Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  Burke placed his binoculars on the dashboard and grabbed his rifle. “Okay.” He opened his door then paused and looked at her as she opened hers. The interior lights had been disabled.

  “What?” she asked, noticing his stare.

  Burke shook his head. “I think it’s better if you waited here.”

  Angela narrowed her eyes. “I’m a trained border patrol agent, and I can handle myself just fine.” His potential abandonment reminded her of how the FBI had treated her during the very raid that had gotten her into this mess.

  Conflicted, Burke scratched his face. “I had reservations about this from the beginning. You knew that. Is it really worth putting yourself in danger? Let me handle this one on my own. It’s the least I can do…”

  Angela got out of the car in the middle of his speech and opened the back door to grab a vest. Burke paused, annoyed, and got out as well. With her bulletproof vest riding over her shoulders, she was already proving to be a formidable force. He swung his back door open and grabbed a vest as well another car passed by, oblivious to their presence.

  The neighborhood of low-rent homes on scrubby lots was strangely quiet beyond the distant echoes of barking dogs. As Burke slipped on his vest, Angela stood near the car, eyeing the house down the street. She wondered how much firepower he planned to bring. There was, after all, plenty of it in the trunk.

  He adjusted his tactical vest, packed with magazines, and slung his M4 rifle over his shoulder with a quick glance in her direction.

  “You follow my lead and watch my back. Easy enough?”

  She nodded and met up with him at the front of the car. The plan still wasn’t clear, but given Burke’s mysterious past, she had an idea what he was up to. “So we get Omar and make him talk? That’s the plan?”

  “Something like that,” he said, walking across the street, crouched slightly and with a careful eye on the house down the road.

  “And how many did you say were in the house?”

  His pace slowed as they reached the sidewalk, which was blanketed by a thin layer of sand and pebbles. He turned sharply to the left behind a few trash cans and continued along the way, finding concealment among cars, bushes, and whatever else was in their path.

  “Five, maybe six,” he said. “No cars in the driveway. All windows shut. Blinds closed. Yeah… They’re home all right.”

  As she followed closely behind, Angela’s heart raced with nervous anticipation. She’d seen a lot the past couple of days, but the adrenaline was always the same. She had crossed a line the moment she decided to do things Burke’s way. With him, at least her children had a chance.

  She pulled her pistol out and tried to keep up as his stealthy pace quickened. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. Most homes were quiet and unassuming, and Angela was grateful for that.

  Suddenly, Burke sprinted down the road, closing in.

  She ran after him just as the headlights of a car down the road neared. She ducked with Burke behind some bushes as the car passed. From their concealed position, Burke looked to their target, three houses down. They were close, and soon, Angela hoped, they would have some answers.

  Burke was off again, his movements swift and agile. Angela followed him past a few intervening houses and into the small empty driveway of the old-fashioned two-story house. Its quaint porch was bordered with a finely shaped wood railing. The window near the front door revealed only a thin sliver of interior light, escaping from between the closed curtains.

  Like most homes on the street, it didn’t have much of a yard to speak of—patches of grass among hard-packed dirt. The air was cool that evening, which was normal in the diverse desert climate she called home.

  Burke knelt as Angela stood by, keeping watch on the house. He unslung his rifle and placed it near the bushes by the front porch.

  “Can’t very well go in with guns blazing,” he said quietly. He then pulled out his pistol with its silencer attachment. “Better to not draw any attention to ourselves.”

  “What about me?” Angela asked, Beretta in hand.

  “Don’t shoot unless you have to,” he said, distracted and looking ahead.

  “Easier said than done,” she said.

  His eyes shot upward to the second-story window where they could see the silhouette of a man peering out right above them. Burke raised his gloved index finger to his lips. He then signaled to the backyard, where a short gate divider, about three-feet high, marked the end of the cracked driveway.

  Angela was full of questions that she kept to herself. Where were their vehicles? Who was home? And what would they do if Omar was nowhere to be found?

  Burke moved toward the backyard with focused precision. Angela followed, and they stepped over the fence and into the high weeds of the neglected backyard. As he signaled to the rear of the house, Angela could see the reasoning behind his plan. Up three steps was a back door with a dim porch light above it.

  The few windows in the back were covered by curtains as well. Whoever lived there certainly didn’t want to be seen. Angela thought that normal enough, but there was something about the house that gave it a sinister vibe.

  “Stay here, and keep an eye on those windows,” Burke said, moving to the back door. He went up the steps and put his ear against the door, listening carefully. Both his hands gripped the pistol tightly, and he didn’t make a sound. Angela looked up, watching the windows, but there was no apparent movement.

  Burke placed his hand on the knob and slowly turned. It was locked. He then pulled a small multitool from his vest and went to work on the doorknob, twisting away.

  Angela was feeling more nervous with each minute that passed. How would they explain themselves if they were caught trespassing? She hadn’t thought that far ahead, and when Burke turned the doorknob and gave her a nod, she knew they were at the point of no return.

  He signaled to her while pushing the door open a crack. She moved quietly up the steps, just as he had, heart pounding, and when she reached his side he whispered, “Remember what I said. I lead, you follow. You’re the eyes in the back of my head, got it?”

  She nodded, trying to hide her uneasiness with the whole operation. Burke seemed to notice and took a moment to offer reassurance. “We can do this. Don’t worry.”

  Angela nodded again, not wanting to speak at all and possibly blow their cover.

  He pushed the door open further, and the hinges seemed to scream but actually made no sound. Was there an alarm? They would soon find out. They had just enough room to slip inside and were met with a washer and dryer set against the left wall and not much else. There was another door a few feet ahead. The light was off in the laundry room, and Burke took quick notice of the creaking hardwood floors. He moved at a measured, slow pace to reach the next door.

  Burke turned the knob, keeping his other hand on his pistol, and pushed the door open. There were some dim lights on inside and a wooden staircase in view. Burke went in, staying low and trying to limit the creaking of the floorboards with each careful step. There was an opening to their right that led to a dining room and kitchen.

  Footsteps from upstairs immediately put Angela on alert. Burke continued forward to where the lights were on, with his pistol steadily aimed. They came around the corner to a dining room table littered with soda bottles and empty pizza boxes. A television sounded in the other room beyond the staircase—nothing distinguishable.

  The kitchen had dishes covering one side of the counter and a collection of wires and tools covering the other. They passed through the tightly confined dining room and headed toward the kitchen to investigate, when all of a sudden, footsteps sounded from behind them.

  Angela turned just as a man came around the corner wearing a tank top and shorts. He was tan, young looking, and had a scruffy beard and a dark, shaggy head of hair. His flip-flops skidded on the floor as he halted, shocked, and cried out.

  Burke spun around, making eye contact with the man. He appeared unarmed, but Burke wasn’t ta
king any chances. While Angela stood there, frozen with fear at having been discovered, Burke fired two lethal shots into the man, splitting open holes on both sides of his chest.

  “What are you doing?” Angela said in a voice much too loud.

  “Quiet!” Burke said in a fierce whisper. The muffled sounds of the 9mm didn’t seem to garner any immediate attention. However, a resounding thud echoed as the man fell onto his back, a deadweight. Burke moved swiftly past Angela then around the corner and next to the stairs without looking back. She remained in place for a moment, watching the man as his shocked, lifeless eyes stared up into the ceiling. Everything seemed to be moving so fast, and she didn’t know what to do.

  Only Burke’s words came back to her. “Cover me.”

  She stepped over the man’s body and around the corner alongside the staircase, where Burke continued his hunt. He stepped into the living room to find another man sitting on the couch in a blue T-shirt and jeans, watching television and eating a bowl of cereal. He was a slightly older-looking bald man whose face reflected absolute shock as Burke made his entrance.

  “No!” Angela shouted. But it was too late. Burke shot him through the head. As the man’s arms went to the sides of the couch, his cereal bowl dropped onto the floor, sending milk and cereal flying.

  Burke lowered his pistol and spun around, incensed, speaking just above a whisper. “What did I tell you? Keep fucking quiet!”

  “These men are unarmed,” Angela said with her teeth clenched. “How does killing them help us?”

  “I’m only looking for one man,” Burke shot back.

  The man’s head dropped as blood gushed from the open hole on his forehead, spilling onto his T-shirt.

  Burke seemed to disregard Angela as he visually searched the room: its dusty bookshelves and patchy sofas and recliners. The television screen buzzed with advertisements at low volume.

  But it would seem that no matter how careful Burke had tried to be, their presence was known as footsteps sounded from upstairs.

  Burke backed against the wall near the TV and signaled to Angela to do the same. She complied, albeit with a hearty dose of frustration. “I can’t believe you,” she said.

  Burke gripped his pistol tightly in position. “Believe this,” he said. “If you want to get out of this alive, be ready.”

  She said nothing more as doors banged open upstairs, followed by stampeding footsteps down the steps. Angela clenched her pistol against her chest as sneakers came into sight at the bottom of the staircase. A man reached the bottom of the stairs and rushed into the living room, brandishing a shotgun. His hair was long, and he had a mustache. He froze upon seeing his friend dead on the couch and, for moment, didn’t notice Burke or Angela against the wall by the TV.

  Burke took advantage and fired a round into the man’s skull, splattering his brains all against the wall and nearby sofa. As his body fell, another man halted at the bottom of the stairs and tried to run toward the back door. Burke zipped past Angela, chasing the man. Both their hurried footsteps clamped against the hardwood floor.

  Angela could hardly process what was happening. She felt as though she had been duped again. The FBI had done the same thing and then sworn her to secrecy. She wondered what she could do, if anything, about this new bloodbath she’d stepped into.

  Two thumps from Burke’s silencer sounded around the corner, and then she heard the fleeing man scream and crash to the floor. She left the blood-soaked living room and met up with Burke near the dining room as he stood over his latest victim, a man she assumed wasn’t Omar.

  Burke turned around, barely acknowledging her, and went straight to the bottom of the staircase with his pistol aimed.

  “Omar!” he shouted. “Might as well come down here and talk to me.” He paused, looking around at the carnage in the living room, made even more eerie against the flickering of the television screen. “Not like you have much of a choice.”

  Darkness blanketed the landing at the top of the stairs. Craning her neck, Angela could make out a couple of rooms, and she could still hear the thumping bass of music from one of them. For a moment, they just waited. She looked around, keeping watch for any surprises, and stood back, letting Burke take lead.

  He climbed the stairs midway and called out to Omar, when suddenly they heard shuffling in one of the rooms ahead, its door closed, but with a sliver of light noticeable at the bottom.

  Hurried footsteps sounded. Burke stopped, knelt, and aimed at the door, but no one came rushing out. Instead, the faint sound of a window opening could be heard. Burke turned, eyes ferocious, toward Angela. “He’s escaping!”

  They heard a thud hit the ground outside. Burke rushed past her again, demanding that she keep up. He was already in the laundry room before she could reply. She ran down the hall, stepping around the man who lay on his stomach, two holes in his back, and proceeded to the backyard. Burke had already descended on a man crawling among the weeds.

  The man screamed in pain as Burke jumped on his back, driving his knees into him and pinning him down. As Angela approached, Burke pressed the barrel of his silencer against the man’s head and covered his mouth.

  “Not another word, or this ends here!” Burke said.

  The man quieted with an agonized moan. Angela stood over the men, breathing heavily, as dogs barked from over the fence in the house behind them. Burke stood up and pulled the thin, lanky man to his feet. He had on a purple polo shirt with its collar torn open and a pair of baggy beige slacks and dress shoes. His eyes were wide, his short, thinning hair plastered to his scalp, and a line of drool ran down his trim goatee.

  “Is this him?” Angela asked, studying the man.

  “It’s him all right,” Burke said and yanked the man toward the house. “Let’s get him inside before we wake the neighborhood.”

  As they walked away, Angela glanced up at the open window twenty feet above. Its curtains swayed in the wind, and a single light burned faintly. No one else was in the room—or so she hoped.

  Burke swung the back door open and pushed the struggling man—presumably Omar—into the house. She examined the other windows for movement and didn’t see anything. Following the carnage, she had lost count of exactly how many people Burke had shot and couldn’t remember if it had been four or five. She felt angry and betrayed but also had to admit that she still trusted Burke to know what he was doing. Unseen crickets chirped under the cloud-covered half-moon above as she made her way back into the house, still reeling with disbelief.

  Angela went through the laundry room and toward the dining room to find Burke dragging a chair along with him to the kitchen, where he pushed Omar into a counter. The chair ground against the kitchen tile as he flung it toward their man, who was covering his face.

  “Sit, asshole,” Burke said. His eyes darted to Angela as she walked into the kitchen. Surprisingly, he held out his 9mm for her to take. “Search the rest of the house and shoot anyone else on sight.”

  Angela stared at the pistol, unsure of herself.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” Burke said urgently. “One of these guys could have made a call already.”

  She reluctantly took the pistol while placing her own weapon back in its holster. Whether Burke was armed or not made no difference to the man reeling against the counter, holding his neck in pain.

  “I don’t have all day, Omar. Take a seat,” Burke said with his hands on his hips.

  Omar looked past the kitchen to where the young man lay on his back with two holes in his chest. He clenched his fist and looked at Burke with anguish in his eyes.

  “You son of a bitch. You killed my brother. Why? Who in the hell are you?” He spoke perfect English with a tinge of an Arabic accent.

  Burke simply pointed to the chair. “Have a seat, and I’ll explain.” He then looked over to Angela, noticing that she was still in the kitchen. “Search the house already! Let me do my job.”

  She turned away and left, partly out of fear and part
ly out of disgust. Burke had become a different person, far removed from the mild-mannered CIA man who had first introduced himself to their precinct. She stepped over the dead bodies and went to the living room, where more awaited. The TV was still on, barely audible.

  She froze in horror when she saw the news showing a still photograph of Doug, down on his knees with a knife to his neck. She cocked her leg back and kicked the TV off its stand, sending it crashing to the floor.

  Burke didn’t seem to notice or care about the shooting sparks or the fizzling noise that followed. There was no one else in the living room, and she noticed a startling lack of furniture. The bookcase was empty, there were no pictures on the wall, and everything had a temporary, unoccupied feel to it.

  Was this what they meant as a safe house? she wondered.

  She headed up the stairs to the sound of thumping bass and found three bedrooms at the top, doors half open and lights on, but no sign of anyone else. She was nervous—that much was clear—for there was a chance that anyone could pop out at any minute. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, and part of her completely understood. She was, after all, an intruder.

  She approached each room carefully, peeking inside to see similar barebones setups in each one—bed, dresser, and clothes on the floor. She entered the rooms, one by one, and searched the closets, under the beds, and the bathroom. The room Omar had jumped from still had an open window, and she stopped to glance at a framed photo sitting on a computer desk, picturing Omar, a woman, and several children. He was a family man after all.

  Part of her felt bad for him and terrible for what they had done. But then an undeniable reality sunk back into her. They were at Omar’s house for a reason, and if she discovered that he had anything to do with her family’s abduction, his life meant nothing to her.

  The rooms were clear. No one else, it seemed, was in their midst. She was walking down the stairs, ready to report this to Burke, when she heard the whirring of an electric knife or saw. It wasn’t clear.