Bad Faith (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 1)

by Nick Stevens

  Aaron shifted his position, giving him an unobstructed view of four men resting on the swings in a derelict park. Aaron watched smoke pass between the men, lit by a single dim light in the back of the park. Three had something shiny and reflective between their feet. The fourth, Aaron could see, held something to his face.

  That must be a one with a broken jaw, Aaron thought to himself. He wouldn’t be much help.

  A flash of white from one of the men caught his eye. He’d seen Darius take the brunt of the strike to his wrist on Sunday morning. Aaron guessed Darius got some kind of medical attention and was sporting a fresh cast on his shattered wrist.

  Aaron needed one of them alive. He needed to know what they’d told the security guard. All they knew is he wanted the Fitzgerald girl. They didn’t know anything other than his first name. They only knew the car he’d driven up in, and the pile of money he’d promised them.

  Aaron knew he could’ve walked away. Even if the men spilled their guts, no one would believe a bunch of low level drug dealers. He could’ve torched the car somewhere in rural Virginia. The police would write it off to stolen car joy riding and vandalism. That would be that.

  No. He needed closure.

  His own botched attempt at kidnapping the girl swirled in his head. He’d done everything right. Found an unused rear entrance. Convinced some janitor to let him in. Snatched her right out of the hallway and, somehow, carried her out of the building, into his waiting car without being seen.

  After driving with Laurel Fitzgerald in the trunk for thirty minutes, he pulled onto a remote road to check on her. He’d been in a rush when he drew the batch of fentanyl, guessing at Laurel’s weight. Seeing the slack muscles on the girl’s face, he knew she’d died before he even checked for a pulse. She must’ve died shortly after the trunk lid closed on her.

  He miscalculated the dose.

  She must’ve had a heart condition. Or some other complication.

  Aaron stood in the dark alley, fists clenched in rage. He knew there’d be a price to pay for his mistake. Looking across the street, into the ragged playground, he resolved he wouldn’t be the only one paying it.

  The top link of the chain groaned as Darius drifted in the swing. Over his twenty-one years, the playground was a fixture in his life. Every major event happened here. At eight, he got into his first fist fight by the monkey bars. He remembered decking Charlie, now hunched over two swings away, for insulting his Reeboks in front of Brayton and Rashad. Even at eight years old, Darius didn’t tolerate disrespect. Both boys walked away with bloody noses, scuffed knuckles, and lifelong friendships.

  The four boys turned into men on the cold corners of Washington D.C., selling anything that turned a profit to keep food in their bellies. Even with brisk business, Darius watched the turnover in street kids and knew his time was limited.

  That all changed four nights ago, when a man rolled up in an older, immaculate Lexus. Nobody pushed them off their corner. Darius walked up to the car, flashing the knife in his waistband. The driver’s window lowered.

  “There’s no need for that,” the driver said. “I’m here about a business opportunity for you and your friends.”

  Darius shouted back to his crew. “Hey, this guy wants to talk business!” Laughing, Darius turned back to the man. “What kind of business? You want me to invest in your hedge fund?” His friends cracked up. “Look man, unless your business is what I’m selling, we ain’t interested.”

  The man opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Darius stumbled back as the man towered over him. “I’ve been watching you and your friends for the past few days. I even followed you home, if you can call that apartment home. You’re careful. You keep to yourselves. I want to hire you for a simple job. You just need to convince someone to hang out with you and your friends, and I’ll provide the car service.”

  “Where do you think you are? This ain’t Thugs-R-Us. Fuck off, man.”

  “There’s five grand in it for you. For each of you. How many pills do you have to sell for that kind of money? I know that one,” the man pointed to Charlie, “has a sister with cystic fibrosis. That buys a lot of therapy, doesn’t it, Charles?”

  Charlie stared at the sidewalk, his foot tracing circles on the concrete. He never talked about his sister.

  “Brayton over there owes money to the District City Royals. That’s a dangerous crew.”

  Darius turned to Brayton. “That true?”

  Brayton shrugged.

  ” Yeah, it’s true,” the man continued. “I imagine five grand for a couple hours work sounds pretty good for young men with your kinds of problems.”

  Charlie muttered, “Let’s hear him out, D.” Brayton nodded.

  Darius pushed back. “Why don’t you do it yourself? Why pay us?”

  “That’s my business, but I’m good for the money.” The man turned back to the car, reached inside and came back with a black nylon bag. Drawing back the zipper, wrapped bundles of cash jostled in the bag.

  “If this goes well, there’s more work for you gentlemen. Lots of it.”

  Darius turned back to Charlie and Brayton. Their eyes pleaded with him. Rashad would follow the crew.

  After hearing what the man wanted, the young men agreed to find the girl and lure her into the car. The driver said his name was Aaron. He told the men she’d be at Gridlock, some club in central D.C., in a few nights based on her social media posts. He gave them each three hundred dollars for spending money at the club. He’d even assured them the girl wouldn’t get hurt.

  “Don’t screw this up,” Aaron’s gravel tone sent a chill down Darius’ spine. “And don’t make me come looking for you when it’s over.”

  But they had failed. They missed their chance at the girl and hid out in a desolate park, hoping Aaron would forget the whole thing. Darius didn’t know how he could help his friends, or what Aaron would do if he found them. Darius looked back and forth at the only family he had left.

  Chapter 5

  Aaron walked south down the alley, away from the playground where the men sat. Finding the end of the alley, he turned west, jogging along the street until he’d covered two blocks. His sneakers padded softly against the concrete sidewalk.

  Picturing the playground to his right, he turned north. His jog slowed to a walk. He took deep belly breaths and his heart rate fell, but his heart hammered against his rib cage as adrenaline coursed through him.

  One block north, then another east. The length of rebar grew warm in his hand.

  Emerging at the rear entrance of the playground, Aaron spotted the men. The woody scent of ganja met Aaron as he stepped onto painted asphalt. The paint had faded through age and neglect.

  The shiny objects he’d seen from across the street were enormous bottles of Gatorade. The one with the swollen jaw, Brayton, held a bottle against his face. Out of reflex, Aaron thought Brayton should get to a medic before chuckling to himself. No medic could fix what Aaron was about to do to him.

  Crouching behind a derelict slide, he waited for his moment. He scanned the surrounding windows, searching for lights indicating someone still awake. All the windows were black squares. Rashad and Charlie didn’t get hurt last night, so he had to take them out first. The other two would be easy.

  Rashad, on the right, passed the spliff to Darius. Darius reached across his body, taking it with his good hand. As Darius put it to his lips, Aaron sprang from his hiding place. Closing on Rashad, Aaron crashed the length of steel into his skull, driving it with the overwhelming force his two hundred and fifty pounds could muster. No match for Aaron’s rage, Rashad’s head caved in like a melon. The rebar embedded two inches into bone and brain matter.

  Aaron yanked up the steel rod, freeing it with a sickening crunch. Rashad’s body slumped forward before falling to the ground.

  Darius, clouded in smoke, looked back to his friend as he heard something crash onto the pavement. A wet pool formed around Rashad’s head, dark in the murky light.
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br />   Aaron sprinted past Darius and Brayton, heading for Charles. Taking a vicious swing, Charles’ head snapped to the left as the length of steel shattered his neck. Before the second body lurched headfirst onto the pavement, Aaron lunged to his right. Aaron spun with the hunk of steel still in his right hand, his massive frame generating enough power to separate Brayton’s head from his spine.

  Darius leapt up and turned, gasping for a panicked breath. His eyes roved the mangled faces of his friends, the carnage surrounding him seeping through his high. Brayton wheezed, staring into the face of Darius. Tears rolled down Brayton’s cheeks as he fought for breath in a paralyzed body.

  “I told you not to run.”

  Darius watched gore drip from the stick in Aaron’s hand. Locking eyes with Aaron, Darius resigned himself to his fate. Brayton’s panting fell silent.

  “So, it’s gunna be like that?”

  Darius spasmed as the probes from the taser embedded into his chest. Darkness fell over him as his head collided with the pavement.

  Arctic water splashed over Darius. He coughed awake, the cold soaking into his clothes. Gasping, his eyes darted around, searching for something he could identify. The bare light bulb above him obscured the rest of the room beyond its meagre attempt at illumination.

  “Good morning, Darius,” the voice echoing off the constricting metal walls.

  Darius guessed he was in a shipping container. The cast from his right arm gone, he tried moving against the restraints binding him to the chair. The shattered wrist throbbed under a mottled mix of bruises. A zip tie bound that arm high, near the elbow.

  “I said, ‘Good morning.’ It’s only polite to respond.”

  Another frigid bucket of water splashed over him. He glimpsed the orange bucket and the hand that held it for an instant before the water struck.

  Teeth chattering from the mix of fear and cold, Darius spat, “G-g-good morn-n-ning…”

  “Ah, that’s better. It’s important to be polite. We can’t have a friendly chat without some pleasantries.”

  Staring into the darkness, Darius tried seeing his captor at the far end of the container. “That what you call it? Pleasantries? You didn’t have to kill them.”

  Heavy footsteps clanked on the metal floor. A leg with the girth of a fireplug appeared in the light, followed by another. The khaki cloth, dirty and flecked with blood, strained against the enormity of the leg. The rest of the man formed out of the darkness. His shirt, like his trousers, carried the blood of his dead friends.

  Aaron glared down at him. “Darius, what did you tell the security guard about the girl?”

  “Nothing, man! Honest! We didn’t say anything!” The overwhelming cold broke his resistance. Flashes of his dead crew, their heads leaking life in the dim playground light, ran through his mind. Can’t end up like them, he thought.

  Aaron reached down impassively, a thumb extended from his clenched fist. Darius followed its path.

  “No, no, no, no. Please, Aaron. He’s a security guy, man! He can’t do anything!”

  Aaron put his considerable weight behind his thumb, crushing Darius’ already shattered wrist.

  The screams bounced around the metal enclosure. Darius began heaving from the pain, the shock overwhelming him.

  Aaron lifted his thumb. Darius felt the warmth of urine spread through his lap and run down his legs. He convulsed against his bindings, tears mingling with water. An undercurrent of shame coursed through him as his bladder released.

  “You just have to tell me what you said. Did anyone else tell him why you wanted the girl? Brayton’s a chatty one. That’s what got him in trouble with the Royals, but he went down early. Did you say anything to the girl that could link back to me?”

  Darius found a spark of resistance and grasped it. He glared up at Aaron, fire burning in his eyes. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Aaron sighed, his shoulders dropped in disappointment. “Have it your way.”

  Pain receptors exploded, blinding Darius to everything but his wrist. The pain put him beyond screaming. It felt like a machine trapped his wrist, its gears grinding the bones and flesh to paste.

  He couldn’t tell when Aaron released him. The waves of torment ebbed away.

  The mechanical voice spoke, asking the same question. “What did you say to the man? What did you say to the girl?”

  Exhausted, Darius spat out, “Nothing. I swear. He messed us up, and we ran. Left the girl.”

  Aaron stood before Darius, half of his body shrouded in darkness.

  Darius panicked, fearing Aaron didn’t believe him. He bucked against the bindings, ignoring the gouges in his skin.

  “We didn’t say anything! You have to believe me! You killed my crew for nothing, you piece of shit! You-”

  Aaron silenced the hysteria with the same hunk of steel he used to dispatch the other three.

  Hefting the corpse into the cavernous trunk of the stolen sedan, it joined the other bodies. Plastic sheeting protected the trunk from the gore of the mutilated bodies. No point in creating more evidence, Aaron thought as he slammed the trunk closed.

  Aaron checked the watch on the dash. Just after three in the morning. He smiled to himself, impressed at his efficiency.

  He calculated he had just enough time to drop the bodies where someone would happen across them without risking being seen. Using his phone for directions, he navigated from the remote cargo area he’d broken into at Regan National and headed toward Rock Creek Park.

  Over a dozen women emerged from the small chapel at the center of the compound. Each wore a long cotton tunic dress. Hair flowed freely, caught in the wind as they discussed the latest sermon from Father Paul. Today’s topic, like so many others, was about sacrifice and service for the greater good.

  Most of the women wore simple leather sandals, the brown blending in with their tanned legs. The strict regimen of chores kept them in outside, even in the volatile weather of early Spring.

  Three of the women stood out from the others, their hair held back with red headbands. They directed the rest of the women to a large communal table covered with platters of food. Rustic breads, baked in the sparse kitchen nearby, overflowed metal lunch trays. A large pot of vegetable soup rested at the center of the table. Pitchers of water rounded out the lunchtime meal.

  As the women gathered around the table, Father Paul, shirtless and dripping with sweat from the effort of his latest sermon, watched the activity with a mixture of delight and dread. His flock had grown. With the recent arrival from a few days ago, his numbers grew to sixteen. He knew some would leave soon, off to fulfill their calling. Replacements would follow. Bethany made sure of that.

  As his blessing finished, the women dove into the platters of food. Paul allowed the women to eat one meager meal once a day. The sparse food kept the women pliant, while the constant list of chores he invented kept them hungry.

  If that didn’t work, the constant stream of heroin helped control his flock. His customers preferred their product docile.

  Paul called over Diana, one of the senior sisters with a red headband. The senior sisters, whom he called spinsters in private, had been at the Collective the longest. Acting as his lieutenants, they shuffled the rest of the flock from place to place and dispensed the casual discipline that bored him. He elevated the senior sisters above the rest for one reason: he couldn’t get rid of them. Even at fire-sale prices, his clientele weren’t interested.

  Paul knew the spinsters would have to be dealt with at some point. For now, the women served a purpose. He doted on them, and they reveled in his attention. The other women stared, jealous to have Paul’s eye.

  Paul pulled Diana close, whispering to her, “Tell me about Kimberly and Olivia. They’ve been distant from their sisters.”

  Hunched together at the far end of the table, Kimberly and Olivia ignored the other girls and their vocal conversation. Over the last several weeks, they’d grown distant, choosing their own company over sharing with
the flock. Olivia even refused Paul’s repeated invitations to his residence. Refusals happened, he knew, but her tone hinted at one weak in the faith. Kimberley still accepted his invitation when her craving grew too great, but she was a reluctant and uninspired lover until the needle hit her arm.

  The senior sisters punished each of them. Each woman spent days exposed to the elements, locked in solitary cages with only the clothes on their backs for warmth. Paul himself pulled an unconscious Olivia from her cage after a week of starvation and exposure left her emaciated and hypothermic.

  Other members of his faithful flock voiced their concerns that the two women wanted to leave and rejoin their families. Paul knew the two would never see their families again, but he didn’t want their lack of faith spreading. He could handle one or two doubters. If they all turned at once, the women could overrun him.

  Diana’s doe eyes stared back at him. “They’ve been crying every night, asking to go home. The other sisters told them to be quiet. Now, the sisters aren’t as vocal. They may have doubts too, Father.”

  Paul nodded. “What do you think I should do, Sister Diana? Send them away, or try to save them?”

  She waited, not knowing if Father Paul wanted her opinion or was teasing her.

  “Well?” He waited.

  “We’ve…” Diana hesitated. “They’re my sisters, but we’ve given them every chance, Father. We’ve punished them, hoping they would see their error and find the faith again. Maybe you should expel them. Maybe it’s better for everyone.”

  “Yes, Sister, that’s a wise point.” The women had no chance of leaving. “But is that best for them? Should we reject them just because they have doubts? Shouldn’t we redouble our efforts?” Paul thought about the time and resources he’d invested in Kimberly and Olivia. He didn’t want to take a loss.

  “If you think so, Father. You know what’s best.”

  “I do. Bring them to me after the meal. In my residence.”