Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  “I have no intention of shooting you, as I’m sure you feel inclined to ask,” he said, resting the pistol on his knee. “But I cannot let you leave. Not until we’ve reached an agreement.”

  “What agreement? That I let the government drop a bomb on my children?” She seethed.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Burke said.

  “And why not?” Angela shouted.

  “Because I’m going to find them first.”

  Angela turned fully toward him and crossed her arms, nodding. “Really? How do you plan to do that?”

  “I’m going off the grid. Covert mission all my own. I’ll find those bastards myself, kill them all, and get your daughters back.”

  Seemingly amused, Angela shook her head in disbelief. She’d thought she had heard everything, but Burke’s claim was nearly too much. “What are you, some kind of government assassin?”

  Burke rose from his chair and put his pistol back in his jacket. “That’s right. I was. And that’s exactly what I am now as of this moment.”

  “If you’re so sure you can find them, tell the president where they are and call off the strike. Save them before it’s too late!”

  “I told you. They’re not taking any chances. The president is set in his ways, I can assure you that.” Burke dropped the tough-guy persona for a moment to flash Angela a genuine look of concern. “I’m going to do this. That’s why I need you to find some peace. Surround yourself with loved ones, and I promise I’ll bring you back your girls.”

  “I told you,” she said defiantly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Fine,” Burke said, shrugging. “Stay here for all I care. I’ll be back soon.”

  He grabbed his laptop bag from the table, stuffed some papers inside, and slung it over his shoulder. After taking a big stretch, he strode toward the door, clearly determined to go about his plan his way.

  Angela stepped directly into his path, blocking it.

  “You’re taking me with you,” she said.

  Burke froze, wide eyed, and began to look her up and down. He laughed to himself and sighed. “Thanks, but I work better on my own.”

  She stopped him as he attempted to walk past. “You won’t know I’m there.”

  “No,” Burke said.

  “Maybe you’re forgetting something,” she said, burning holes through him with her eyes. “Those bastards killed my husband. I want to see them go down. It’s owed to me, damn it.”

  Burke’s snarky expression disappeared, replaced by a serious, tough demeanor. “You make one mistake, you go away, and you do it quietly. You interfere with my work one time, I can’t and won’t guarantee your safety.”

  “That’s fair,” she said, moving out of his path.

  Burke turned the handle and opened the door. “Fine. Let’s go. We have twelve hours.”

  “Until what?” she asked, following him.

  “Until the government starts bombing.”

  ***

  Chassity and Lisa stared at the darkened cement walls of their cell with fear of what was to come next. It had been hours, maybe even a day for all they knew, since their father’s voice outside the door had given them a glimpse of hope. But he had seemed distressed, and they knew he had been pulled away.

  Though there were two mattresses in the darkened room, the two girls stayed close to each other, fearing every sound outside the door—every footstep, voice, or cough—sending shivers down their spine. Like a bad dream they couldn’t wake up from, all they could think about was being taken from their rooms and tossed into a vehicle with bags over their heads.

  Chassity, thirteen, remained focused on their survival and eventual escape—if that was even possible—while her eleven-year-old sister, Lisa, had slipped into some kind of catatonic state. She hadn’t said a word in hours. But her constant tears showed that she hadn’t completely drifted away.

  When they had first been taken to the small, windowless cell, Lisa had been full of questions. She had asked Chassity where they had been taken. Where their mother was. Where their father was. All Chassity could do was tell her sister that she did not know. What do they want? What are they going to do to us? Chassity didn’t have the answers.

  Once Lisa grew tired of asking questions that had no answers, she went silent. With their father pounding on the door earlier, Chassity had some questions of her own. They hadn’t actually seen the people who had taken them captive, but she was aware of her mother’s profession and that part of her job was to stop drug dealers and criminals from coming into the country. Perhaps her mother had crossed the wrong people.

  Upon their arrival, their captors had tossed a few bottles of water into the cell, but other than that, Chassity hadn’t seen or talked with anyone. Their solid iron door was impenetrable, with several dead bolts running down its side and a small rectangular eye slot in the center of the door that could open from outside.

  A man peeked inside from time to time. His dark, steely eyes frightened the girls, and before Chassity could say anything, the slot slammed back shut. Two bags sat near the girls, packed with clothes hastily stuffed in. Chassity was grateful to have at least that, which allowed them to change out of their pajamas into jeans and T-shirts, but she would have given anything to have her cell phone. Obviously that wasn’t going to happen.

  She looked around at the cracked, barren walls. The high ceiling buzzed with a single flickering light bulb. It was the kind of room that nightmares were made from. But all was not lost, Chassity thought. Their dad was near, and he would make sure nothing happened to them. She put an arm around Lisa and pulled her closer, softly speaking, with a careful eye on the door. Lisa slid closer to her and fell against her shoulder. Though she still wouldn’t speak.

  “It’s okay,” Chassity said. “They probably just want money, and then they’ll let us go.”

  Lisa said nothing. She blinked, and Chassity was happy to get that much out of her.

  “Hang in there,” she said, squeezing her tightly. “I’ll protect you.”

  Lisa was in the sixth grade and relatively new to the middle school they attended. With Chassity in eighth grade and close to graduating to high school, they had drifted apart a little. Now, yanked from their comfortable home and thrown into a cell like prisoners, their bond had never been closer.

  “I want Mom,” Lisa said faintly. “Why hasn’t she come to get us yet?”

  Chassity didn’t know what to say without frightening her younger sister further. The answers weren’t clear—not from where they sat. The truth was, Chassity knew her mother well, and she knew that Mom was looking for them, with the entire Border Patrol behind her. Maybe the whole town as well. Her mind drifted ahead in time, to the day when she and Lisa were already freed and back at home.

  She closed her eyes and took it all in, putting the entire unpleasant experience behind her. Suddenly, she could feel Lisa shivering next to her. She opened her eyes and saw that her younger sister had her eyes closed as well, and she was shaking. She rubbed her back and then leaned forward to pull more clothes out of her bag, covering Lisa with them. The mattress was bare and smelled musty, but it were better than the cold floor.

  “It’s okay,” she said, placing a shirt across Lisa’s chest and pulling it up to her neck. “Sleep now, and you’ll be out of here soon.”

  Suddenly, the door slot opened, startling them. Lisa’s eyes shot open. Chassity held her close and looked to the door. The same man’s black eyes peered in, his dark eyebrows barely exposed. He watched them quietly, not saying a word, until Chassity had had enough of being scared and spied on.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice raised in anger.

  The man said nothing. He only stared. Lisa sat up and looked at the door, too, but Chassity urged her to look away. “Don’t look at him,” she said. She then turned back to the eyes. “We want to see our dad. Where is he?”

  The man muttered something in Arabic or some language Chassity didn’t understand. She hear
d other voices outside the door as well. Apparently a conversation was brewing. To her surprise, the dead bolts turned, one after the other, unlocking the door. Lisa clutched onto Chassity and shivered in fear.

  “Shhh. Don’t worry,” Chassity said.

  The door then creaked open. Several shadowed figures stood in the light of the hall. It was the first time she had actually seen their captors since arriving. They looked to be all men—big, tall, and bulky. They had beards, and some of them had shaved heads. Chassity counted five in all.

  “Where’s my dad?” she asked defiantly.

  One of the men held up a flashlight and shone it into her face, blinding her. Chassity squinted but did not look away.

  “Your father isn’t here, little one,” the man answered.

  He had an accent—Middle Eastern, she presumed. Were they the drug dealers she was worried about? Chassity wasn’t sure.

  She recoiled against the wall as the flashlight man stepped closer. He turned the flashlight away and signaled the other men to come inside. They came forward slowly and began talking to each other in Arabic, not so much interested in Chassity or Lisa as their own conversations.

  The flashlight man pointed the light at Chassity, and then the men began nodding and talking over each other with rising intensity. Lisa raised her head to see what the commotion was about. The flashlight suddenly went on her, and the men began talking even louder and more enthusiastically.

  “Gentlemen, please!” the flashlight man said in English. “We’ll work out all the details soon.”

  Quiet for a moment, the group then launched into louder bickering and fast, raucous banter.

  “What do they want?” Lisa kept asking her.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re talking about letting us go,” she said, struggling with some better explanation.

  “That’s enough,” the bearded flashlight man said, holding up his arms. He then signaled to the door, and the men reluctantly quieted down and began to shuffle outside the cell. The flashlight man followed without so much as a word to Chassity or her sister. As he reached the door, ready to close it behind him, Chassity boldly called out to him. Surprised, he stopped, keeping his hand on the door.

  “Where’s my dad?” Chassity asked for what she felt was the hundredth time.

  The man nodded, staring directly at her. She knew his eyes. They were the eyes of the man who had been watching them throughout the day, distinctively dark and intense.

  “Your father is dead,” the man said frankly. “You will not see him again.”

  Chassity gasped, not wanting to believe such a thing was possible. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Chassity?” Lisa said, tugging on her shirt. “What is he talking about?”

  “Believe what you want, little one,” the man said. “He is dead.” He went to leave but stopped again, turning his head with a look of amusement. “Oh, and those men, by the way. They were bidding on the best one. They want to take you home with them. Problem solved. You will have a new father soon enough.”

  And with that, he closed the door and locked the dead bolts, leaving the girls trembling with confusion and fear.

  Teamwork

  Angela’s nerves were shot as she sat in the passenger seat of a black four-door Ford Fusion, Special Agent Burke’s very own government-leased vehicle. His look and demeanor had changed, almost as though he were another person. Gone were his suit and tie and G-man aura, replaced with the covert attire of a black ops ranger: black shirt and jeans, gray tactical vest, and black boots.

  When Angela had asked him what she should wear, he simply told her nothing that would draw attention. Burke had his reasons. He also had brought with him startling and impressive firepower. In the trunk was an M240 7.62mm fully automatic machine gun, and a M500 pump-action shotgun. Angela was certain the weapons weren’t government issued but of Burke’s own collection. She didn’t ask.

  Burke had a pistol at his side, as did Angela. And resting upright against the steering wheel was an M4 carbine-action rifle. Angela had never encountered someone with so many weapons. And though she knew little of his past, she did know that he was in his mid-forties and had led a fairly quiet, normal life for years, working as a counterterrorist agent for the CIA.

  At some point he had lost his family—where and how he had not said. Angela didn’t want to admit it, but she felt she was beginning to feel a connection with him. He was the only person who seemed absolutely determined to rescue her daughters.

  As they sat in a vacant lot under the evening sky, Burke held a pair of thermal binoculars to his eyes, scoping out a house of interest from far across the street. The old two-story home in question was wedged among several other low-rent homes on the busy neighborhood block.

  For the past hour, Burke’s interest in the house had only grown despite their seeing little activity beyond cars passing them by. The house, Burke had revealed, was their starting point. Closed curtains covered every window with a faint glow of light behind some of them.

  “How did you find out about this place?” Angela asked. Her wardrobe was simpler than his—a short-sleeve fitted T-shirt, black jeans, and boots. Her hair was tied back in a bun, and her pistol fit snugly in its side holster. In the backseat, Burke had two bulletproof jackets. Angela knew how important it was to have them. One bullet could do a lot of damage to a careless person as she had learned the past couple of days.

  Burke was as vague as always with his answer. “This house has been on my radar for some time. A guy in the agency put me onto it.”

  “Who lives there?”

  Burke set his binoculars down and turned to her as an eighteen-wheeler roared past them. “Supposedly a family. Omar and Samirah Khan and their five children.”

  Angela turned to him, confused. “A family? What do you plan on doing?”

  “The truth is, Omar’s family is back in Pakistan. The only people living in that house are Omar and about five of his buddies. Maybe more.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “As sure as I can be about any of this. Ol’ Omar has been pretty quiet lately. But he’s been making a lot of trips down south. Back and forth to multiple locations.” Burke paused and ran a hand across his clean-shaven face. “He’s a supply runner, Agent Gannon.”

  Angela wasn’t entirely convinced. “How do you know that?”

  Burke glanced at her as though she were pushing it. “I don’t need a litany of questions. You’re going to have to trust me.”

  Angela felt upset by his dismissiveness. From experience, she knew being left out in the dark could be hazardous. “I did trust you, remember? And now my husband’s dead…” She instantly regretted the words as they came out.

  Burke turned away, silent.

  “I’m sorry,” she continued. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, holding up his binoculars. “If you must know, the NSA has been tracking Omar on his phone GPS for some time.” He paused and began watching the house again. “He’s gotten sloppy.”

  The car stereo said nine thirty. If Burke was right about the president’s absurd decision to launch drone strikes, they had eleven hours left. The worst part, for Angela, was that she couldn’t tell anyone. The government, she was told, would retaliate with fury. But what did that mean exactly?

  “You don’t know what they’re capable of,” Burke had told her. But she was already perfectly aware.

  She turned the radio up, curious to hear the latest news updates. Her cell phone had a barrage of missed calls from Chief Drake, her mother, and several extended family members. Her voice mail box was full, and she’d found herself quickly overwhelmed. The best thing she could do was to shut it off. She hated to, but it was the only way to stay focused. No one could know what they were doing, and if she ended up losing her job as a result, so be it. As Burke had said, they were now “off the grid.”

  After a brief weather forecast, the news radio station recapped the evening’s
top stories. Angela froze upon hearing Doug’s name in a brief but startling report.

  “Authorities have identified Doug Gannon of Del Rio, Texas, as the man in the ISIS propaganda video, where it appears that he was murdered on camera following the masked militant’s warning address to Americans. The video has been yanked off social media sites hundreds of times but has been viewed an estimated two million times in the past twelve hours.”

  Burke quickly moved his hand to the stereo and turned it off. Angela felt a sharp sting in her gut. The words were unreal, but they solidified the reality she had initially been in denial about. Doug was really dead—murdered on camera like an animal. She took a quick swig from a nearby bottle of water and then gasped for air.

  “You all right?” Burke asked, concerned.

  “Yeah,” she said, wiping her mouth. She moved her hand over and turned it back on.

  “You shouldn’t be listening to this. It’s a distraction,” he added.

  The announcer continued: “The president gave a brief statement on the video today by claiming that ‘justice would come to the killers’ and that his administration would do all they could to find the sleeper cell embedded within south Texas ‘to every last member of the radical extremists who take part in the murder of innocent Americans.’”

  Angela then leaned forward and turned it back off. She had heard enough.

  Burke raised his binoculars up as a few more cars passed them by, the rush of their headlights a quickened blur.

  “There’s movement,” Burke said urgently.

  Angela looked ahead. The house seemed the same as it had for the past hour. She hadn’t understood the reasoning behind their lengthy stakeout, but now that had changed. She shifted in her seat and placed her hand on the door handle, ready to move.

  “What are we waiting for?” she asked.

  “You in a rush to get shot?” he said, binoculars held against his eyes.

  “Not at all,” Angela said. “I just don’t know how long you plan to sit here, especially if you’re right about these drone strikes.”