Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  Martinez kicked up dirt as he hit the ground, skidding on his side, rushing to take cover. A cloud of dust floated above the rocks, and that was all the paranoid men needed to leap into action. The two cowboys fled like the wind toward the station wagon without turning back.

  They shouted out in a stream of unintelligible panic—not in English or Spanish but something else. Feeling emboldened, Martinez launched himself up from behind the rocks and shouted, “Freeze!” But the cowboys were already in their vehicle and peeling out as their two counterparts at the truck swung around, confused and startled.

  “Hands up!” Martinez demanded.

  The station wagon’s engine roared as it tires squealed away, billowing dust and exhaust in the air like a trailing smokestack.

  Martinez stood fast, pistol aimed, and shouted at the remaining two men, ordering them to comply. Angela rose from her position and aimed, but they appeared too far away and out of range—at least for the precision required for a wounding shot.

  The men looked at each other with their hands still at their sides, hesitant but not ready to throw in the towel. One had a large forehead with receding hairline, while the other had long curly locks to his shoulder.

  “I’m not saying it again!” Martinez shouted. His voice was hoarse. He sounded exhausted. The men must have thought so too. They went for their pistols. Martinez fired a shot, starting Angela. It struck the shoulder of the balding man and sent him slamming into the back of the truck. His friend drew his pistol and immediately started firing back. The loud, echoing shots sent Angela diving for cover.

  She got a mouthful of sand as her chest hit the hard ground. More shots were fired from beyond her mound—Martinez returning fire. She pushed herself up, ready to engage. The men were shouting in loud, angry tones. The balding man who had taken it in the shoulder had his gun out, firing at random all over the place.

  Martinez took cover as Angela crawled closer to him. She didn’t see the other man, the one with the curly locks, but when she reached Martinez, she could see a body lying next to the truck on his back.

  “I got one of them,” Martinez said. “Right through the head.” He didn’t sound proud of it. His face was pale and worry-stricken as though he knew they had taken their pursuit too far.

  The remaining man was undeterred. He rushed toward them, firing his pistol, hitting the ground near them. A chunk of rock flew up and hit Angela in the cheek. Martinez looked stunned, too disoriented to move. And it was at that point that Angela knew she had to make a quick decision.

  She jumped up as the shots coming at them ceased, only to see the man quickly gaining on them. She raised her pistol, aiming steadily, and fired a shot into his chest.

  The man flew back and flopped onto the ground. His pistol lay just out of arm’s reach. His body was still. The echo of Angela’s shot echoed in the air as sirens wailed in the distance. Martinez was on his knees, staring at the ground. Angela knelt down and examined his worry-stricken face.

  “Are you okay?”

  He snapped out of his daze. “Yeah,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Why didn’t they listen? I-I didn’t want to shoot them.”

  “You had to,” she said, placing a reassuring hand over his left shoulder badge.

  “I know.” He paused to get on his feet, and Angela helped him up. “They didn’t listen. What language were they speaking?”

  “It sounded Arabic,” Angela said.

  He flashed her a surprised glance and wiped away the sweat building on his forehead. “You think? I mean, I didn’t understand a word.”

  At the same moment, they both looked ahead and surveyed the two motionless bodies in the distance. “Are these our drug runners?” Angela asked.

  “I hope so,” Martinez said in an anxious tone, his hand still clutching his pistol. The sirens were getting louder. Angela turned her radio on and was met with cross-chatter demanding their status. It sounded like a combination of Dawson’s voice and their patrol chief’s.

  “Better check it out before the cavalry gets here,” Martinez said, signaling to the box truck under the trees.

  Angela agreed and followed Martinez as he walked toward the truck with his pistol aimed. There was no sense in letting their guard down now. Anything was possible along the southern border. Angela held the radio up and reported the incident the best she could.

  “Shots fired… Both assailants down.

  Radio static was followed by an angry voice shouting. “What the hell happened out there?”

  It was the voice of Border Patrol Chief Milton Drake. He was gruff as they came, and he went completely by the book. Angela had managed to make it a year without getting on his bad side, though she had the feeling that those days were over. They’d have to come up with one heck of a story to explain themselves.

  Martinez walked slowly past the curly-haired shooter’s body, lying on the ground in a contorted pose. She could see shells in the dirt leading up to the place where he lay. Thunder rumbled in the graying sky—perfect timing.

  She walked past the man and couldn’t help but look at his face. The back of his head was buried in the sand. His eyes were open and his mouth agape, with a stream of blood trailing down his chin. His chest revealed a puckered hole in the center with blood soaking his shirt around it. She’d never seen a body so freshly dead and couldn’t help but stop to look at him, her mind filled with questions and sadness too.

  “Am I talking to myself here?” the chief’s voice said on the radio. “Agent Gannon, what the hell happened out there?”

  She raised the radio to her mouth sighing. Martinez was already at the truck, circling it with his pistol aimed.

  “During line watch, we intercepted an unlicensed vehicle, sir. When we approached the vehicle, the driver and passenger fired at us.”

  “And where is this vehicle now?” Chief Drake asked.

  “Near Graffiti Junction,” Angela answered.

  The name came from an area where Mexican gangs often tagged their surroundings after illegally crossing the border into America. She could see some of their spray-paint markings on the rocks around them, noticing them for the first time since they arrived on the scene.

  “You two stay put,” Chief Drake said with finality. “Don’t make another move.”

  “Yes, sir,” Angela said. She holstered her radio and jogged over to Martinez, who had just finished searching the area.

  “I don’t see anyone else,” he said.

  “What about the station wagon?” Angela asked, catching her breath.

  Martinez looked around. “What about it?”

  “We have to find them. Have the police issue an APB on it or something.” It was an older-model Lincoln with wood paneling, at least twenty years old. It shouldn’t be too hard to find, but Martinez seemed disinterested. He walked to the rear of the truck and placed his hand on the latch.

  “The chief said for us to stay put,” Angela said.

  Martinez looked down at his legs and then to her. “Does it look like I’m going anywhere?”

  With that, he unlatched the door and pulled it open with little effort. Martinez was eager to see inside, past the darkness. Angela walked closer, peeking in. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, but saw nothing inside. The cargo bed was completely empty. Martinez stared in with a look of disbelief.

  “What is this shit?” he said under his breath.

  The fifteen foot cargo bed was startling empty.

  “Maybe the station wagon had the narcotics,” Angela suggested, trying to get Martinez back on track.

  He took a step back and rubbed his head. The first shooter’s body lay only a few feet away from them with a hole in the side of his big forehead. Blood spatter had hit the side of the truck next to the indentation made by one of Martinez’s first shots.

  As he walked away from the truck, in deep thought, Angela wanted to pull him aside and ask what the plan was. She wanted to ask why he had been so determined to approach the men without
backup. Now was not the time for him to grow aloof. They needed each other more than ever.

  “Should we work on our story?” she asked, walking toward him.

  “We tell them the truth,” he said, turning away from her.

  “The truth?” Angela said, confused. “The truth is that we left our post and pursued this truck without backup. You have years under your belt, sir. What’s going to happen to me, a rookie?”

  Martinez pivoted around, extending an arm toward her. His pistol was finally holstered. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Agent Gannon. This was my call, and I’ll take responsibility.”

  His words were comforting, but it didn’t make her feel better about the situation. In clear view now, she could see a line of Border Patrol vehicles speeding down the dirt road beyond the valley, approaching them with their lights rapidly flashing. The cavalry had indeed arrived.

  Taking a closer look at the first shooter’s body, Angela could see that he was distinctively Middle Eastern. His clothes were plain and baggy, and he was wearing sandals.

  Martinez walked away from the truck and toward the line of patrol vehicles tearing off the road and traveling toward them—five in all. Before anyone arrived, Angela crouched beside the man and felt his pants pocket for a wallet or ID. There was nothing.

  His still hand clutched a 9mm Glock pistol. Clues were bound to be found somewhere. As Angela stood up and surveyed the empty truck, she was almost certain that the station wagon was the real vehicle they wanted. Only it was the one vehicle that had wisely gotten away.

  Dawson’s white Ford Crown Victoria led the pack as he slowed to a halt with top sirens flashing wildly but silent. A large cloud of dust covered the area like a blanket, causing Angela to cough. So little was known of why she and Martinez were there and what happened. She hoped that he’d do most of the talking. Doug would be upset with her, and she pondered how much to tell him about the incident at the end of the day.

  Chief Drake exited the second vehicle, another white Tahoe, slamming the door. Other agents soon followed. He went immediately to Martinez, who was already busy explaining himself. Drake’s slightly wrinkled face was red with anger. His thinning and short gray hair blew to one side in a gust of wind from the approaching storm.

  Dawson walked toward the truck where Angela stood with Captain Reynolds, a female agent from the K-9 unit. Rex, her K-9, hurriedly moved along as she held his leash. Angela approached them, hoping to bypass their questions and just link up with Martinez instead. Dawson, it seemed, wouldn’t have any of it.

  “Are you okay?” he asked first, observing the body on the ground behind her with widened eyes.

  “I’m fine,” Angela responded while wiping dirt from her face.

  “I hope sure so. What have you guys gotten yourselves into?”

  Dawson was nearly Angela’s age, and had a goofy overbite and short hair parted in the middle. Everyone at the station called him “kid,” a term he resented at times. Captain Reynolds was a slightly older redhead with freckles, blue eyes, and a mouth that seemed set in a perpetual straight line.

  “Looks like a real mess,” she said to Angela, surveying the scene. Her K-9 darted toward the man’s body only to be jerked back.

  Angela nodded at their comments and then pointed to the road. “Their friends got away in a station wagon. Something was about to go down, I’m certain of it.”

  Dawson nodded. “I don’t doubt it. Who shot first?”

  Angela tilted her head, finding offense in the question. “They did, of course.”

  “Agent Gannon,” Chief Drake’s booming voice called out as he approached with Martinez at his side. She turned and struggled to make eye contact with her clearly perturbed supervisor.

  “Yes sir,” she replied.

  “Captain Martinez said the men spoke in Arabic. Were there any other things you picked up about them before… well, before the two of you decided to play Dirty Harry?”

  She looked at Martinez for guidance. He nodded at her to answer. “It’s like I told Captain Martinez: The unlicensed truck was the giveaway.” She then turned and glanced at the body behind them. “As far as the men go, they look like lower-level help. They came here to pick something up.”

  “Or drop something off,” Dawson added as Rex busily sniffed around the truck with Reynolds holding the leash.

  “Truck’s empty,” Martinez said with an air of disappointment.

  Other Border Patrol agents approached the scene, looking around with intense curiosity. With all eyes on the truck and bodies lying next to it, Drake stepped between Martinez and Angela, his voice low but tinged with sternness. “I want to have a word with both of you at the station when we get back. This entire incident is going to have to go beyond our department. If these men are foreigners, we’ll have to bring in the FBI. But I don’t want either of you saying a word of this to anyone. Not until we get the facts out.”

  Martinez cut in. “Sir, these individuals were operating right within our line watch. We were only responding to the high alert that was issued by the department.”

  Drake whipped his head to the side, further angered. “You can save it for the investigation, Martinez. And yes, there will be an internal investigation into this matter and we will get to the truth. All of it!”

  Rex hopped into the back of the truck, going wild. Captain Reynolds climbed up in with him, and Dawson followed.

  “Sir,” Angela said to Chief Drake, who turned to her with an icy glare. “I have a good description of the station wagon that fled the scene. I’d suggest we get an APB on it as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, Martinez told me all about it. The APB has been issued, and if that wagon gets away, I’m holding the two of you personally responsible.” With that he walked away and joined the others at the truck, leaving Angela and Martinez to ponder their fate. She had never seen him so angry, and didn’t feel the least bit optimistic about it.

  Seeing the color leaving her face, Martinez placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Agent Gannon. It’s like I said. I’ll take the hit on this one.”

  “I don’t think we did anything wrong,” Angela said. Whether she was trying to convince him or herself of that she wasn’t sure.

  “The truck is empty. That’s what’s wrong,” Martinez said. “Had there been at least a brick of heroin or even marijuana, we’d probably be in the clear.”

  But perhaps Martinez had spoken too soon. From the inside of the truck, Rex clawed and whimpered at the floor. Curious, the other agents gathered around, sticking their heads inside.

  “I need a flashlight and a crowbar,” Captain Reynolds called out.

  Angela felt her heart beating faster. Anticipation was in the air. Dawson hopped out of the truck, ran past Angela and Martinez, and grabbed both a crowbar and a flashlight from his trunk.

  “This could get interesting,” Martinez said, beckoning Angela to follow him to the truck, where everyone crowded at the back. More thunder rumbled in the sky within a rolling gray cloud, blanketing the sky, but there wasn’t a drop of rain. Dawson ran back with a long crowbar in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He squeezed past two other agents and hopped inside the vehicle.

  “I need room here,” he said to Captain Reynolds. “Get Rex back.”

  She took the flashlight from him, shining it at the metal floor while tugging on the leash to pull Rex back.

  “What do you see?” Chief Drake asked, leaning in.

  Martinez pushed his way through and hopped up, leaving Angela behind to watch with the others. He went to his knees and immediately began feeling around. “Dawson’s right. There’s something here.” He paused and felt around some more. “The surface… it’s hollow underneath.”

  “Stand back,” Dawson said.

  Martinez moved out of the way as Dawson drove the crowbar into one of the joints in the floor and pushed up with all his might, breathing hard. At first, nothing budged. He pulled the crowbar out and jammed it in again, pushing up
and leaning on the end for leverage. A pop sounded, and the metal panel on the floor split open.

  Captain Reynolds held the flashlight above them, shining it into the hole.

  “What is it?” the chief said, squinting behind his glasses.

  Angela looked over the shoulders of her fellow agents, staring down into the hidden compartment. She could see it as well as everyone else: multiple canisters aligned in rows.

  “Canisters,” Martinez replied. “At least a dozen of them.” More eager than ever, he stood up and grabbed the flashlight from Captain Reynolds.

  Rex pulled toward the hidden compartment, whimpering with intensity. Martinez then leaned down and flashed the light into the hole to reveal dozens of plastic bottles lined up in rows like a shelf at the grocery store.

  “Hydrogen peroxide,” Martinez continued. “A shitload of it.”

  Dawson pointed to a sealed metal case among the bottles. “What’s that say?”

  Martinez shined the flashlight across the letters, which read, “acetone.”

  “Holy shit…” Dawson muttered.

  “Chemicals,” Martinez said as he turned to the group. He stood up and handed the flashlight to Captain Reynolds and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “No narcotics?” Chief Drake asked. “What are we dealing with here?”

  “Looks like a dirty bomb, Chief,” Martinez replied with his hands on his hips. “Or at least the right ingredients.”

  A hushed silence came over the agents, soon followed by a commotion of side conversations. Angela could barely believe it herself. Had the men they shot been terrorists? The notion seemed more likely as she stared into the hidden compartment. Martinez quickly hopped out of the truck with a sense of urgency.

  “Everyone needs to keep their distance,” he said, waving at Dawson and Reynolds to follow him outside. “I mean it. Stay the hell away from this truck. We don’t know what else is in it.”

  “Captain Martinez is right,” Chief Drake added. “We need to get back and get a HAZMAT team in here pronto.”

  The team seemed to agree, and everyone began backing away, keeping a careful distance between themselves and the truck.