaration of war in a few hours.”

  “And it’s a sure bet that Congress will give him what he wants. My trial starts in two days. If we can get Dr. Carlson out by then and into Canada for a head start, we might be able to pull it off. Jones won’t be able to touch the doctor if he’s out of the country. It could work.”

  “You want me to proceed?”

  “Yes. Grant the doctor’s request. And set up a meeting with the Canadian ambassador for the day after my trial.”

  “That’s cutting it close. They could extend the hearings.”

  “You said it yourself: the charges are thin. This is a smear campaign, and when it’s over, we need to be ready to smear back.”

  Beth jotted her notes onto her legal pad then dropped the pen. She kept her head down, rubbing her hands together. “David, there’s something else we need to discuss. Worst-case scenario.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I was speaking with Edwards’s advisor and he has a plan to get him and his family out of the country. It’s going to be expensive, but I can start setting up the accounts and passports for the trip.”

  “Do it. And make sure we have something in place for Daniel.”

  “What? David, Daniel is a part of the reason why you’re here.”

  “It’s not for him. It’s for his family. They didn’t ask for all of this, and I won’t have their innocent blood spilled for my mistakes!”

  Beth exhaled. “Okay. I’ll set it up.”

  Two different correctional officers entered the room. They were larger than Smith’s previous escort. They crossed their arms, muscles rippling from the movement. “Time’s up,” one of them said.

  “I’ll contact you as soon as I know more,” Beth said.

  Beth gathered up her papers and briefcase and walked out the door. Once she was gone, the officer that had spoken unchained Smith’s shackles from the floor. Before Smith could stand, the officer kicked the legs of the chair, causing it to slide from underneath Smith. Unable to brace himself against the fall, he smacked his shoulder on the concrete.

  “Easy, Congressman,” the chair-kicking officer said. “You don’t want to hurt yourself walking around in those chains.”

  “Remember what the warden said. Don’t hit him the face.”

  “Right.”

  The chains scraped across the concrete floor as Smith crawled on his belly to the other end of the room. Each move forward sent a sharp stab into his shoulder. He could hear the officers laughing at his attempts to escape.

  “Where are you going? There aren’t any loopholes to pull you out of this one.”

  The CO drove his heel into Smith’s left hamstring. Smith gritted his teeth, moaning at the impact and strain on his muscles. The CO twisted and dug his heel deeper until Smith could no longer move. Finally he removed it, offering a brief moment of reprieve before the other officer sent the toe of his boot into Smith’s side. Smith curled into himself, his brain diverting signals from his hamstring to his rib cage. Smith placed both palms flat on the floor. His face grew purple from the strain of trying to push himself up, the restraints around his wrists not allowing him to get very far.

  Both COs pulled out their batons. They brought successive blows down on Smith’s back, each thud followed by a cry or scream. The bulky shoulders of each officer rotated to bring more force with each hit. The officers’ exertion caused drops of sweat to join in the barrage against Smith’s back.

  After a few minutes, the noises coming from Smith’s body ceased. Each strike into his bones and flesh was answered with unconscious spasms of pain, Smith’s last piece of evidence signaling that while he might be blacked out, his brain was still alive. At last, one of the officers placed his baton back in his belt.

  “All right. That’s enough,” he said.

  But the other man didn’t stop. He brought the baton down harder, each clout fueled by a grunt of force.

  “Frank, stop,” his partner said, grabbing Frank’s wrist before he could land another hit.

  Frank yanked his wrist out of his partner’s grip and gave one last defiant whack.

  “Jesus, man. We were hired to hurt him, not kill him. Take it easy.”

  Frank hawked some phlegm, and the spit stained the orange spot on Smith’s back with a greenish blob. He put his baton back in his belt, breathing heavily after the assault. The medical ward was called, and Smith was picked up by a few nurses and put on a stretcher.

  ***

  Daniel’s office felt quiet. His suit jacket hung on the back of the chair he was slumped in. He fiddled with the end of his tie, an act that had taken up most of his morning. There were piles of papers on his desk, beckoning to be read, but the half-empty bottle of whiskey hiding in his desk drawer drained any ambition to accomplish it. The familiar knock of his assistant hit the door, and Meghan poked her head inside, as she had done all morning, to check on him.

  “Congressman, I’m heading to lunch. Can I get you anything?” Meghan asked.

  Daniel gently shook his head and waved her off. She smiled politely, the hint of concern still etched on her face. The click of the door’s handle was the only thing Smith seemed to hear. Every once in a while, his eyes would find the windows. It was sunny outside, and despite him keeping the lights off, the office was still warmly illuminated. He could have risen to shut the curtains, but even that seemed like too much of a task.

  The news of Smith’s arrest still lingered in the back of his
mind. And no matter how much liquor he drank to try and drown it out, there it remained. It was Smith’s own fault. That’s what he kept telling himself. Both of them had danced with the devil. Daniel just so happened to have found the beat a little quicker.

  I did it for my family. That was the other voice echoing in his head. That’s what he focused on to help rid himself of Smith’s voice. All he needed to do was make the list of justifications longer than his list of sins.

  There was another knock on his door. Daniel didn’t respond. Another knock.

  “Meghan, I told you I didn’t want anything,” Daniel said.

  The door cracked open, and Daniel straightened himself in the chair when his wife stepped inside. She wore a light sundress with heels. Her cheeks were reddened from the sun outside.